Lawrence Block - Step by Step

We told them that we were peregrinos, which didn’t appear to surprise them, and they told us we were perdido, which was no news to us. And they gave us, God bless them for it, a full bottle of water, and explained in detail exactly where we had to go in order to be where we were supposed to be. There were smiles and handshakes all around, and then they drove off to continue their essentially pointless maneuvers in the middle of nowhere, while we set out to resume ours.

I can’t be sure exactly when the Peregrino Group held its unprecedented second meeting of the day. It may have been before the soldiers rescued us, or it may have been shortly after. We sat down for this meeting, instead of walking as we talked. We dropped our packs and sat on them, and one of us said the preamble, and we dove in. I couldn’t tell you what we said, but I’m pretty sure our sharing this time around was centered a lot less on personal history and a lot more on the present moment.

When we’d finished, we got up and resumed walking.

And the day went on and on and on, and the sun stayed in our eyes and went on frying our brains, and when we finally reached a village it was getting on for dinnertime, and there was no refugio in or near this particular village, and no chance we could reach the next one down the line before full dark. We looked around for an inn or hostal, and it didn’t look as though the village could boast of one, and then someone steered us to this very pretty little house, painted in vivid colors, where a handsome young man responded to our knock with a smile and a little welcome speech in English.

Astonishing. There were vases of flowers all through the house, and pastel walls, and the aroma of sandalwood candles. He ushered us to an immaculate and well-appointed bedroom, pointed out an equally immaculate bath down the hall, and told us to make ourselves at home. He didn’t have to tell us twice.

We took baths, and not a moment too soon, and back in the bedroom we remarked on the array of scented soaps our host had provided, and the deep-toned towels. “I can’t believe this place is here,” Lynne said. “Maybe we didn’t get water in time.”

“You think we’re hallucinating?”

“I think we died,” she said, “and they let us into heaven, even if we didn’t get our plenary indulgences yet. What on earth is that perfectly charming fellow doing running this perfectly charming inn out here in East Jesús, Spain?”

“All those flowers and candles. And did you happen to notice the scented soap?”

“How could I miss it? Little cakes of French-milled soap, all in different shapes and colors.”

“You don’t suppose—”

“No question. He’s wearing keys.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Pressed jeans, and he’s wearing keys.”

“Well, he’s in the hotel business,” I said. “There’s all those doors he has to be able to open. And maybe wearing keys means something different here than it does on Christopher Street.”

“Yeah, right.”

“But what on earth is he doing here ?”

“Where should he be? Huesca?”

“Jesus,” I said, “how do we do it? I guess you can take us out of the West Village, but you can’t take the country out of Salem. I’ll tell you something. I don’t care how he got here, and I don’t care how we got here. I’m just glad he’s here and we’re here and this goddamned day is coming to an end, because I don’t think I could have taken another hour of it. What a miserable day! I was losing it, I was coming unglued—”

“Well, I can’t understand why,” Lynne said. “Don’t forget, you did get to two meetings today.”

REFUGIOS

If we hadn’t gotten lost time and time again on the Day from Hell, we probably would have missed spending the night in Gay Heaven. We’d have gone right on through that particular village and walked on to the next refugio.

The network of refugios all along the Camino certainly made it a lot easier to be a peregrino. The sort of no-room-at-the-inn debacle that led to our Zaragoza detour was no longer a concern. There was always room at the refugios, and all we had to do was follow the guidebook to be sure of a place to sleep.

While the level of creature comfort never rose to floral arrangements and scented soap, some of the refugios were more than acceptable. I remember the one at Santo Domingo de Calzado; everyone who’d been there pointed it out as an example of what a refugio could be. It was, I suppose, comparable to any better-than-average youth hostel, but on the road to Santiago it was outstanding.

The village where it was situated, I should point out, was renowned as the site of a chicken miracle. We heard several versions of the story, but the gist of it was that someone had appealed to some local potentate, who was sitting down to dinner at the time. The pooh-bah pointed to the roasted chicken on the platter in front of him and announced that he’d grant the supplicant’s wish “when that chicken hops off the table and crows.” Whereupon the headless bird contrived to do just that, as depicted in a mural in the local church.

I thought it was a pretty good story, and a terrific mural. Lynne agreed, but she went on to assume it was true. Lynne has never met a miracle she hasn’t been able to believe in — and, after our rescue by the Spanish Army and our eventual deliverance unto the Gay Guest House, I have to say I can understand her point of view.

Her enthusiasm for this particular legend didn’t diminish when someone pointed out that chicken miracles abound throughout Europe, that every country seems to have one or more of them, all featuring a bird, roasted a golden brown, who saves some blameless person’s life by rising from the platter and cock-a-doodle-doing its heart out. Didn’t she think it was unlikely that all of these miracles had taken place all over the continent?

“It just shows,” she said, “the awesome power of the chicken.”

Another refugio, the very one where aguardiente was on offer, had a feature that was both eco-and peregrino-friendly — rooftop water tanks, heated by solar power, provided a good supply of hot water for showers. Most of the refugios had showers of one sort or another, but few of them had enough hot water to go around, and a combination of luck and good timing was necessary if you wanted more than a deluge of cold water.

Once in a while a refugio had one or more private rooms, and as a couple we were apt to draw one on the rare occasion that one was available. More often I’d take an upper bunk and Lynne a lower in a room with a whole row or two of bunk beds.

And when we did have privacy, it brought no guarantee of a comfortable night’s lodging. One village was supposed to have a refugio, but we had to go to the church and hunt down the priest in order to find it. He gave us a key and a set of directions; the key let us into a room some twenty feet square, with assorted debris in its corners and incomprehensible graffiti on its cinder-block walls. The place had once been a garage, and now it was a refugio, though the only indication of its new status was a large bare mattress in the middle of the concrete floor. We got a better night’s sleep than we expected, but figured one night was plenty; in the morning we returned the key and hit the road.

With time, we found that two or three consecutive nights in refugios were about as much as we could take. Every third or fourth night we’d contrive to stop at a commercial establishment of some sort, where we’d be certain of a room to ourselves and access to a working shower. Sometimes, if the hotel and the room and the village were sufficiently attractive, we’d stay a couple of nights, but more often than not we were on our way in the morning.