Better start early.
So after leaving the small collection of buildings named Trabadelo, Karin and I hit the trail hard to cover as much ground as we could to get as much of the climb done as possible before the heat caught up with us. It had been unseasonably warm, and the weather forecast for the next week had us marked for clear weather all the way into Santiago. Which was absolutely amazing, considering Galicia, (the region of Spain we were entering), is supposed to be by far the wettest part of the Camino. Yet this also makes it quite pleasant, as the heavy rainfall makes it particularly green and hospitable for a large variety of plant life, including REAL trees (which are definitely a rarity along the Camino…most of the foliage is unimpressive scrub brush).
This was particularly evident during our walk up:
We managed to reach the Galician border aroud mid-morning:
And made it to O Cebrero around lunch time. We were both absolutely wiped after the climb, and took the opportunity to rest a while and tour the town. All in all, it reminded me a lot of Foncebadon, but with many more amenities:
The picturesque views of Galicia continued on our descent from O Cebrerio onward for the next several days. This section of trail was by far my favorite, and often reminded me of a cross between the highlands of Vermont and the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia:
Harsh fog in the morning was also commonplace in Galicia. Being in the valleys meant that the sun took longer to reach the lowlands and the excess moisture in the air took longer to burn off compared to higher elevations:
The landscape was also dotted with ancient farmland and small Celtic villages (some even without names):
Though some farmers did seem to have a taste for livestock bordering on the exotic:
Not quite sure how the Ostrich egg market is doing in Spain, but clearly it’s more than just…for the birds.
Oh, and the Galician dialect produces some rather interesting names for places as well:
We also picked up a few more additions to our crew.
The first came in a town called Sarria. Karin, her mom Lotti, the two Canadians Ken and Malcom, and myself were all seated at a small Camino side café having a beer. We had finished our hike for the day, and were set to stay the night in a VERY nice hostel. We had just finished our first round and were about to order a second, when Ken suddenly begin staring intently at a fellow pilgrim walking by us about a dozen paces next to our table.
He was a tall, slender, white guy with a scruffy beard. Seemed to be a typical pilgrim. Or a typical hiker, for that matter. Yet as he walked by, it looked as though he could sense that he was being watched, and eventually noticed Ken staring at him.
“Excuse me sir…Are you Canadian?”
I have no idea what would lead Ken to spontaneously ask that question, but Ken is the kinda guy that just seems to randomly be right all the time. So even though it seemed highly improbable, I just figured he would be right here, too.
The guy stopped dead in his tracks and came bounding up to our table.
“Why yes, actually I am!”
Ken Camino: the proverbial expert.
“GREAT!” Malcom exclaimed. “Do you have a hockey update, by any chance?!”
And the guy FUCKING DID. Off the top of his head. Which, after a quick rundown of the standings of all the teams in the league, prompted Ken to invite him to stick around.
“Pull up a chair and have a drink with us!”
Less than two minutes into meeting this guy, and Ken and Malcom both unanimously decided he was the coolest guy ever. I suppose that’s a Canadian thing. But Ken, being the experienced Camino veteran that he was, still had yet to be wrong.
The mystery Canadian was named Matt. On a year-long backpacking tour of Europe, Matt had just graduated college and was spending some time abroad. Turns out he hadn’t even heard of the Camino until he began his travels in Europe, but learned about it from someone else he met in a hostel in the eastern bloc and decided to give it a whirl. Well. That’s certainly one way to do it.
“So how did you guys know I was Canadian?”
“Oh! That’s easy. Your pack is from Mountain Equipment Co-op. Proper Canadian brand.”
True, as far as it goes. Nationalities of hikers on the Camino can often be roughly estimated by the brands of gear they wear. Americans (including myself) tend to sport Osprey packs. Pilgrims from the Germanic regions tend to wear Deuter. Swiss wear Mammut. Spaniards and French (as well as pilgrims of other nationalities who found themselves needing an in-country replacement for a piece of gear) tend to wear Quechua. And, although it may seem surprising, hikers from Asian countries typically gravitate toward American brands like North Face and Columbia. Though as far as picking out Canadians, I had never heard of Mountain Equipment Co-op before.
Yet with Matt now enrolled (conscripted?) in the crew as yet another added Canadian to the mix, we continued our hike across Galicia and finally made it to the last 100 km before Santiago:
We were all excited, yet the season we were in yielded its own unique set of challenges. Namely in the form of dreaded “tourist” hikers, or as we called them, 100k-ers.
100k-ers (hundred kayers) were Spaniards who, given the Easter season and the remarkably good weather, were taking advantage of their several days off for Jesus week to have a pleasant time hiking the Camino in order to finish on Easter Sunday and exploit the small yet glaring loophole in the Catholic Church Compostela Regulations: you only have to hike the last 100 km of the Camino for it to count as a completion and receive the certificate.
This loophole ended up creating unexpected difficulties for the rest of us who had been hiking since very early on in the Camino. Specifically, unexpectedly full hostels:
And rush hour traffic. See, the issue with 100k-ers is that they aren’t seasoned hikers. They sleep in late, have a leisurely breakfast, and hit the trail around 10 AM or so. This means that almost like clockwork, the trail becomes flooded with them in the late-morning hours:
Though Karin and I typically leave well before them and are able to knock out half our day by 10 AM, we STILL end up being delayed by hitting a congested section of trail full of these guys. Plus they’re not familiar with trail etiquette so they often hike side by side and take up the entire width of the trail (making passing them impossible without rudely shoving past them), they only hike a fraction of the distance the veterans do, and they stay up late making an ungodly amount of noise in the hostels because they haven’t gone far enough to actually feel tired.
But arguably, worst part of it is that these tourists honestly believe they are having an authentic Camino experience, and the Catholic Church validates this perception by giving them a certificate at the end of it telling them they have. But honestly, they haven’t.
If you haven’t been on a trail long enough to learn its traditions, nuances, and etiquette, you have NOT hiked that trail. End of story.
As frustrating as the tourist traffic was, it was definitely hard for us sometimes feeling like we were just part of a nameless herd:
No really. Karin and I WERE part of a nameless herd at one point. We got caught in a cattle drive. Well…if you can call it a cattle drive. A local farmer was using the Camino to move her cows from the pen to her fields, though she was using nothing but her voice to move them along. I’m sure this took a remarkable amount of skill to do, but unless you’re on a horse using a lasso and dogs, you can’t call it a cattle drive. You’re more like taking your cows for a walk…
But there was definitely some good news about hiking in Galicia, too. Unexpected trail magic was commonplace, and we were lucky to run into such nice people:
This particular place (called simply “The House of Susan”), provides pilgrims with free refreshments and a place to rest. Though still different than the House of David from before, as it did not have a rambling snack distribution attendant.
Yet for better or for worse, our journey through Galicia to Santiago de Compostela culminated at a place called Melide (Meh-lee-dah) just 20 km from the ending Cathedral. It was here that I found what has unequivocally become my new favorite seafood dish: Galician Octopus.
Given that Galicia is a coastal region of Spain, it has been famous for its seafood for centuries. And it just so happens that my guidebook recommended an excellent octopus place in Melide. So, after checking into the local hostel, I set out to find the restaurant.
The easiest way to describe the place would be a massive mess hall. Long tables with wooden benches covered the entire interior, and hundreds of people were being served at once. Yet they had an extremely efficient system in place to make this possible:
1)
Raw octopus are prepped for cooking. Their heads are completely
removed, and their tentacles are tenderized/loosened:
2)
They are then placed in boiling water to cook. This is THE most
important part of the process, as a perfectly cooked octopus is neither too
squishy nor too rubbery.
3)
Once fully cooked, they are removed from the pot and the
tentacles are cut into bite size portions. These guys do it all BY HAND with
SCISSORS:
4)
Bite sized portions are placed on a wooden plate, then seasoned
with spices and olive oil. The dish is served with wine and bread.
Overall, I enjoyed this dish VERY much. Yet the only part I
didn’t like was eating the very tips of the tentacles. The suction cups at the
tips of the tentacles are very noticeable in terms of texture on the palette,
but I eventually learned to circumvent this inherently weird feeling by eating
them on bread.
Once I had had my fill of delicious Octopus, I returned to the
hostel to meet up with Ken to get a “mission brief” for the following day.
“Hey Ken. So. How many days we got left now?”
Even though everyone in our group clearly knew how many days we
had left, Ken always seemed to find it necessary to remind everyone anyway.
Thusly, I made it a point to continually ask him.
“Hey. You didn’t happen to meet Ronja, did you?”
Ken ignored my question. For the best. Never feed trolls,
people.
“No. Who’s Ronja?”
“Oh. She’s awesome! She’s a German girl about your age. She’s a
European Karate Champion, going for her PhD, and recently got a part in a
musical!”
If Ken had taken the time to get that much information on her,
it was pretty clear that she had likely been folded into our ever-expanding
crew. The Ken Camino band: coming to a Spanish backwater town near you.
“Oh cool. Where is she?”
Ken motioned to the empty bunk beside where I was standing.
“Not here at the moment, but she’ll be back soon…”
I was too tired to want to stay around and wait. We had another
20+ mile day ahead of us, and I wanted to get as much rest as I could. I talked
shop with Ken for a few minutes about the next day’s plans, then moved to
leave.
“Catch you tomorrow, Ken.”
“Wait, wait. One more thing. We’re planning on getting everyone
together for dinner once we reach Santiago. There’s a restaurant just up the
block from the Cathedral that has been serving pilgrims for hundreds of years.
We’ll be making reservations there. It will be the main group of us, plus
anyone else you feel like you want to invite. We’ll all meet in front of the Cathedral
at 6:30 pm the day we all get in. Spread the word.”
It was unclear as to who exactly “we” was referring to, but Ken
being Ken, I took it as gospel.
“Yeah, sounds good. I’ll let everyone know.”
I lay down on my bunk and crossed checked Ken’s plan with my book. Sounded
accurate…my book had us ending just 20 km outside Santiago, meaning it would
only take until mid-day to hit the Cathedral the following day if Karin and I
left early. Looked like a solid plan to me.
“Hey you!”
I looked up from my book to see Karin standing by my bunk.
“Hey yourself. What’s up?”
“Hey. So I gotta talk to you about something…”
Doesn't matter the context. "We have to talk" is generally a signal that bad news is about to be relayed to someone other than the person who started the conversation. And spoiler alert: it never ends well.
“Okay…”
And that’s about the best response anyone can give in that
situation.
“So. I know we’ve been hiking together for a while now….”
Prediction: next she’s going to tell me that our hiking styles are too different, we can't be hiking partners anymore, and that “it’s not you, it’s
me.”
“…But I was thinking…”
Yes. Yes of course you were. Your head can’t be full of chocolate
and watches and pocket knives all the time, even if you are Swiss. Let’s get to
it. Chop chop.
“…I started this thing with my mom. And really, I’m only here
because of her. Would it be ok with you if we split up for the last kilometer
to the Cathedral so I could wait and walk it with my mom?”
Oh wow. Well that’s not what I was expecting.
“Of course!” I said, laughing. “In fact, I was planning on
asking you about that anyway when we got closer to the end tomorrow. It only
makes sense.”
And in truth, I was. It was a sheer respect thing if nothing
else.
"Awesome! Thanks, hiking partner!"
I laughed.
"No worries. But hey, we should definitely get to bed soon, yeah?"
"Well see...there's something else I kinda need your help with...."
"What's that?"
“There’s no WiFi, and my mom and I NEED to book my flight.”
Indeed. Being the good socialists that they are, the Galician
Municipal Government didn’t see WiFi as a necessary service to provide in its
hostels.
I pulled out both my phone and my tablet, and attempted to scan
for WiFi networks on both. My phone found nothing, but my tablet found an
incredibly weak signal for a private hostel directly down the block from our
own, but it was password locked.
“Lemme see what I can do…”
I got up from my bunk and headed down to the private hostel.
Luckily I looked the part of a pilgrim, so I was over the first hurdle. I walked
into the lobby as if I belonged there, and began to aimlessly play with my
tablet for a few moments. The receptionist paid me no mind. So far so good.
I then began to meander around the hostel lobby. A good amount
of the time, hostels post the password to their WiFi in public places. But
sadly, this one did not. Alright, time to see if I could get the password the
easy way…
“Hola Senora. Tienes un clave por el WiFi?”
The receptionist looked up from the desk with a look of half
confusion and half skepticism. I was probably not about to have much luck with
this approach. I fully expected to get turned down outright. But before she
could respond…
“Adrian!”
I turned. It was a father and son team that had stayed with us
previously in a hostel several nights before! What luck!
“Hey guys!”
I said enthusiastically, shaking their hands.
“How’d y’all fair today?”
We spent some time discussing our hike for that day and
interesting things we had seen/our plans for finishing the next day. Once the
conversation had progressed for several minutes, I cut in with the real reason
I had come down there in the first place.
“Hey, do one of you guys happen to have the WiFi password by any
chance?”
The father (middle-aged English teacher from the West Coast now
living in Spain), looked at me with a hint of reservation at the request, but
his son (a 16 year old American-Spaniard), was happily eager to help.
“Oh yeah! But it’s kinda complicated. Here, let me put it in for
you.”
I handed him my device. No sooner had he put in the password
than it immediately jumped on the WiFi.
“Thanks man, you’re a life saver!”
“No problem. Seeya!”
I could tell that his Dad was probably not happy that I had the
WiFi password for a place I wasn’t staying and that he was likely in for a
stern talking to, but hey, this is Spain. If there’s anything I learned about
the Spanish culture, it’s that at some point they will inevitably say “fuck it”
and decide that they’d rather enjoy their life than hassle you about yours. In
the land without drive, the determined man is king.
I quickly downloaded an advanced WiFi signal tracking app and
headed back to my hostel, being sure to stay as connected as possible
throughout the walk back. I then began to systematically scour the hostel in
search of the best signal (including checking the bathrooms, which definitely
got me some concerned looks from some of the hostel’s patrons). As it turns
out, the best signal was actually next to a wall in the bunkroom across the
hall from where Karin and I were. And, coincidentally, there just so happened
to be two chairs there adjacent to several power outlets. Imagine that.
I went back to grab Karin.
"Hey. So. I got WiFi now."
"What?! Really?!!"
Karin was overjoyed.
"Yep. Let's go book your tickets."
I led her back to the spot I had found and we spent several minutes booking flights on my tablet. Then, after saying our goodnights, we all bedded down for our final night before heading into Santiago de Compostela.
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