Travelogue 18, Uruguay: Lucia and the Aussie

Hello All! I have come to the conclusion that people are much more interested in simply ''how's it goin'' than whether or not my sentences have parallel structure and my commas are all in place, so I'm going to try to spend less time on form and more on info so I hit "send" once a week instead of every two or three. Requests for updates make me feel loved. Thank you.
It’s a dreary morning that has zapped me of the umph to go for a run. So, I sit in a tiny alcove in the hostel, the only partially private space in the place, O.D.ing  on coffee and writing. When I started this update a few days ago it began:
“Topping the news, Buho is a girl, not a boy!" The situation now is that my little Buho has been missing since Saturday afternoon and I’m heartbroken. Her brother and sister are still here, too here…they scratched at my tent all night, chewing on the tent poles, whining and wanting in.  Everytime I walk out the door and the remaining two attack my shoelaces I feel profoundly sad. I’m praying someone hasn’t taken her and she’s just wandered from home and will find her way back.
Before heading into wild tales of hostel life, a recurring question from friends and family begs answering: “I thought you were going to be a tour guide?!!!”  I am going to be a tour guide!… that is the goal, there is just a detour. I accepted this job at the same time I signed up for the tourism course and I want to keep my commitment here. The hostel experience will be very useful as a guide/director since I will be working closely with hotels/hostels in making accommodation arrangements. Too, all types of travelers pass through and tell me about the places they recommend seeing.  So, no worries…hostel receptionist is a transitory step toward tour directing.

Back to hostel life, I’ve made a new friend, Little Lucia, the maid’s nose-picking 6 year old. She waits for me every morning on the deck for coffee and buggars. My explanation of germ transmission went in one nostril and out the other, so I’ve just accepted it as part of the package. At first I thought her cute and was excited to have a kid to play with. Those thoughts and feelings lag. Dialoging with her is as tiring as trying to make small talk with 90-year-old suffering a hearing aid short.  Here is a transcript of our meeting:
Me: Hi!  What’s your name?
Lucia: eehhh???
-What’s your name?
-Lucia.
-How old are you?
-eehhh?
-How old are you?
-six.
-Do you go to school?
--eehhh?
--Do you go to school?
--yes
--What grade are you in?
--ehhh?
-What grade are you in?
--First
Suspecting a hearing problem, I stopped repeating the question to see if “eh?” was a trained response or a sincere need for repetition. It’s a Pavlov’s bell. If I wait about 7 seconds, she foregoes the “eh?” and answers the question. This requires much patience on my end.
When the tide is turned and she’s interrogating it goes like this:
Lucia: What’s your name?
Me: Gigi
--your name is Gigi?
--Yes, that’s my name.
--What are you doing?
-I’m drinking coffee.
--You’re drinking coffee?
--yes, I’m drinking coffee.
--What’s that book?
--it’s my diary.
--That’s your diary?
--yes, that’s my diary.
--why aren’t you writing up here (she points to the blank space at the top of the page)?
--because there is no line there.
--You’re not writing there because there is no line there?
--correct.
--that’s correct?
--Yes, that's what I said.
--Why don’t you draw a line up there?
-because I don’t want to.
--You don’t want to?
--Holy mother of Zeus and the grandmother who bore her, NO, I DON’T WANT TO!!! Don’t you have to get ready for school or something?!!!

These behaviors are not just verbal in nature. When I return from a run, I do some yoga stretches on the deck. After a series of what are you doing’s and why’s, she attempts every down dog, up dog, pigeon pose and tree stance I do, with an abundance of accompanying "eh?"s, questions and rhetorical answers.

The snorers have forced me to the back yard and Little Lucia was insistent on "helping" me erect the tent. I'd throw a shovel full of sand into my foundation and she would scoop it out. I'd drive in a stake and she would pull it out. Every move I made, "!Yo te ayudo!" (I'll help you!!). I couldn't stop thinking about when I was her age and at Pop's side every single second possible, ready to hold the board still or hand the pliars or flip on the switch, but without ever saying a word unless I was asked a question. Dad and I spent hours and hours together in total silence without an ounce of tension. We were just in the moment listening to the wind and the cows and the hammer hitting a nail. I treasure those moments, especially now that Pop is on day 16 in the hospital.
Otherwise, I’ve completed week 2 and it’s a hairy contrast to the first. I was feeling as flexible as saltwater taffy in an afternoon sun before the reality of working for other people set in. I’ve committed myself to going with the flow, but at present, my intestinal system is the only cooperating partner, with the help of an armtwisting laxative.  To be explained later, my main source of sustenance is white bread, dulce de leche and cheese, which is like a greasy hairball in a drain.
I knew I was coming to Latin America and things would first, rarely go as expected and second, take ten times longer to be fixed than one would hope. Knowing and experiencing are two different things. Success in my little receptionist job relies upon a limited set of variables with an infinite number of possible fuck-up permutations. On any given day, it is a given fact that one, usually more, of the following will happen: water pump goes out, water heater goes out, internet stops working, no dial tone on phone, electricity is on the blink, a propane tank is empty, the bread lady is late (which is the one I most dread because people want a timely breakfast!) and the maintenance man is MIA.
Then there are the guests. We’ve had an obese (at least 375 lbs) Australian man staying with us for four weeks. On paper we speak the same language, but in conversation, out of every 100 words he says, I catch 5.   He may as well be speaking Russian and talking politics. Anyway, Paul has taking a liking to me, mostly because I “listen” to his ramblings and say “un-hu” periodically. So the other night I’m working the 3pm-11pm shift and he makes a big Aussie chicken and pasta dish that he insists on sharing with me. I eat as much as I can and hide the rest behind the reception desk. Then my mate takes to drinking--3 Pepsis and a fifth of Jack Daniels he bought at the duty-free shop in the Brazilan border town, Chuy. Uninvited, he bellies up to the reception desk and proceeds to get drunk as a boiled owl (there’s a Mangus Hollow expression for ya) while blabbering on about running 20 miles a day with a 50lb ruck sack and sleeping with some famous Aussie jazz singer. I opened the shit sack wide and let him fill it to his heart's content.
 At long last he stumbles off, I assume to bed, and I try to get some work done. Shortly thereafter, an Argentinean guest comes to report that someone is very sick outside. I open the front door to Paul heaving all he has consumed onto the front deck of the hostel. Geezus f’n Christmas.  Five trips later with mop buckets full of water I’ve cleared a path for guests to enter. I look at Paul, who has not even lifted a foot out of the way, and he is poking his cheek with his finger as if he’d just had 10 shots of Novocain for a root canal and isn’t sure if he still has a face or not.
I leave him be and return to my duties. Then a guest comes to say someone out front is chocking.  Paul again, but this time, he’s gagging. Holy fuck. There is no way in hell I can do the Heimlick on this guy. My arms won’t even reach across one rack of ribs. I’d have to whack him on the back with a stick of firewood to even attempt dislodging an obstructed windpipe. He gasps and coughs and heaves, so I know he is getting some air.  I leave him be again. Finally, he wanders in and goes to bed.  For the rest of my shift we hear him back there coughing.  His roomate asks to change rooms and I'm off duty. He apologized, best as I could understand him, the next morning.
So, there's enough for now. I'm healthy (now that the pipes has cleared) and enjoying the diversity of my coworkers. It's windier than a floor fan, and 10 degrees too chilly for me, but I sleep in my tent and like it.  Off to yoga in a pine shack--I was shocked to find a yoga class, though we be 2 ft apart and on a dusty oriental rug.

A pic a friend from El Camino de Santiago sent me

Mucho love, Gigi

Travelogue 17, Uruguay: The Diablo is Tranquilo

My Dearest Friends and Family,
Greet-tens’ from Punta del Diablo, Uruguay!

Woowzy am I ever behind on updates. In Spain I started on the El Camino de Santiago story, but then began my little writing tutoring gig on-line and was sick of the computer screen and writing by the end of my shift. Here, I don’t know where my time goes. It only takes me 10 seconds to get to work since my dorm room is 20 ft from the reception. I’ve just been settling in, I suppose, trying to get oriented in this little village of a few hundred people. It really is rustic. We have one supermarket that is about as big as a two car garage It offers the most essential of staples and one, max two, brands of products to choose from. It’s the hub of most social activity, very similar to the Walmart in my hometown in that respect.


Before I get more into life here, a few words about my arrival. A generous rain received my plane in Montevideo. A monsoon received my ass in Punta del Diablo after a 5 hour bus ride, which has a story of its own. I was dumped off the bus at the intersection of five dirt roads in a wind-ridden downpour and told my destination was up the road.  No sort of street name guidance was given because the streets aren’t really streets, but wide muddy paths, and they don’t have names. If you recall from the Greyhound bus story, I am my own mule and thus carry the big hiker’s pack on my back, the daypack on my chest and drag the suitcase behind. So, there I stand at the crossroads, can’t see forty feet in front of me, but start off up the indicated road swerving around puddles ankle deep and trying to shelter the daypack to keep my laptop and journal dry.
Seventy-five yards up I see a tiny building to the left with a bit of roof overhang that looks enough like shelter for me to stand under til I get my bearings. It turns out to be the town pharmacy. It took some sweet talking, but the pharmacist finally called El Diablo Tranquilo to have someone come pick me up. Such was my arrival to my new home for the next 6 months.

As usual, the airplane ride to get me here brought out the best in me--a sense of humor. I had posted a prayer on Facebook that the travel gods grant me a decent seatmate. Here was their response:
I deborded the Madrid-Buenos Aires leg of the trip spotted like a Dalmatian, having shared seat space on an overnight flight with a gangly preteen for thirteen hours. The problem was he was too old to sit in his mama’s lap, but too young to sit still. His attempts to curl up like a pup in his seat resulted in a flurry of knee and elbow gabs that left me bruised and sleepless. Just as my conscious mind would reach the edge of the slumber dropoff, the restless youngster would reaccomodate and send an isosceles triangle jabbing into my ribs. Another shift and a knobby knee spears into my thigh. Then he would flop his head over onto my forearm, which was not so bad since he had a normal, round head. He was a sweet enough kid and apologized when he was awake enough to hear my groans.
About 30 mins before landing, my little bumper buddy starts getting green around the gills. He rocks back and forth holding his stomach and suddenly grabs my blankie to throw over his lap. I just know he is going to heave and I cover my face with my sweatshirt and cringe down in the seat as if watching a scary movie.
His wave of nausea passes and I ask him if there is a barf bag in the seatback pocket in front of him. He doubles over without answering and mom and I scramble to find one. I pass him the plastic bag my pillow and blanket were wrapped in. He asks to get out to go to the lavatory and the flight attendant sends him back because the fasten seatbelt sign is lit. Five minutes later he sees adults ignoring the instructions and again tries to sneak to the john. No go. He’s sent back by the unsympathetic woman in the blue uniform.
All of a sudden, I hear around me groans of discomfort. Minutes later, I kid you not, there was a lift off of ½ digested egg and ham baguette projectiles missiles going off like popcorn in a hot skillet. The flight attendants grab handfuls of white paper sacks and scurry down the aisles handing them out like immigration forms. On a whim, when I bought my ticket, I had checked the veggie meal box. When my stewed eggplant and potato entrée was set on my tray and I saw  everbody else was having paella, I regretted my decision to spare a chicken the chopping block.  Outright remorse set in when they got cheesecake for desert and I had orange wedges. As so often happens, a seemingly disappointing decision turned out for the best. There was something in the carnivores’ breakfast that hit the young tyke first and then damned the adults shortly after.
Back to my new “home.”
The living arrangements are college-like. I share a five bunkbed dorm room at the moment with 5 people, soon to be ten. When the high season hits, our room will be rented to guests and we will be displaced to an undisclosed location. By that time, if not sooner, my tent will be erected out back by the closeline. Snoring is becoming an issue and everyone swears they never snore. They are just stuffy due to catching the sniffles that has been running through the staff. That is no wonder given that we share a tiny outdoor kitchen that would get an F- on an OSHA test. The dishwashing sponge looks like it served toilet duty for a month before retiring to the kitchen.
We are an international crew of all ages. Alex is a blonde Brit and the youngest of us at this hostel. We have two locations, one on the beach that is for the party scene

and the one “up the hill” where I work that’s more family oriented and chilled out.

Adam, a Dutch artist, and Jasmine, a vegetarian Austrian, arrived after me and are an odd couple. My other roommate, John, is a vagabond American who has been teaching English all over the world. He’s a sweetheart of a guy and is a talented guitar player. My immediate supervisor, Rod, is a young Chilean and a strange mix of anal retentive and laidback.  And finally, Jess, the head manager, is the owner’s girlfriend and easy to get along with. Young surfer dudes work at the other hostel. Mostly they get stoned, drink, ride the waves and do the minimum amount of work to keep their job. I get along fine with them.
At the moment my greatest source of joy is Chata’s little baby brother, Buho (pronounced boo-oh, which means owl in Spanish). The hostel dog, Pelusia, had given birth a few weeks before my arrival and her 5 pups were living under the front porch. Two have given away.

I claimed Buho ASAP. He is the runt of the bunch (I’m partial to small beings), the funniest and fluffiest. I’ve snuck him in under my shirt a few times to sit by the fire, but I’ve resisted the temptation to have him spend the night in my bed, not because he might chew on my nipple, but because if he wets or poops, it would be a big pain in the patooty to wash my sleeping bag. Just like with Chata, this creature and I have a soul connection.


I have to tell you, I don’t like writing ho -hum, boring travelogues such as this one, but people keep ask for some sign of life and how it goes, so I’m sending this as is.
Elsewhere in the news, Pop has been in the hospital for a week with a ruptured hernia and bronchitis. I was thinking I might have to buy a ticket home, but he says to me, “Don’t you worry, Runt, I’m a tough old coot (another of his unique expressions). The old man will pull through.” He’s got a new grandson on the ground to keep him motivated.
And finally, Marta has put the bar up for sale to give it a try here in Uruguay with me. She has a job waiting on her as a chef in the restaurant here. It’s just a question of getting rid of the bar.
So there you have a bit of news. There is tons more, some of it potentially entertaining, but I’ll save it for the next one. It’s my day off, the sun is FINALLY out and I want to walk the beach.



Would love to hear from you.

Travelogue 16, Spain: Let Go of the Boots, G!

Dearest Friends and Family,
I'm on a roll--two travelogues in one week! I’m still behind though, so before we get to the El Camino de Santiago, here’s what was the latest two weeks ago, prefaced with an anecdote about my brother, included for illustrative purposes for what's to follow.
Prior to coming to visit me for the first time in Dallas, my oldest brother, Andy, says to me during our annual Happy Thanksgiving phone wish, “If I can get the time off from work, I thought I might stop in to see you on my way back to New York from Mexico.” (His fiancé lived there and he was going to spend Christmas with her.)
“Great!” I respond, “I would love to see you! When should I expect you?”
“Sometime after the holidays,” he says, “I’ll let you know.”
Along about mid December, I’ve heard nothing, so I inquire about his plans and he says he’s definitely going to Mexico, but he hasn’t bought the tickets yet and he’ll let me know about coming to Dallas. Christmas comes and goes and no word, so I figure he decided not to come.
January 1, 8:30 a.m., I’m jolted from a post-party passout into this exchange:
“Hell-low.”
“Hey, G. Happy New Year. Did I wake you?”
“Oh, no…I was just getting up,” I lied. I know the person on the other end is either a family member or a close friend because they are the only ones who sub my two syllable name with one letter, but I can’t place the voice. “Happy New Year to you….who is this?”
“It’s Andy,” he says with a muted, but palpable well, who the hell do you think it is?
“Oh, hey, what’s going on?”
“We’re out here taxiing on the tarmac.”
“Tarmac? What tarmac? Where are you?”
“I’m at the airport..…in Dallas,” he answers with a clearly communicated, but unstated where do you think I am, dummy?  “How long will it take you to come pick me up?”
“Dallas? Pick you up? Did I miss something? An email? A phone message?”
“I told you I was coming to visit after the holidays.”
He’s damn lucky I love him so much or I would have told him that the holidays are not officially over until tomorrow and left his ass at the airport with instructions to go sweep the tarmac with a broom.
What does this have to do with a travelogue from Spain? He illustrates a certain class of people who assume, with a nerve grating certainty, that others know what they are thinking. They, themselves, are not telepathic, but they believe everyone else is, or should be. Marta apparently suffers from the same communication deficit disorder, which I became aware of when we went camping in Santander:
When I hear the word “camping” my ears perk up and I start salivating like my Pekingese when she hears “treat.” Marta decides that since the big Valladolid fair ended on Sunday and the whole town will be hungover until Wednesday, it would be a good time to close the bar for a few days and take a camping trip to the northern coast. No arm twisting necessary on my end. Days in advance I start asking for details--I want a full description of the topography, climatology, activityology, facilities available, etc. I’m a planner, not just because I derive great satisfaction from seeing a plan successfully executed, but because I abhor those, “I wish I had brought….” moments that are avoidable with a bit of forethought. They undo me and plunge me into a childish, nasty mood, which I will own upfront. To not have what I need, had I known what I would be needing, had I had a reliable source of information communicate it to me, is absolutely inexcusable.  I resent having to take my attention off enjoying the pleasure at hand and putting it on adjusting my attitude to accepting an avoidable disappointment.
No need to point out that I am the source of much of my own suffering, I know it already.
I notice that after a few questions about what I should expect, my inquiries are addressed with increasingly short replies, never angry or ugly, but with a tamed exasperation, much like a mother who’s scrapping the bottom of the patience bucket to attend to the 3-year-old’s incessant, “Why? Why? Why?”. Marta seems to assume that either I should know, or don’t need to know this information, despite never having camped in Spain or with her.
Not wanting to be a bother, I reduce my questions down to the bone and decide I will deduce enough essential information from the clues given to pack. Here you have the results of that flawed strategy:
Communication deficit #1: clothing
Should I take my hiking boots?
No
Well then, I conclude, we are going to a warm, sandy beach that stretches for miles and miles. I’ll be barefoot most of the time and sandals will suffice for short treks across hot sand.
Will it be chilly? I hold up my Northface waterproof, polar fleece, hooded coat and point to it with an inquisitive look.
We are going to the coast.
That answer could go either way. It’s been hotter than a Georgia tin roof in July in Valladolid since I got here ….but we are going north…. Undecided, I throw it into the ‘maybe’ pile, where it has a very brief stay.
I take a second pair of pants from the drawer and stuff them in my packback.  She shakes her head. What are you taking all this stuff for? It’s only 2 nights.
“I like to be prepared, but if you think I won’t need it…..” Out come the pants and the extra shirts and the socks. The abandoned coathanger on the bed slides back under the coat’s shoulders and both return to the closet.
Communication run amuck # 2.: distance from car to tent site
Shall I fill up the 2 gallon jug in the kitchen with water to take with us?
No, there’s a spigot
We must be car camping if there is a spigot, so everything will be close by and we won’t have to carry stuff very far.
Communication fowl-up #3: food
What are we going to eat?
I don’t know. I’ll think of something.
Can we make a campfire?
Nope.
O.K. then, I need to help prepare a menu and it will be of non-cookables.
Misassumption #4: supplies
Shall I pack some cups and plates and stuff to eat with from the kitchen?
No, I’ve got stuff at the bar.
She’s taking care of all that, so I need not worry about it.
Communication fuck-up  #5: departure time
What time are we leaving?
After lunch. I want to do a few things in the bar before we go.
I begin calculations. Lunch here is a 2 p.m. So we get to the bar at 12, work, eat , leave around 3, it’s a 3 hour drive, get there at 6, we’ll have plenty of time to set up the tent before dark, settle in, have a relaxing glass of wine and watch the sunset as we dine.
Ha! In my dreams. At 12 o’clock she’s rolling out of the bed. At 2 p.m. we still haven’t left the house to go to the bar. By 3 o’clock we’re still in the bar without having eaten. At 4 we are still pootin’ around (Pop’s expression) mopping floors and shining glasses. At 6 we are in the car, but still have to stop at the sister’s to drop off keys and then get the groceries.
Attempts at organizing a menu have been futile, and I Hate, with a capital “H” to follow someone around a store, so I grab my own basket and say, “meet you at the check out.” Fifteen minutes later, she looks in my basket and says, You know it’s at least 2 kilometers from the car to where we are camping. Are you going to carry all that?
What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! 2 kilometers? Why didn’t you tell me that before!! So back I go, retracing my steps to downsize my purchases:  the 1 liter orange juice for a 3 pack of kiddie lunchbox juices with straws taped to the side, a loaf of bread for a pack of crackers, etc.
I look in her basket and she’s got cans of soups and pasta and asparagus. In other words, heavy things that require flame. “Are you going to carry that?... and how are you planning on heating it if we can’t make a fire?” I ask.
I have a camping stove, but I need to stop by a store to get some propane.
What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! Another stop? A stove? Why didn’t you tell me that!! I got peanut butter and tuna fish when we have the means to make hot meals???
A stop for propane, a stop for gas and at last we are on the road.

We arrive to a gravel parking lot on the coast just in time to catch the last possible photo of the sunset. She takes me to the edge of a cliff and points down at a stretch of beach that from our vantage point looks about the size of a Band-Aid.
That’s where we are going to camp.

What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! “How do we get down there?”
She sweeps her arm over to the left to indicate a barely visible tan colored line zig zagging down the side of a mountain.
What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! That’s not just 2 kilometers! That’s 2 kilometers of  goat grade terrain!
We load each other down like a pair of mules porting a royal court into the Grand Canyon for a week stay and start the 2 K stumble down a dirt and rock road in the plum stark of night. Besides the bigass packs on our backs, each has a grocery bag of food in hand pulling us toward a face flop and a sleeping roll tucked under an armpit.
“Don’t bring your hiking boots, my ass,” I mutter to myself. Every fifteen steps I’ve got a rock under the sole of my foot and have to stop to stomp the toe of my sandal to shake it out. It was during this descent that the previously mentioned, “I wish I had brought….” poisoned my well-being like arsenic in an oasis. It wasn’t just that I didn’t have appropriate footwear. It was that I didn’t have my hiking boots, the ones I bought special, throwing months and months of penny pinching to the wind to make a purchase of the highest quality in honor of the life changing journey upon which I am embarking. I had only worn them through the airport and I was chomping at the bit to break them in on some short hikes.
When I step in a hole and about take a tumble I have to ask why in the hell we didn’t leave earlier.
We couldn’t leave any earlier. We’re camping illegally. They would catch us if we set up before dark. Why do you think I told you we couldn’t have a campfire? 
What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! Illegally? There are lots of reasons, legal ones, for why we wouldn’t have a campfire--draught, fire bans, no firewood, park rules. Why in the world would I ever assume that it was because it would blow our cover and get us arrested?
4 switchbacks later, we’ve hit sand and I drop my shit with a thud the zillions of white grains absorb. Marta combs the beach by flash and starlight for a suitable spot to pitch the tent

while I stand like a one legged stork, plucking gravel from between my toes and stewing over my hiking boots. I could give a rat’s ass at this point where the tent goes, but she takes her time before deciding on a stretch about 30 yards away behind a row of rocks some tiny tot has lined up to protect his sand castle.

All I want to do is get the tent set up, have a glass of wine and get some vittles in my gut, in that order.
The first task complete, she pulls from a canvas bag a white plastic disposable picnic bowl so flimsy that the average dollop of potato salad would bring it to its knees.
“We don’t have any cups?”
No.
In the accident-waiting-to-happen she pours white wine from a waxy, green box and passes it to me as if it were a million dollar golden egg rolling around on a warped plate of blown glass.  Three sips later it buckles and my flannel p.j.’d crotch gets a bath in cheap chardonnay. I have no extra clothes suitable for sleeping, so I resign myself to wet dreams of having peed the bed.
She unfolds the crease in the bowl and pours steaming lentil soup into it. I volunteer to eat straight from the pot.

It’s about 15 degrees chiller than in Valladolid and my feet are cold, as is the rest of me. I want my coat and my boots and not having them stirs my stewing. Then I say to myself, “G, you have an opportunity here to practice nonattachment. Let go of the boots!”
So, I let go of the boots. By 10:30 we are in our sleeping bags listening to soothing sound of waves turning themselves inside out and my mood perks back to grateful.
At 4:30 a.m. I awake to see Marta sitting straight up in her bag staring out the front of the tent.
“What is it?” I ask assuming she’s heard something stirring outside.
 Nothing, I’m just watching the tide.
Silly me, I think it endearing that she is having a deep, existential moment with Mother Nature and I leave her to it and go back to sleep.
At 5:15 a.m. Gigi, wake up! The tide has reached the rocks. We are about to get soaked. 
What?!! #@$%^&*(@#!$%! You’ve been watching the tide this whole time thinking it might reach us and you had to wait until three waves before we are flooded to sound a warning?
We fumble for the flashlights,  bail out of the tent, pack everything up, us included, and scale the gravelly hill (in sandals!!) to the first flat ground to set up camp all over again.

Shortly after daylight, I peek out the tent and see on each end of our 100 yard stretch of beach a trail head leading up to the cliffs. Boot rage consumes. The prefacing question as to whether or not I should pack my hiking boots was, “Are there any good places to hike around there?”
No, not really.
Not really my ass.
“Let go of the boots, G!”
I do, and put on my Jesus Tevas. Once I rock climb the trail out of the beach bay I top out onto a cliffed shoreline that offers a breathtaking view of the ocean and a neighboring village.

Curiosity consumes me. There is a cow path to follow, suitable for goat hooves and shepherd’s feet toughened to the rugged conditions, but my babied footsies quickly complain. Again, I know the issue isn’t really the conditions, but the fact that I want my new boots! I make the discomfort of a briar scraping my toe or a sharp rock grazing my insole equal to that of a barbed whip coming down across my back. I’m on a martyr’s march.
I follow the trail for an hour and a half, through cow pastures, cobblestone streets,  a eucalyptus forest and eventually to an inlet where clam diggers fill their buckets with the deposits of the tide’s recession.
I’ve honed and chanted my mantra, “Let go of the boots, G!” a hundred times, yet on the way back when it starts to rain and my coat is at home in the closet, I lay my walking stick across my shoulders and hang an arm over each side like the Savior on a crucifix walking toward Calvary. I’m stuck in my own drama and I want to instill some guilt when I plod back into camp, cold, wet and limping.
It doesn’t work.
The weather forces a packup of all that shit we lugged down there and didn’t eat
and a drive to a little fishing village for a day of sightseeing all a dreary little fishing village has to offer.

That night we stay, legally, in a campground as crowded as Disneyland in June. When she comes out of the showers in a fresh change of clothes, I feel like throwing her in the bay. After my bath I have no choice but to put back on the damp, sour-smelling one pair of pants and shirt I was instructed to bring.
Let go of the boots, G…and the wet clothes and the late departure and the long haul to the campsite. Hold on to the beautiful beach all to yourself and the hike along the coast and the stars so clear in the night and the chance to see the north of Spain, and most importantly hold on to having someone who cares about you to share it all with.

That’s the latest, until I can get to recounting the 4 day trek on El Camino de Santiago. Hope all of you are swell and enjoying the change of seasons.
Much love, G