It’s a Chafing Thing - On the Camino de Santiago

I had to add men’s Lycra boxer shorts to my hiking ensemble. It’s a chafing thing.

Every day, we take anywhere between 29,000 and 36,000 steps, and that creates a whole lot of friction on the inner thighs. I walked like Tex Ritter around town, looking for something longer than bikini bottoms, but shorter than pantaloons, to wear under my hiking pants. But in Spain, where if a woman can’t wear a thong, she wears nothing.  I had to resort to buying men’s underwear.
The saleswoman in the men’s department at the sporting goods store wrapped my purchase in a brown paper bag, wrote down the name of some "anti-friction crème", and pointed to a pharmacy nearby.
After determining exactly where the chafing was occurring  (“Aqui?” the pharmacist asked, indicating halfway between the knee and the…not the knee. “Or Aqui?” she whispered indicating not the knee), I pointed to a spot nearer the knee, only higher, and explained through pantomime and Spanglish, that hiking the Camino all day, every day was causing the damage. “Ah!” she exclaimed with sudden empathy. Then she started doing the Salsa with incredible vigor in the middle of the pharmacy. Apparently, she had the exact same problem, but not from hiking. “Bailando!” she shouted. “Dancing!”

The men’s boots (read previous post), and the men’s underwear worked a charm. After walking 720 kilometers since leaving Pamplona on Easter Sunday, we arrived yesterday at the goal line, Santiago de Compostela and the Cathedral crypt that supposedly holds the relics of the Apostle St. James. My one desire, besides making two piles for the Laundromat in Santiago - one for the wash, one for the incinerator - was that the sun would be shining when we arrived at the Cathedral. I got my wish - on the weather at least. After a week of hiking in dreary rain, and one day in heavy fog and snow, the sun shone brightly.

Unlike in other cities along the Camino, once a pilgrim enters the city limits of Santiago there is no stopping for café con leche, a beer, or to empty boots of pebbles that have settled uncomfortably between toes. There was a strong drive to just get there. Few stop for a break on the way to the the goal.
I loaded my backpack from a top bunk one last time, and crossed one last roman bridge. We were on our way. I felt melancholy that it would soon be over.
The final kilometer to the Cathedral is perfect. It winds up and down and around, keeping the Cathedral spires hidden from view until you are practically standing below them.

Serendipity was with us. After 19 kilometers, we took a wrong turn and ended up at a little used entrance to the Cathedral. No backpacks are allowed so I said to Scott, “Why don’t you go in first while I watch the bags.” After a few moments he hurried back out saying, “Tris, you have to see this!”
I walked in to see the Botafumeiro, the huge incense burner passing (flying!) just over the heads of the congregation through the entire transept. Whoosh!
The Botafumeiro hangs from ropes and an elaborate pulley system near the ceiling, 150 feet above. The sound it made, as the burner passed just feet from me, was incredible. Historically the Botafumeiro was used in the olden days, to exterminate the funk produced by all the heavily clothed pilgrims--some of whom had taken a year or more to walk from all over Europe to see the remains of St James. But seeing the incense burner in action, and feeling it as it flew overhead, moved me to tears.

I left the Cathedral and sat on Scott’s lap, crying. Maybe it was dehydration. Maybe it was exhaustion from hiking every day for the last 38 days. But I was moved by the spectacle of it all. Scott was so sweet. He said, “Since you were raised Catholic, I knew you had to see that.” I hadn’t been to Mass in years, but he was right. There was just something about it that made me feel "home".

“Shall we go get our Compostelas? You’ve earned an indulgence, you know,” Scott said.
If you hike the Camino in a Holy Year the Church rewards pilgrims an indulgence meaning, in the eyes of the Church, all sins are forgiven. I would be leaving Santiago with a “clean slate” so to speak.

“Are you kidding? I’m not going to turn that down! Let's go!” I said and we made our way to The Pilgrim Office nearby.

At the Office, one of ten officials checked our credentials, our pilgrim passports with the many stamps we received along the way proving we had walked The Way of St. James, and issued us Compostela certificates. Our certificates are different, because Scott went for the "Cultural Compostela".
“How was your journey?” asked the Church official as she filled in my name, in Latin. “It was really great." I replied wiping my tears. I could not stop crying! "And we arrived at the Cathedral in time to see the Botafumeiro fly.”

“You were very lucky!” she said. “The Botafumeiro only makes an appearance during special Feast Days, or if a group has made a large donation.”

I walked out feeling like one lucky pilgrim. Then to top it all, as we walked away from the Cathedral, a jazz musician sitting in the square began to play Somewhere Over the Rainbow, the song played at my mom’s funeral. Mom has been gone more tha two years, but she was with me almost every day on the Camino. It was a perfect end to a perfect journey.

Scott and Tris
Celebrating with champagne, Ruffles and chocolate, (as usual).

Santiago, Spain

Bon Camino, Madam! - On the Camino de Santiago

Correction: Not all the accommodation on the Camino (Albergues or Refugios) are spotlessly clean. I am now officially a flea-bitten Pilgrim.

Many of the Refugios on the Camino are in stone buildings, old drafty monasteries, or farmhouses. The floors are so cold that Scott uses them to chill a can of beer, or keep our breakfast yogurt cold and free from anything but the "healthy" bacteria we paid for.
To prevent Pilgrims from catching pneumonia at night, there is always a stack of heavy wool blankets in the dormitories. Only, fleas need a warm place to sleep at night too, and Spanish fleas seem to favor wool. My down sleeping bag is plenty warm, but one particularly cold night I decided to throw a blanket over my bag. I was toasty warm - and the fleas were well fed.

Usually our only option when sleeping in a refugio is a bunk in a 20, or 30, or 100 bed dormitory. It’s actually fun and part of the Peregrino (pilgrim) experience.
One rainy afternoon in a crowded dorm room, Tia from Finland, sat on a top bunk bed tending to her many blisters. A Frenchman across from her began offering blister care advice. He seemed to know everything there was to know about blisters. Then an Italian girl crossed the room while gesturing passionately to Tia's foot. "Sbagliato!" she said. "If you do as the Frenchman says, you will lose your foot!" Soon Tia was the center of an animated debate in Spanish, French, German, Finnish, Slovenian, Korean, Italian, and English on whether to puncture the blister, or leave it alone. I listened intently to the advice since I had a blister the size of a cherry tomato brewing on my own big toe.

Later, I learned that certain songs penetrate all borders when a Slovenian woman joined me at the bathroom sink and announced, “I just love The Macarena!” A Spanish woman at the next basin began singing the lyrics while we all danced in unison, me with a toothbrush in my mouth.

It’s always entertaining staying in what the Spanish call a dormitorio, but whenever it’s available we always ask for a matrimonio, the quaint term for a room with one bed, or un quarto con dos camas, solimente, a small room with only two beds. We’ve been lucky. One time, we stayed at a monastery in a small room with 3 beds and, because it was so late in the day when we arrived, we had the room to ourselves. In another village with a population of 80, we were initially shown a bunk bed in large dorm, as usual. I pleaded with the  hospitaliar (the name given to the owners or volunteers running the refugios), “Es possible, Senor, un quarto con dos camas solimente, or un matrimonio?”

“Ah. Come with me,” he said, and led us up three flights of stairs to the attic. Under a skylight were two single beds and one bunk bed. There was also an ab-buster exercise machine, a desk, a fold-a-bed, and forgotten toys. Obviously, it was a combination overflow accommodation for Pilgrims during the busy summer season, and storeroom for the owner. We loved it. "All for you. Todo por dos,” he said with a smile and a wink. As he watched us slowly remove our boots and coats he added gravely, "Feel free to use the ab-buster."

We did our laundry (a daily hand wash obligation when on the Camino –wear one, wash one) strung a clothesline under the skylight, and pushed the two beds together.

Something one should know ahead of time about a refugio is that there are no locks on the doors. It is not uncommon to see a sleep deprived Pilgrim, driven out of his bed by snoring bunk mates, walking the halls and opening random doors looking for a quieter room to sleep in. We knew there was a slight risk that someone would try to join us in our quiet little room at the top of stairs, but since we were three flights up, and I had positioned a big red umbrella, open, at the top of the stairs, I felt pretty confident that no one would wander in to the room in the middle of the night.

I can’t tell you exactly how many times the door opened during the night, but the last time the door opened was, let’s say, particularly bad timing. “Oh! Pardon!” a Frenchman exclaimed before retreating. The lights were out and I had quickly thrown a sleeping bag over Scott and me so I thought the man didn’t see anything more than the silhouettes of our laundry hanging on the line.

The next morning, as we chatted with other Peregrinos over breakfast of café con leche and croissants in the refugio dining room, a Frenchman announced, “Buen Camino!” (Good walk!) as everyone says to one another before they set off on the trail for the day. As he crossed the room his eyes settled on me with sudden recognition. He looked me right in the eye, winked and said, “Et, Bon Camino a vous, Madam!”

Scott and Tris
On the Camino Francais
Spain