A Change in Rhythm

When morning comes, we all rise, rinse, pack and leave our little lime-green sanctuary. Rita has decided to go ahead and walk with Gaby, Ingeborg decides she would like to bus it short way to Logrono, the capital city of the Rioja region, and in the center of Spanish wine country. I agree to go with her, thinking if I walk a day or two, then maybe take the bus here and there, I can save my foot and all will be well. We have our usual cafe con leche in a little cafe across the plaza from the church and the pharmacy where we were last night. Everything looks different in the quiet morning, yet, since the town is so small, I know exactly where I am. No matter how short a time I spend in these little Spanish town, after even an hour of wandering around in them, I begin to have my bearings and actually feel at home. It's an odd feeling, but good--not so much connected to the people (who often are not present), but to the places themselvs. Perhaps the actual land of Spain has a partiularly welcoming and accommodating quality to it, who knows?

We say farewell to Rita and Gaby, agreeing to catch up at some point later. Pilgrim flexibility is a great thing--to be able to say hello and goodbye, just with the intention that we hope to see each other again, but if not, the journey together was good, and we all bless it.

We get to the bus stop at the bottom of the hill, and begin the exercise in trying to decipher Spanish bus schedules. I never did completely figure it out. There are usually 2 schedules--ones for the buses that will be arriving and another for the buses that will be leaving. You might think that they could just say something like, "The bus from BLANK arrives at 1:00 am, then then leaves at 10:15 for BLANK." But, no, there are two separate schedules and you kind of have to match them up, or (as I learned in France where they do the same thing with trains), you end up in the wrong bus.

Truthfully, the best way to make sure you are on the right bus is just to ask another person who is waiting every time the bus shows up, "Is this the bus to BLANK?" The people at the bus stops are quite helpful. Thus, shortly we are on the bus to Logrono on a bright, sunny, early fall morning. It's a short trip, only about 10K, so I don't feel too guilty about taking the bus. Plus my foot is feeling better, too, and I am encouraged that the rest will help.

Soon, we are on the outskirts of the town, city rather, and it is a much bigger place that we have been in, probably since Pamplona. Ingeborg and I are just not sure if we want to stay here. For some reason, we both seem to be in tune about wanting to be in the smaller places, to be more in the rural areas, the small, hidden towns with the amazingly guilded and decorated churches. For me, and maybe for her, also, too many people seems to take away the depth of the experience. They certainly take away any hope for quiet contemplation, and that is something we both enjoy immensely.

So, once we are at the station, rather than looking for an alburgue, we consult her map and head for the ticket kiosk to see where we want to go and how long it will take. After consulting her guidebooks, etc., we settle on Navarrette, another 12 to 15 KMs away. Okay, so we have used the bus to get us past a slightly above-average walking day in about half the time, including waiting, but still, that is all right. We have a coke in the bus station bar, and of course, I decide to head to the facilities.

There's a huge line of women (not surprising), but only a couple of stalls being used. I hope I can get it before the bus comes. Then I realize what's happening--this is a pay toiliet and all the women are holding the doors open for the next person so no one has to pay. They see me with my pack and beckon me forward (of course, these are mostly Spanish "grandmother" types. I tell them it's ok, I can wait, but they won't hear of it--"come, come", they say, and show me the empty stall. How can I argue? I exit refreshed and share "Gracias" all around. The woman beam at the simple courtesty. How easy it is to deal with people if you just use a little common sense.

So, then, on the bus, and just a bit later, off at Navarrette. We have called ahead to get a room in a private albugue. We depart the bus just off the main street, and see that there is a little market going on. There are fruit vendors, clothing, handbags, etc. We wander through this for a bit before trying to find our place, and Ingeborg buys another fanny pack to replace one that she has not been happy with. I can't decide whether to buy some fruit, or just wait. But, as is usual here in Spain, the produce in these open markets is vastly better looking and more attractive than what you find the the alimentacions. From where we are standing at the market stall, we can look up a hill and see the church, also a large, shaded plaza just before it, and on the other side, and official-looking building that is probably the town hall complex. It seems just a beautiful little town, and we decide to find our rooms and do some exploring.

Following the guidebook, we continue through the maket, going west, and see a road that divides, one way going straight, one way going slightly right, but up a hill, mostly in the same direction. There's no sign, of course, so we're stumped. As we stand there with that universal "I'm Lost!" look on our faces, a couple of women come out of a bakery across the street and spot us. They obviously know we are pilgrims, so they come over. We tell them the name of our place, and they nod vigorously--they seem to know it well. They point down the lower road and then to the right, so we start walking. They watch us, but after a few minutes, we have either made a wrong turn, or NOT made a turn, and they come running after us, waving and pointing.

Yes, we've missed a turn. And, as I turn around, I DO see a sign for the place, but coming from the direction we were, you would not have seen it--it's only visible from the OTHER way. We thank them both profusely, and they carry on with their errands. Again, angles in odd places.

It's around midday now, and quiet, and we hope we'll be able to get in before siesta closes everything down. We buzz the door and I give my first name. The door opens, and we are in a cool, quiet, very modern, marble-line foyer. This seems like a hotel rather than an alburque! There's a small room off to the right and a man comes out to welcome us. He is a bit taller than me, thin, with a grizzled fuzz of beard, sparking dark eyes and dark hair. He has the worst teeth ever. I am realizing that dental care in Spain has a long way to go. Even England seems to have passed them. But his face is kind, and he is beaming to see us. In fact, he looks rather like a gaunt Dr. McCoy from Star Trek (at least, that's the first thing I think when I see him). He leads us up the stairs to a darker registration area where we pay and get our credentials stamped. Then he takes us down a lovely tiled hall and shows us the room.

It is lovely!! Two small beds with lovely coverlets and fixtures, warm tile floor, and a sliding door off onto a terrace/balcony that runs the length of the building and so is shared by all the other lodges. There's also a sliding clothesline to hang out our washing! And, for a first in my entire trip so far, the bathroom has a ventilation fan!!! Ingeborg and I are just beside ourselves. This is truly high class.

We express great appreciation to our host and he beams some more, and leaves us to our unpacking. We sit on the beds and just look at each other. Talk about the luck of the draw! This place must be only a few years old, and has taken all of the things most modern travelers want--good plumbing, attractive fixtures, a bit of privacy, and put it into a small and unassuming place that is completely welcoming. Truly, this is a jewel of a place. So, if you are ever travelling in Navarette, Spain, and want a good place to stay, go there!

After we get ourselves organized, we go back to to find a place to have a bit of lunch. We find a restaurant that seems fairly busy, and we end up sitting against a wall directly under a TV. Note: the Spanish LOVE their TVs in bars/cafes. It's very odd to go to a place of any size and NOT have a TV blaring. Kind of discordant when you've been walking in silence all day, but there you have it. Ingeborg is not happy about this, and really, I'm not either, but I'm completely into the "when in Rome" attidude. In Spain, things are the way they are--they may seem odd or inconvenient to me, but I'm not Spanish, and I'm just passing through, so I am certainly not going to make a fuss over something I'm going to leave behind tomorrow.

After we eat, we head up to the church via the main street, and quietly go in.

As I walk in (through the door second to the right in the above picture), there is a small entryway, then you turn to the right and end up facing the end of the church that is out of the photo on the right. This is a relatively small church, but the alter is enough to make me catch my breath. From the bottom of the church floor, to the very top of the highest point is wrought in gold, ornate, baroque, rococco, however, you want to describe it, the care, workmanship, and sheer GLOW of the gold is almost enough to litterally make you go to your knees. As soon as you see all of that decoration, you immediately begin to wonder who made it, how long it took, what incredible details have gone into this work. There are not too many times when I can see any kind of art work and have my entire mind immediately go to the word "prayer", but this altar in this little church is exactly that. The entire work is an amazing, multi-layered, multi-leveled prayer to God. I'm sure the entirety of this piece took many years, generations even, to complete and the continunity is also amazing. It's seamless. The style holds through. I stand there, dumbstruck and just stare at it.

From what I can tell, Ingeborg's reaction is much the same. Then, we hear a small noise and see that over to the far left of where we are standing, there is a scaffold over part of the altar, and there is a woman up on it, doing some restoration work. I am put in mind of a trip to Scotland in 2003, where I saw weavers re-creating the Unicorn Tapestries in Stirling Castle. What a privilege to be able to work on this, to say, "I helped keep this going."

I sit to say my usual prayer of thanks upon arriving, but it is certainly a while before I can bow my head. I simply cannot take my eyes off the work. There's a war in my chest that I'm barely aware of. I imagine that quite a bit of this gold may have come from "the new world" at the expense of native lives and livelihoods. This is not a pleasant thought. There's also the thought that God/Spirit/the Universe/whatever, doesn't CARE what kind of monuments we build to "it". That kind of power is really beyond the need for simple worship.

And, yet, there is a part of me, maybe the part still in the Christian upbringing that I had as a child, that completely understands wanting to make the most beautiful work of art you can create FOR the Creator, as a gift, as a form of worship, as an offering. All this rushes through me as I sit on the plain, hard bench, its stark utilitarianism a complete contrast to the amazing work in front of me. These are not thoughts that I have on a regular basis, and they surprise me. But then, I suppose a pilgrimage is a time for surprises.

After our period of meditation, we find the town library, a very lovely, modern building, and they allow us to use their computers to check e-mail, etc. I try to limit my time, since I see that there are children waiting, and I don't want to intrude. Ingeborg has a missive to write, so I go out and wait for her to free up a computer.

I find myself liking this town quite a bit. The views are stunning, there is a great mix of the old and the modern, and there seems to be quite a bit of business here, as well as a lot of pride in the place. There are fountains, statues, art sculptures, etc. Given other circumstances, I could stay here for a while.

Later, we find a tapas bar just across the shaded plaza from the church. It's patio is covered by densely-leaved trees that offer a wonderful, cool shade. The food is wonderful, all homemade, and Ingeborg and I have a couple of tapas, chat with another German couple, and then wander down a side street to look for the alburgue in hopes of possibly seeing Rita. The place is full, and the hospitalero eyes me suspiciously when I try to go it. I tell him I am just looking for a friend, and he relaxes. However, it's starting to get dark, and I don't see her boots in the racks by the door, so we decide to head back to our room to turn in for the night. We have decided to go on to Najera tomorrow, 16 km, and since we didn't really so much today, fear that it be harder than if we had walked.

Soon, we are snugged into our small beds in our beautiful little room, with glass door open a bit (thankfully, we both like AIR), and are off to sleep in no time, with dreams of gold churches and open roads in our heads...