My bunk-room mates settled the issue for me this morning in Belorado: Should I get up early for the 18 mile walk to Ages or start late and cope with the afternoon sun?
The rustling and zipping of bags, dropping of electronics in the dark, scurrying to the bathroom, the burst of red light from headlamps — it all began before 5 a.m.
That’s ok. I wasn’t sleeping much anyway.
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Last night in Santo Domingo, a woman from Wisconsin handed me a “tree of life” sticker which I promptly pasted on the back of my iPhone case. Next to the one from DeYoung museum in San Francisco.
She handed them out several of them to people in our auberge bunk room.
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It was a smart move to end yesterday in the little village of Ventosa and stay at the Auberge San Saturnino.
I got to end the day early and reorganize my backpack for the 30th time. Have I mentioned this phenomena? No matter how many ways I move things around in the backpack, it never gets lighter.
Science. So amazing.
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So, it’s my right knee.
These things happen. How? I have no idea. I wasn’t jumping fences or rock hopping.
I mean, this is the Camino, right?
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That’s it. That’s as light as I can make it, 17 pounds (or 7.711 kilograms).
I am now relieved that I picked the Osprey Manta 34-liter bag because there isn’t a cubic inch left to spare. I’m also relieved that I opted to jettison the 2.5-liter HydraPak that came with it.
I needed that space for, you know, clothing. As for hydration, a couple of water bottles in the side pockets will do nicely.
People like me, we find ways to fill an extra-large suitcase just as easily as we fill a medium-sized one.
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I’m looking out over that Golden Gate Bridge
On another gorgeous sunny Saturday.
— Doobie Brothers, “Listen to the Music”
Most bridges, if they lead into a city of any size, lack pizzazz. Oh, they may be architectural gems, but you barely notice this.
Why?
Because most bridges are surrounded by distracting urban clutter.
High-rises, highway on- and off-ramps, shipbuilders, warehouses, industrial stacks, skyscrapers, condo towers — the stuff that makes cities be cities. This stuff bustles up against the entrances and exits of bridges. Suddenly, you are crossing a span with little sense of its architectural might. Rarely do you get to appreciate the majesty of a span uncluttered.
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Walking along San Francisco’s waterfront, something about this row of fishing boats struck me as familiar.
Of course, I realized, this is the aquatic complement to the iconic Victorian “painted ladies” across from Alamo Square Park. Every spindle of tourist postcards in San Francisco has one of the “painted ladies.” They are as well-known as the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, Coit Tower, and the homeless sleeping in Tenderloin doorways.
There are colorfully painted Victorians all over San Francisco but this row is by far the most iconic.
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Some invitations are just too irresistible, like this one: Come join us out in the campo as we sterilize about 50 dogs and cats in the little community of San Antonio del Varal.
How could I say no to that?
The invitation came from Donna Lynes-Miller, the lifeforce behind Rosey’s Wish, a mobile veterinarian clinic on the front lines of the effort to reduce the number of abandoned and feral dogs and cats in San Miguel de Allende.
San Antonio Del Varal is a bit more than a half-hour away from, and a pleasant century or two behind, the city of San Miguel de Allende. An easy drive down the highway toward Queretero, and a sharp left onto a hard-packed dusty road that ends at the rancheria.
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Every Christmas season, Mercado de San Juan de Dios is turned into a Winter Wonderland.
Well, pretty much minus the Winter part.
Let’s say it transforms into a Christmas Marketplace, without all the messy snow and sub-zero temperatures.
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Behind me, fresh rainwater surged down Calle Terraplen like a full-blown arroyo wash. The rain beats a staccato rhythm on the roofs of curbed cars. I was inside Hotel Hacienda El Santuario’s nearly empty dining room, chilly but dry.
On the small table before me was a hot cup of black coffee and a curious but tasty postre of cornbread topped with ice cream, caramel sauce, and chopped nuts.
Not more than 20 feet away, through the archway into the open-air courtyard, pianist Javier Garcia-Lascurian and cellist Guillermo Sanchez Romero were working their way through a heart-rendering version of Saint-Saëns’s “Le Cygnet” (The Swan). Huddled along the barely sheltered walls of the courtyard sat the hardiest classical music audience I’ve ever seen. Some had umbrellas up to supplement the scant coverage of the eaves.
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