Saturday, June 18, 2006 (continued)
I still can’t get the damn food right here. I’m sitting at a table, in a wireless internet café no less. I ordered what for 95 cents I thought was a little appetizer – it turned out to be a huge hunk of bread with about half a slab of sliced sausage on it. It is good, but my body desperately needs vegetables. Mistake number 1. Anything for 95 cents couldn’t possibly be enough for a meal, I thought, so I also ordered a sandwich. Geoffrey had brought me what was basically a BLT a couple times when I was working in the internet café and said it was a ‘vegatal’ sandwich. A little BLT sounded pretty damn good so I ordered the vegetal sandwich with Bacon. I should have known I was in for a surprise when she looked at me strangely. I tried to bridge the communication gap and ask what exactly was on the vegetal sandwich. She said words which sounded very much like lettuce and tomatoes so I thought I was okay. Mistake number 2. Yes, it has lettuce and tomato… and carrots…. and onions and asparagus and some strange vegetable I’ve never tasted before, all with about six slices of hot-off-the-frying-pan-fatty-bacon thrown on, wilting everything else. Lovely. So I haven’t eaten in three days other than the little all day breakfast bar at the hotel and my churros y chocolate earlier; I finally make myself sit down and eat and I get basically a loaf of bread and a half a pig with some wilted rabbit food. MMMMmmmm.
The Clara con limon is damned good, though, and the bartender was actually a little nice, although she kept rolling her eyes and cracking jokes with the locals at the bar about dumb tourists who can’t speak Spanish and can’t read a menu. Apparently she didn’t realize some dumb tourists can’t speak, can’t recognize food names, but CAN understand about 70 % of what people are saying. What is it with people who speak Spanish? They come to our country they expect the right to keep talking Spanish. We go to their country and they’re perturbed we can’t speak their language. They can take tourists’ money but they can’t learn the word thank you in any of the four languages spoken within a 600 mile radius! That said, they have been much, much nicer here in Santiago. Not to the level of actually being nice, mind you (except at my hotel, they are all very nice) but they are definitely not mean here and even the not nice ones at least acknowledge your presence with a sort of pity reserved for the poor ignorant tourists. Personally, I’d rather be pitied than yelled at.
Actually, I’m quite impressed with Santiago in all respects. The historic center is undoubtedly tourist-ville but the locals actually seem to recognize that tourists are their bread and butter and appreciate their presence – unlike many tourist towns. Food prices are high but you can get a coffee for a euro and a glass of wine or a beer for two. Everything is clean, well-designed, easily accessible, with that sort of energy-high permeating not only the pilgrims but, to a lesser extent, the locals who provide for them. The “modern” city circles the historic center and is clean, thriving, also well-designed with more than a few impressive modern city attributes yet people still stop at crosswalks for pedestrians and give up their seat in the cathedral for a limping pilgrim.
One of the things I am quite enjoying as a vagabond writer is the many opportunities it gives to do little things for strangers. I guess we live day to day immersed in our own thoughts so much we don’t see the little sufferings of people all around us. Traveling, writing, taking pictures forces me to be very present with my surroundings, aware of everyone and everything. Like the older British lady walking mesmerized down the street, staring, mouth wide open, at everything she passed, with puffy arms white as snow underneath and red as a lobster on top. I knew from personal experience how much that was going to hurt later! I had spray sun block in my bag and stopped her to ask if she would like some. It was a wonderful feeling, standing in the middle of the pedestrian street, under the glaring midday sun, spraying cool sunblock on her shoulders and back and neck as she rolled her eyes upward and said “Oh it is so nice and cool. That feels SO good.” She thanked me and we went our separate ways, each, I think, with a smile on our faces.
Then there was the older lady on the train. She kept tapping her feet, as if her circulation had stopped. I worried for her with eight more hours to go, but when she stopped the conductor, I could follow enough of her conversation to realize it wasn’t because she was sitting – she was so cold her feet were going numb. The conductor said there was nothing he could do for her. I keep my towel that doubles as a blanket in the outside pocket of my suitcase so it took just a second to get it and offer it to her. She accepted my offer, smiling so kindly, and stayed wrapped up and warm for the rest of the trip. As we pulled into the station she folded up the blanket and returned it to me with a smile of such deep appreciation words weren’t even necessary.
Then there were the nuns who had no place to sit on the circuit train. I was taking up more than my fair share of space with my suitcase and backpack and realized I could squeeze all of three of us – backpack, suitcase, and me into one seat area of I sat with my knees in my chest. I motioned to them to take the other seats as I crawled over my bag and curled into a ball. Two were young girls, from Africa I would guess, the third was as ancient as the hills with so many deep rivulets traversing every part of her face you could no longer see that she had ever been anything but old. Yet she had a beautiful glow around her – kind soft eyes and a smile filled with love. She was obviously worried about me sitting with my knees scrunched up and tried to squeeze her little legs tighter to her seat to make room for mine though I insisted I was fine. I would have given anything to talk with her, to know who she was, what her life was like, how she had come to have such a peaceful, gentle glow about her. It was obvious the girls loved her dearly as she teased them to make them laugh or talked to them about their next assignment with solemnity. These little passing moments of communion with mankind fill me with a warmth and, interestingly, a sense of peace – perhaps that is why she was so beautiful to me.
Side note from the present:
I think John Lennon just walked in the door. Were there conspiracy theories that he didn’t die? Wouldn’t he be about 65 now? I’m serious, I think he just asked if he could have the newspaper and sat one table down from me. Actually he looks a bit like Yoko too. Did they have a kid? How old would their kid be? Weird… Now the radio just started playing the song by the Proclaimers “I would walk 500 miles.” This was the song I was listening to when I got mugged at a Taco Bell. I don’t think I’ve heard it since then – oh 17 years ago.
Now they’re playing a remake of Three Dog Night “Mamma Told Me Not To Come.” You can never get homesick for American music when you travel; it fills the airwaves everywhere I’ve been. They really should be playing “I Just Want To Be Your Underwear” by Bryan Adams for the couple making out across the way that are about to crawl into each others’ – underwear that is. I really want to click a picture of the all tongue-couple. Would that be rude?
Anyway, today was a great play day with the Farmers Market this morning and my walking tours afterward. They even do guide books well here with a large selection in varying detail and translated into several languages. The only thing I couldn’t find that I really wanted was Paulo Coelho’s book The Road to Santiago. I finally bought it in Spanish which surprisingly I can more or less read. How weird is that? I can speak Italian but I can’t read it and still struggle to understand it. I can understand and read Spanish, but I can’t speak it to save my life. Languages are just bizarre.
I had a decent little guidebook with enough information to highlight everything without taking a mini-course in art or architecture. Most of Santiago as it is known today was built in the 18th century when a fair number of older buildings were destroyed to make way for the new. Even the Cathedral which was originally finished in 1125 was extensively redesigned in the 17th and 18th centuries such that most of its Romanesque features are barely visible beneath its Baroque exterior. Santiago has often fought the battle between old and new leaving today a fascinating city where the different styles live together in impressive harmony. The modern porticoed walkway made of conical steel columns and a glass ceiling that leads into the old city was built in the 50’s amidst great controversy over the bold contrast between modernity and monumentaility. Now it sits in the landscape is if it has always belonged there this marriage of old and new.
Side note from the present
Damn, I want someone to do that to my ear! I might have to go before I get turned on sitting here typing. … I’ve got to sneak a picture, especially after all of you scolded me for not taking one at the internet café! You’ll have to check the website to see it.
After the café, I headed back to the Cathedral to tour its three museums, one of which lets you out to a balcony that over looks the main square where I spotted another balance-the-camera-and-run self-timer photo opportunity. I’m trying Aunt Kay, I promise. Afterwards I sat on a bench on the square and read a bit about St. James and Santiago….
According to legend the Apostle St James crossed the seas to preach in the Finis Terrae – literally the ends of the Earth. His life ended when Herod had him decapitated in 44 AC. Having been refused a proper burial, his disciples fled with his body which they buried in Iria Flavia and marked with a marble tomb. The tomb was lost to the passing of time and the many invasions by Barbarians and later the Arabs until Hermit Pelayo, it is said, was guided to the grave by a shower of stars. The church authorities confirmed the remains as belonging to St James in the 9th century. Santiago was born as a site for pilgrimage.
By the middle ages, Santiago had become one of the capital cities of Christianity along with Rome and Jerusalem with established pilgrimages from all over the world. In fact “A Pilgrim Guide of 1130” is said to be the first tour guide ever written. It describes the inhabitants, climate and customs of different regions, the most interesting routes, and the sights on the way. The pilgrim in those days was in no hurry and frequently made detours to visit a sanctuary or shrine. Many of the other cities in Spain grew up around the pilgrim detours.
There are many symbols associated with the pilgrimage to Santiago even to this day and ritual still surrounds arrival. According to legend, St James appeared mounted on a battlefield and bearing a white standard with an unusually designed red cross to help beat back the Moors. The red cross with its round Arabic-like points became a symbol of the saint. Later the scallop shell became adopted as the pilgrims’ symbol and was given to pilgrims as they arrived in Santiago to carry home as a keepsake of their journey. Other keepsakes typically purchased include silver-wares and jet-ware. Jet (as in jet black) is a fossil substance – a hard and highly compacted form of lignite (lapis gagates). It has been believed to have magical properties since prehistoric times and in Santiago has become associated with the Way of Saint James.
Since the 15th century and still to this day, pilgrims are presented with a Compostelana – a certificate of completion upon presentation of their pilgrims book showing marks from the places they have stayed along the way. Pilgrims who arrive in a Holy Year – when St James Day falls on a Sunday – receive a jubilee, an absolute indulgence, valid for all the pilgrim’s sins (guess I should come back in 2010!). Also upon arrival it is traditional to go to the chapel where one can kiss the Apostle’s cloak and descend to the crypt to pay respects. They then head to the Portico de la Gloria (the main entry way to the cathedral and considered one of the greatest works of art of all time) to touch the slender mullion column and knock their head on the Santo dos Croques. This traditional rite is said to convey intelligence and wisdom from the saint to the pilgrim. They then attend the Pilgrim’s Mass at high noon which I had stumbled into, uninitiated in these ways of the pilgrims, on Thursday.
I looked up from my reading trip into the past and realized it was 8:00. For some reason, I just can’t adjust to the sun setting at 10:30. It is always later in the evening than I think it is. The plan was to take a catnap, a shower, and go enjoy the well-reviewed bar districts of Santiago on a Saturday night. I sure wouldn’t mind a real conversation with a real pilgrim, or local, or anyone. Unfortunately the plan and reality didn’t coincide. I laid down for my nap at 8:30 and woke the next morning. Oh well.
I was up with the sun, even though you couldn’t see it until afternoon. In Santiago it is said that “rain is art” – a lovely euphemism for ‘it rains all the bloody time here” - !40 days out of the year, on average, and a good number of the rest are cloudy. I was actually pretty lucky with the rainstorms always hitting while I was working on line. But Sunday it was just cloudy so I and every other tourist in Santiago it seemed hit the streets for a little shopping – a swinging incense holder in silver (well it looks like silver), a shell with a red cross for my magnet collection, a red cross stick pin for my backpack – a new collection for this trip - and some silver and jet earrings; all the traditional pilgrim souvenirs. I bought candles so I could light real candles for my friends and loved ones at the Cathedral and set out to search for the column so I could knock a little wisdom into my head. It took me almost two hours to figure out where it was – not sure what that says about my need for wisdom…
Now I am at a restaurant trying to eat again. I haven’t eaten since my plate of bread and meat yesterday afternoon. I am supposed to be on the overnight train to Madrid right now but I guess the knock on the head didn’t work since it didn’t dawn on me that the only Sunday night train to Madrid (the only connection point to virtually every other city in the country) might be full. So now I am eating some soupy mussels with onions in a restaurant in the tourist quarter. Actually, I was observant enough to spot the teeny tiny little print at the bottom of the last page, in Spanish when the rest of the menu was in English/German/French/Italian (the Spaniards had their own separate menu), that had a set menu for 15 euro with guess what as the main course? the dish I wanted which was 17 euro in English.
It was actually kind of nice tonight wondering the typically tourist laden quarters that were now quiet and empty except the sound of Spaniards filling the little bars watching soccer. Everything had a surreal kind of air – like big party cities on Sunday morning when the last of the bars are closing down.
Oh real food how glorious. Fish, potatoes, salad, bread and wine – calories with real nutrient content – woohoo! I don’t know what my issue is around eating. I don’t mind eating alone especially, when I have a book or my computer, I just can never find the restaurant I want to stop at. Not counting this dinner I have spent exactly 12 euro on food and coffee in the last four days. My bread and meat luncheon yesterday at the bust-the-bank cost of 3.85, a glass of wine (I had to order wine called Vino de Toro – wine of the Bull) for a wopping 1.35 (and pretty damn good), a glass of sangria for 1.80– kindly served with a meatball some french-fries and a little dish of very yummy olives, appertivo style – my 2 euro churros y chocolate and three cups of café con leche. That’s it – for four days. You’d think I’d be wasting away. Trust me, I’m not.
Side note from the present: The guy just shut the grate on the window in front of my little table where I was watching the people go by – think that is a not so subtle way of telling me to quit typing, finish my fish, and get the hell out of here? I guess I’d better do just that. Santiago has been wonderful for me. I feel renewed and full of spirit. In a way I feel that Santiago is the beginning of my pilgrimage where it is the end of so many others. Then again I was born breech. As my daddy always said I was born back-ass-wards and I’ve been that way ever since!
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