The Drunken Flutist

---

I knew long ago and rediscovered that the best way to attract attention, help, and conversation is to be lost- Steinbeck

Solo a pied. Solo and on foot I started the second phase of my walkabout through Spain. With Linsey safely on her plane back to reality I set my sights on impressing these Spaniards with my newly acquired linguistic skills. It didn´t take long for me to come back to my reality and realize that 5 Spanish phrases is not that impressive, especially when I mispronounce every other word.

The minute Linsey sped off in her taxi the experience took on a different dynamic. The people become as much of the experience as the miles of trail underfoot.

First: The Trail
I have knocked out about 20 miles a day since Linsey left with one day peaking at 26 miles. Before I let you feel too sorry for me, I did stop in the middle of my 26 miles for an hour lunch of huevos e jamon (eggs and ham), cafe con leche, and a glass of reserva that was made 10 miles up the road. Regardless of the menu, the last few miles were a pain in the ass (figuratively), and the feet (literally). The trail has been winding through famous vineyards, nice parks, and a couple more working class industrial cities. Each territory of Spain has their own history, specialties, and identity that people are fiercely proud of. The independent loyalties do not necessarily make for easy governance or a comprehensive shared identity but it does fuel a passion for perfection and specialization. It is to my benefit, each town is ready to show off their version of sausage, or their historical museum, or wine, all of it being damn impressive.

I think today I finished close to mile 200. My feet are the worse for wear but my spirits are high and that is generally the limiting factor in most equations.

Second: The People
Most days are spent hiking alone which seems to be the prefered method for most all hikers. Even people who start in groups end up spreading out to enjoy the rolling hills and vineyards in the solitude of their thoughts. It is peaceful during the hikes but there is a time limit between self-reflection and insanity. Once at the hostels people are ready for social interaction and conversation no matter how massive the linguistic canyon. The first hostel of my solo trip was run by Paco, the red-faced, congenial Spaniard who oversaw the albergue. He spoke no English so he and I sat at a picnic table attempting an awkward verbal dance but our words were interrupted with our laughing at our absurd game of charades. An Australian lady, Dayna, soon joined us. She is on a spiritual journey and has spent the better part of the year on buddhist retreats where talking is not allowed, in the middle east learning Islam, and now hiking the Camino. I know most reading this are thinking the exact thing I was- What the hell?? But, it is pretty par for the course here on the Camino and everybody has been more than welcoming to all varieties of stories. Paco got a little wine out soon after Dayna arrived and he was well on his way to a large time when the bells chimed for pilgrims mass. He thought it necessary for me to be blessed before continuing the journey so I obliged and walked with the tipsy old man to mass. In the middle of the service Paco promptly got up, went up front, and played some instrument that looked like a wooden flute while they took up the donations. I nearly fell out of the pew. His face was bright red on account of the wine and the amount of breath it took to play his flute. It sounded somewhere between a flute and a dying bird, a large bird at that. He sat back down beside me and looked completely content at his semi-drunk performance. Oddly enough he did not go up for the sacrament. I guess he had his fill earlier.

After the service I met up with a group of younger English speakers for dinner. 2 Germans, 2 French Canadians, 1 lady from Norway, and 1 Swiss man, eating in an Itallian restaurant while in Spain rounded out our United Nations meeting. It had been my expectation that most scenarios like this would play out with polite introductory conversations that skimmed the surface of interaction. However, the reality was the complete opposite. Politics and religion are no longer off limits in conversations with complete strangers. We sat around talking about politics, the environment, hippies, conservatives, and church. Certain situations will always require conversational tact and propriety but likewise it is sometimes necessary to knock down barriers and spend a couple hours finding out what drives other peoples passions.

Similar absurdities continued the next night with two proud Frenchmen who were equally as proud of their affiliation with the communist party (not helping out my stereotypical view of the French), two old Germans, and the spiritual Australlian. The Germans finished a bottle of wine each, the Frenchmen started singing French drinking songs, and the Australian told me about her yoga practices. At one point I stopped eating, leaned back in my chair, did a nice long scan of the table and was completely content in the surrealistic nature of it all.

Once again, my pictures aren´t uploading but I did add some to my last blog. I will have them up soon.

---

Photos

Puenta La Reina
The first bridge of my solo trip

Rioja
miles upon miles of vineyards.

Perfect sanctuary
small sanctuary built in 1054. Hikers place rocks, papers, and blessings on the altar.

Muerto
The King riding his horse in battle against the Moors.

Old and Older
Old remnants of a house looking over a vineyard that was around before the house was built.

Into the city
the distant city is the destination for the day

early morning haze
the fog rolls out every morning about 9:00