My brain aches with stress. The water from the shower head sprays the pain off my scalp. It trickles down to my toes and into the drain.
Pack my bag. Licha must sense my anxiety. "Breakfast!" she smiles. She prepares the scrambled eggs and coffee, I pop in the toast, as she fills me in on some of her favorite college honors classes.
We chew on our breakfast and words, and down we go to catch our train.
Those last moments of being with a friend were really special to me. For the next 30 days I won't be with anyone who knows me. It's been a while since that's been the case for such a duration. I hug her tight, and we both depart.
On my own, I get lost looking for a post office, and then find my way back to the metro to go to the train station. I'm getting the hang of all this public transportation stuff. I'm getting more and more confident that I could live somewhere without a car to drive.
Take the train northeast to the Zaragoza train station where I transfer to the train that will take me to Pamplona. When it arrived to pick us up at platform 6, I thought it was a joke. Up until the Pamplona train, all the trains I've been on here in Spain have been so nice. This one was not. It looked like it had come straight out of a train station horror movie with it's rusty sides, chipped paint, and slight waddle on the tracks as it came to a stop. This one was as janky as you could imagine. Even inside the thing, it rattled like a string of tin cans in the back of a dump truck. The seating was unassigned. I softly asked an elderly lady if I could sit by her.
((So, I'm taking the bus to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port right now as I type this, and the road's getting really windy. I don't want to hurl all over the driver, so I'll get back to you in a second.))
Okay, I'm back. So back to the lady on the train. She said "Sure. Sit right here." Awesome. We kinda made small talk a little back and forth but in between awkward pauses. "Que bueno hablas el español." I should start tallying how many times I hear that exact phrase. I'm wondering if my eyes were brown or my hair was darker if they'd still insist on telling me how impressed they are by my Spanish.
I tried to sleep on the clunky train, but I couldn't help it. I'm not good at sleeping sitting up. My mouth almost always ends up wide open. Is that a thing? Does that happen to everyone?
Anyway, some punk teenagers would every once in a while start laughing really loud from their seats in front of me, I'd wake up, look, and see them looking right at me. I didn't care. I went back to sleep. Then it would happen again. I'm starting to get annoyed. What is so funny about me falling alseep on a train? Then the turds started clapping loud all of the sudden to startle me awake and then look back and laugh. I didn't say anything, but embarrassed I stayed awake the rest of the trip. I'm really grumpy when I'm in that twilight stage of being half alseep/half awake. But what could I really say that wouldn't embarrass me more? I don't even know how to conjugate the "vosotros" verbs yet. Not worth risking seeming more of the fool.
Our train arrived in Pamplona, and the little grandma wished me luck on my trip. We stepped off onto the covered platform. The train was wet from rain.
Bathroom first in this ghetto station. I took advantage of the peace to get on my raincoat and cover my backpack.
Then ticket booth.
I approached the window and inquired of the man for any suggestions on how to best get to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France.
"I mean, I would drive you there myself, if I could," he winked.
No. No thanks. A bus. Where's the bus?
He told me to take the 9 that was right outside and that would bring me to the bus station.
It was sprinkling. Likely all day it had been. I stood under the awning with the other patient people waiting for the bus. The 9 pulled up in a matter of minutes. The driver got off to make an agressive (yet loving) phone call.
"Listen, make sure you put on a jacket cause it's cold and wet. Yeah, you can sleep at my place. Wait, listen! Listen!! ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?"
Well.
Once he was a few seconds off the phone, I asked him if this city bus would take me to the bus station.
"Yeah. Wow, your Spanish is great. Where are you from?"
California.
"No way. Californians usually have the worst accents. You speak great Spanish."
Green eyes, gold hair. What can I say?
I boarded the bus and shuffled around a few seats before I decided on an appropriate spot. I kept my eyes searching the city for my next stop.
I got off at a particular bus stop because near it was "Bar Autobus". The station must be close. I walked around with zero clues for five minutes. It's here somewhere. Down an alley into a El Corte Ingles (remember the JCP store where we got Paul's shorts? They're everywhere). Used their wifi to find my way.
Finally got to the bus station. Ticket purchase was simply laid out for the pilgrims. One hour wait and on my way!
As we rode around on the bus, I really got a good taste of the layout of the city of Pamplona. It reminds me of Auburn, CA. Set in the foothills, enough shopping and warehouses. Car dealers and restaurants. But again, since it's Spain, a lot of apartments. More apartments than houses. And I think this is the Basque country part of Spain...? The language is different. Lots of Z's and K's.
After we left Pamplona the curves began. So many curves. Licha warned me. I inadvertently (but fortunately) picked the very front seat. Like I said, I blogged for the first 1/3, got carsick, and stopped blogging. At the 1/2 way mark at Roncesvalles we picked up a sweet couple from a southeastern part of Spain (Murcia). They have been doing the Camino in sections for the past four years. Conchi, the lady, sat right next to me in front since she suffers carsickness as well. We made very sporadic small talk--back and forth asking inquisitive questions every five or so minutes. We were both a little awkward but still interested. Ha
The whole trip up to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port was gorgeous. Green, forest. Kind of like our California coast forests. Like by Muir Woods maybe...? Breathtaking. The homes and towns along the way were so cute. Mostly white with the pink, thatched roofs. Little vegetable and flower gardens all along. Lots of sheep. A few mules. And mountainy. Or maybe more foothilly, but forest! Every once in a while you could spot a piece of the Camino trail. I would imagine myself walking those parts.
We finally arrive in Sean-Jean-Pied-de-Port. By the way, it never stopped sprinkling. We stepped off, wished eachother luck, I b-lined to the baño.
After business, I chose to walk around aimlessly, only guided by curiosity. I'd yet to get my Credencial (special passport) for the Camino, but the Pilgrim's office was already closed by the time we arrived at 7:30pm.
I continued walking around on this neat wall that acted as a sidewalk, but was maybe a fortress at one point. I found two cute snails. And then another 50. Escargot?
Ready to get Betsy off my back, so time to find the albergue (hostel) I would stay in tonight. I bumped into Conchi and her husband a second and third time. They helped me find it!
The albergue has a medieval feel about it. The decor? The smell? I dunno, both?
"Where are you from?" a man who resembled Giopetto grinned.
California, Unites States.
"All the way from there? Wow!"
I paid for my albergue and was also able to purchase a Credencial (it's in French, so it was a little funky figuring out how to fill it in).
He instructed a young man in French to take me to my room upstairs.
"I can take you into your room once you take off your shoes," he suggested in his dreamy, French accent.
I put my gray boots on the shelf with the other shoes and walked in my socks on the quick tour he gave me.
"Let me know if you need anything. Enjoy your stay. See you later." That accent though. :-)
I showered and began my method of washing my clothes from the day before in the shower with me. They're hang-drying in front of my feet as I lay on the bottom bunk and type this with my thumbs by the light of a little bulb. My room has three bunks, and I'm the only one in here. There's a man (or woman) on the other side of the wall whose muffled snores I hear, but they're not on my side which means I can save my earplugs for when I'm in a room of 50+ people.
But tonight, I sleep in peace.
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