challenged the authenticity of the yellow
arrows, the guidebooks, and the unseen experts. Am I not closer to a truth as
it might be sung by boozy serfs? Am I not listening to the song of history
rather than reading its words? Sure. But when Javier buys me a Coke at the
local bar, he’s sullen and quiet. I am suddenly stricken with guilt, as if I
have tempted a small boy from attending mass with a raincoat full of porno
pictures. Javier and I eat a terse dinner in Estella that night. When I awaken
the next morning, he is gone. I search the logical places. But it’s obvious.
Tie slipped out of town before dawn.
A good week into this walk,
past Pamplona, the road winds through ragged ugly plains, broken up by a brutal
hill or distant ridge. Between the tiny stone villages is th e
pilgrim’s road, a trail of dusty clods of soil occasionally overtaken by
swatches of volunteer wheat. One mo rning I spend hours trying to find a
puddle of shade beneath a tree. The infamous Spanish sun appears twice its
normal size. In these parts the old pilgrim’s road overlaps the uninhabited
corridor where earlier authorities strung heavy electrical lines, thick as
ship’s rope. The bulky cables sizzle like agitated crickets.
Relief does come
occasionally, and the pilgrim is tempted to find in the slightest variation of
his suffering a sign or a portent. In a fierce heat, I arrive in Los Arcos. I
locate the town fountain and plunge my head up to my shoulders directly in the
water. I plop down to a lunch of tepid plums when a group of old men and women
signal me over. They are cooking homemade chorizo and fresh bread over a few
cinders on the hot stone street.
I wouldn’t mention these
coincidences except that they arrive almost expectedly—as if the suffering of
the day entitles me to stumble upon a cookout in town or, another time, a
family who takes me in. One extraordinary coincidence takes place with
comforting frequency. Outside of Azqueta, I can find no arrow at an
intersection of two country roads. Out of nowhere, an old Dodge Valiant appears
at the corner. A Spanish man hangs his head out the window. “Pilgrim,” he
advises, “continue straight ahead.”
Farther down the road, a
grassy path seems up to no good. Upon approach, a pleasant looking tree has a
rotting dog, wearing death’s sinister smile, wedged into the crotch of two
limbs. Farther on, an oily bog is inhabited by huge frogs that bark like wild
beasts. The landscape is otherwise deceptively barren and unwelcoming. The
locals grow white asparagus. This Spanish delicacy is achieved by piling up
dirt around each protruding plant so that the sun and the chlorophyll never
interact, yielding thick white juicy stalks. In the bars they are delicious,
but fields of them resemble rows of freshly filled mass graves. Again the path
diverges, and there is no arrow. A man on a bicycle pops into existence.
“Pilgrim,” he says, “take the road to the right,” and disappears.
By midafternoon, on a day
more grueling and punishingly hot than the last, I enter the village of Sansol, which seems to mean Holy Sun. There are no open bars or shops. One man
working on a truck suggests that if I’m looking for water or bread, I should
press on down the next vale and up the hill to Torres del Rio. The time for
siesta has arrived and slowed everything, including me, to a near standstill. I
can’t go on, but I have no choice. At the edge of Sansol, during a momentary
confusion about the road, a woman materializes on a tiny crumbling porch and
directs me to the shortest route.
Torres del Rio is misnamed.
It means Towers on the River. There is no river, and the only toweresque thing
is a stumpy church steeple. The squib in my guidebook says that this town is so
often short of water that the locals store it up during the winter for summer
use. I can find no fountain. It is three p.m., and the heat and sun are crippling. No one stirs. I have not seen a human
being.
Everything in
arrows, the guidebooks, and the unseen experts. Am I not closer to a truth as
it might be sung by boozy serfs? Am I not listening to the song of history
rather than reading its words? Sure. But when Javier buys me a Coke at the
local bar, he’s sullen and quiet. I am suddenly stricken with guilt, as if I
have tempted a small boy from attending mass with a raincoat full of porno
pictures. Javier and I eat a terse dinner in Estella that night. When I awaken
the next morning, he is gone. I search the logical places. But it’s obvious.
Tie slipped out of town before dawn.
A good week into this walk,
past Pamplona, the road winds through ragged ugly plains, broken up by a brutal
hill or distant ridge. Between the tiny stone villages is th e
pilgrim’s road, a trail of dusty clods of soil occasionally overtaken by
swatches of volunteer wheat. One mo rning I spend hours trying to find a
puddle of shade beneath a tree. The infamous Spanish sun appears twice its
normal size. In these parts the old pilgrim’s road overlaps the uninhabited
corridor where earlier authorities strung heavy electrical lines, thick as
ship’s rope. The bulky cables sizzle like agitated crickets.
Relief does come
occasionally, and the pilgrim is tempted to find in the slightest variation of
his suffering a sign or a portent. In a fierce heat, I arrive in Los Arcos. I
locate the town fountain and plunge my head up to my shoulders directly in the
water. I plop down to a lunch of tepid plums when a group of old men and women
signal me over. They are cooking homemade chorizo and fresh bread over a few
cinders on the hot stone street.
I wouldn’t mention these
coincidences except that they arrive almost expectedly—as if the suffering of
the day entitles me to stumble upon a cookout in town or, another time, a
family who takes me in. One extraordinary coincidence takes place with
comforting frequency. Outside of Azqueta, I can find no arrow at an
intersection of two country roads. Out of nowhere, an old Dodge Valiant appears
at the corner. A Spanish man hangs his head out the window. “Pilgrim,” he
advises, “continue straight ahead.”
Farther down the road, a
grassy path seems up to no good. Upon approach, a pleasant looking tree has a
rotting dog, wearing death’s sinister smile, wedged into the crotch of two
limbs. Farther on, an oily bog is inhabited by huge frogs that bark like wild
beasts. The landscape is otherwise deceptively barren and unwelcoming. The
locals grow white asparagus. This Spanish delicacy is achieved by piling up
dirt around each protruding plant so that the sun and the chlorophyll never
interact, yielding thick white juicy stalks. In the bars they are delicious,
but fields of them resemble rows of freshly filled mass graves. Again the path
diverges, and there is no arrow. A man on a bicycle pops into existence.
“Pilgrim,” he says, “take the road to the right,” and disappears.
By midafternoon, on a day
more grueling and punishingly hot than the last, I enter the village of Sansol, which seems to mean Holy Sun. There are no open bars or shops. One man
working on a truck suggests that if I’m looking for water or bread, I should
press on down the next vale and up the hill to Torres del Rio. The time for
siesta has arrived and slowed everything, including me, to a near standstill. I
can’t go on, but I have no choice. At the edge of Sansol, during a momentary
confusion about the road, a woman materializes on a tiny crumbling porch and
directs me to the shortest route.
Torres del Rio is misnamed.
It means Towers on the River. There is no river, and the only toweresque thing
is a stumpy church steeple. The squib in my guidebook says that this town is so
often short of water that the locals store it up during the winter for summer
use. I can find no fountain. It is three p.m., and the heat and sun are crippling. No one stirs. I have not seen a human
being.
Everything in
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