After the mountain top comes the valley.
One would think walking downhill would be easier on the body, the legs, and be less strenuous. Not true. From Cruz de Ferro, at an elevation higher than the Pyrenees, to the town of Molinaseca there is a brutal nine hundred meter (just under three thousand feet) descent over twenty kilometers (roughly twelve and a half miles). Many stretches have a grade of six percent. In other places, the trail hugs the hillside with a sheer drop off with hundreds of kilometers (feet) below.
It was a tedious and vigilant step-by-step movement for whatever looked like a secure foothold.
Drenched in sweat, chilled, and with muscles like warm jello, I mercifully made it to my destination. The couple I had been walking with logged in just minutes before me. I was next. “Una cama por la noche, por favor.” (“I’d like a bed for the night, please.”)
“No, es completa!” (“No, we’re complete—full!”) was the response. The couple right before me had gotten the last two beds in the place. I was directed to the very last albergue in town fifty meters (roughly one hundred fifty feet) up the road.
I dredged up my very last ounce of strength and humility. What a crushing blow! The let down was even more difficult to accept when I entered the door after arriving where I was sent. This albergue resembled an old, college fraternity house. I stood paralyzed by the sight of the grimy, dark-colored walls damaged by years of neglect, dim lighting, densely packed double bunks, and dirty tile floors throughout. It was over booked with noisy, young twenty-something- year-olds. They were just enjoying themselves, but it gave me no rest. The shower stall was less than a meter square (roughly two feet by two feet). I could hardly raise my arms. Worse yet, the water temperature was chilly, at best. Then the crushing news. They did not serve meals here. If I wanted a meal, I had to return to the albergue that had just denied me a bed.
Upon heading out to where I had started, nature arrested my attention. The gloomy sky pressed down heavier, and chilly winds began to gust. I walked past the imaginary scene where the guardian angel conversation occurred. When I arrived, I was painfully startled by the contrast between the two places. Here the freshly painted, butter-yellow walls and polished tile floors were inviting. Pilgrims spoke in polite whispers in respect of pilgrims’ need for rest. It was spacious, brightly lit, and toasty warm.
I gulped down an “it wasn’t meant to be” attitude and went back to the registration desk. “Me gustarìa comprar una comida para esta noche.” (“I would like to buy a meal for tonight.”) The manager replayed, even more firmly, his same response of an hour earlier, “No, es completa.” (“No, we’re complete—full!”)
I was beside myself. What should I do? I was desperate for rest. My body ached for food. I need to think this through. I asked if I could just have a beverage and sit in the dining hall. I would use the time to write my blog entry for the day and recuperate. Just when I finished an hour later, a gusty, bone-shivering rainstorm overtook the place. Raindrops fell so hard they spanked the sidewalk and overhead roof like firecrackers. Temperatures dropped ten degrees, making me tuck myself in and shiver uncontrollably.
“What should I do? No dinner? There’s nowhere nearby for me to go. The nearest place was kilometers (miles) away.”
It appeared that there were only three people who ran the place. Two were men who scurried around, preparing the long dining tables for the pilgrims’ meal. Long, white paper table coverings, wine glasses, dinnerware, large white bowls for soup, and baskets of fresh warm bread were strategically set. I stood there looking on like an observer to a banquet, who was not invited.
I tried asking the other manager if there was any way he could please let me have a place for dinner. His reply was an emphatic,” No! Es completa.” (“No! It’s complete. Done.”)
I stood in the foyer near a beverage bar that was just outside of the dining area. I stared through the windows at the rain’s crazy downpour. What do I do? I could continue the one kilometer walk back to town, but I was now dressed in shorts and sandals. Not good for such a walk. I could run back to my dump of an albergue and eat the granola bar in my pack and drink water, thereby calling it quits for the night. Ugh, no dinner after such a hard day in the snow.
As I stood alongside the bar, my mind wrestled between the storm and the dinner settings prepared inside, and the smell of home cooked soup. Oh, the thought! Warm, delicious soup. I caught a manager and again asked if I might be allowed to buy a dinner to eat just outside the dining hall under the canopied patio. Once again, the man’s aggravated reply, “No! No es posible.” (“No! No, it is not possible.”) With that, the man placed his hands on my shoulders, slowly turned my body toward a view down the road to where town was. He pointed the way.
I was crushed. Crushed.
Then from no-where, a lady who was working in the kitchen near the bar came out. She approached me with a question, “Cuantas personas?” (“How many people?”)
I replied, “Solamente uno.” (“Only one.”)
She cheerfully called out to one of the managers, “Una mas!” (“One more!”)
Precisely here, a Spanish drama erupted. A “loud and lively” vocal sparing match pierced the lazy air. Repeated attempts on her part were confronted with the argument, “No. Es completa!” Next, the other man with the “no” answers joined the fray. All the while I stood sheepishly silent, and dumbstruck, just a couple arm’s length nearby.
Nothing could have prepared me for what was about to burst forth. The three stood in a circle, faces clinched in defiance, the men stabbing emphatic index fingers downward to emphasize their stand, “No! Es completa.” The fury continued several unnerving minutes. Each volley of argument was met with this lady’s raised, defiant index finger stabbing the air overhead while insisting, “Una mas! Una mas! Una mas! Uuuunaaa maaaas!!!!”
The men responded with a long argument, all in Spanish, none of which I understood. They bullishly resisted with their sharp staccato, ” No. Es completa!” The argument grew louder and more fierce until it came to a rolling boil. These three were really at it. Not even knowing what they were saying, I knew that I was the source of their argument. The backdrop for this drama was dozens of pilgrims staring on. Awkward!
After three or so nonstop solid minutes of a long, blustery debate, all three abruptly silenced. It was as if they were prize fighters who just recognized the bell had rung—time to go back to their corner of the ring. The two men huddled and discussed something. Was it a new strategy to use against this woman? She turned from them and did some busying with something behind the bar.
Here’s where the God moment awakened. Slyly, she stole a glance at the two men, then surprised me as she shot a quick look back to me, gave me a wink, and lifted her index finger as if to suggest, “Just wait.”
A short moment later, these three Spaniards launched into a fully recharged argument of a lifetime. All three were shouting at one another. Both men kept shouting, “No completa! NO, NO!!!” She countered fiercely and repeatedly over their voices, “Una mas. So… la…men…te… una. U…NA… MAS!” (One more. ONLY one. ONE MORE!”)
Somewhere in the middle of this donnybrook, she shot me another quick wink, raised her index finger to assure me to keep waiting. Then snapping back to military readiness, she raised an eyebrow in staunch defiance of the two men. Her gesture signaled the final sign before launching her defiant barrage in my defense. I really didn’t know the words she was using in her assault, but I could feel the power of her language. It was abundantly clear that this woman was administering a stinging tongue lashing. It was effective. The men stood silent and lost for words to use in rebuttal to her tongue lashing. Surreptitiously, she shot me another assuring look. The lobby, crowded with stunned pilgrims, stood agape, incredulous of the Spanish drama.
The climax came when she raised her voice in a display much like an attorney making his final argument in court. She stood on perched tippy-toes with a gritty determined expression. Her final argument came when she started stabbing her index finger in the air at both men. She barked away at them, almost as if to shame them, intimidate them.
During her closing argument, of sorts, there was a fury of language peppered with “UNA MAS! UNA MAS! SOLAMENTE, UNA MAS! Mira al hombre!” (“One more, one more, only one more. Look at the man!”) The men paused. They looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. Silence seized them. They looked at each other, defeat on their faces. Meanwhile, the lady stole another look back at me, gave me another wink, and gently tapped my hand resting on the bar top. Then she returned to her defiant stare-down of the two. In a short moment, they shrugged their shoulders and politely walked toward me.
Graciously, the one man looked to me, motioned with one broad sweep of his arm with an open palm, and politely said, “Señor, Aquì.” (“Sir, here”) and escorted me to the dining area accompanied by the thundering rainstorm playing outdoors.
After entering the dining area, I discovered why the two men were so adamant against the lady’s demand and my request. There was plenty of room in the hall, but they had already fully completed all the table settings. To add me, number thirty-three, would mean lifting thirty-two place settings at the table, and resituating all the dinnerware—Again. The meal would be delayed in the process. It proved to be a great deal of extra work and inconvenience.
As I replayed that event in my mind over and over again, I was struck by many layers of life lessons. For one, I don’t recall anyone, myself included, who was ever so tenacious about doing such a kindness for another.
Christina had a fire inside, a heart burning with compassion. She did not just want to do a kindness. She persisted for kindness. She was unwavering for kindness. She fought like a junk-yard-dog to ensure a kindness for me. She was a petite, Spanish firebrand, who stood in the gap and stabbed a single finger into the faces of two strong, flint-jawed men and pointed at their self-righteousness and injustice. And kindness won.
Christina reminded me of the same righteous anger Jesus displayed while cleansing the temple in Matthew’s gospel. He demonstrated how righteous anger is needed. Evil needs to be confronted. And Christina confronted a wrong, and then unabashedly took on the evil and championed the fight for me.
My Camino was challenged. For what would I fight like a “junk-yard-dog”?
Kindness is a good starting point.
