Today is September 3. It’s been a week since we trained from Lisbon airport in Porto. After seven days on the trail, we’ve established a walking pace of 5 miles per 2 hours. That’s not too far off from our pre-Camino training walks, but these were on flat terrain. It worked well, specially for the boardwalks on the Portugal side. We have developed enough stamina to trek up moderate hills. The trails of the last couple of towns, however, introduced us to new terrain that we did not (or had the opportunity) to train for—cobblestone and rock and boulder-strewn trails. We’ve become skillful at wielding the trekking pole by around this time.
The pleasant weather, sunny and bright, and the noon heat we took for granted. We observed we were ending our walks with water left in our 2-liter hydro packs. In our minds, two things were going on: one, 2 liters was real added weight; second, drinking it all up increases the need to get to a sanitario (restroom). Valid concerns for us, seniors. The Portugal side of Camino services seems more understanding of this predicament. Churches maintained spotless restrooms (with toilet paper!) and were open most time. Cafes don’t have a buy-first-then-use policy. Any pilgrim will find this comforting, especially the womenfolk. We can expect a pit stop within two-three hours on the trail. Hooray for senior bladders!
We left A Guarda, Spain, with more confidence in our ability to meet challenges in the few new towns ahead. The Camino at this stage was becoming thicker with pilgrims, and more social. In the previous trails, it will be an hour before someone or a group would catch up with us. During these long stretches, especially along the coast, you don’t see anyone on the horizon. Often, Pat and I would walk in silence, soaking in the warm sun, in peace—the crash of waves on the shore rocks; the whisper of trees and birdsong in the forest trails. They are priceless moments. We can be lost in our thoughts, yet be mindful of our footsteps.
On a different level, meeting other pilgrims on the trail, or at a stop, has its own rewards.
We exited the modern A Guarda plaza and follow the main street towards Oia. The cafe on the main street where the laundry was, and where that entertaining 84-year-old lady would spend her day drinking cider, was not yet open. We half expected her to be walking her way up the road to the cafe.
The main street becomes the N-550 national Oia-Biaona highway. The cyclist would take this all the way to Baiona, our town destination for the next stage. This time our guidebook makes us leave the highway and turn towards the ocean to follow the coastal trail. Archeological markers tell us that petroglyphs were found along this trail. We take a brief detour to explore, but the markings were barely visible. We’ve now experienced varying trekking surfaces, the senda litoral and senda costal. The litoral is mostly flat and uses boardwalks. The ocean views are awesome, especially if you are an ocean person. You encounter prehistoric trails, Roman roads, sand, and tidepools where the ocean kisses the shore, along the way. The coastal route- skirts the shore and goes inland at times. On your left is the Atlantic. Inland, you walk on the tarmac, along the highway; and or, thru villages on cobblestone. There are hills and valleys, but always at some juncture, you have a glimpse of the ocean on your left. Outside, on a forest trail, in the open, you might find farmland and perhaps with a horse or two in a pasture. In one vista, we chuckled to see, as if in an Italian comedy film, a solitary toilet seat, in open pasture land,
Early in the walk, after a slight uphill on cobblestone, we come across a charming chapel. Ermida de San Sebastian, the sign says. Recently restored in 1993. It looked ancient, but the modern interior had a sweet peaceful mood to it. There was no seal available for stamps, but Pat found candles for offerings. It has now become a ritual for her with churches. Sometimes, the candles are real. Other times, electronic (You drop one Euro coin in the slot to light one in a row of LED candles.) We set our packs and poles on the ground, find a seat for a moment, and send off our thoughts.
The cobblestone leads us into the ancient village. The sun was becoming unbearable, and our bladders were asking for attention. Our guidebook recommended Cafe Henrietta, right on the corner. It was bustling with weekenders; it being a Saturday. The other one a few meters up to the left was the A Cambia Taparia. The server, who appeared snobbish to me, asked if we wanted to be seated by the terrace overlooking the ocean. They only serve lunch meals there, he added. No, we said. We just want espresso and cold drinks. He leaves us right away, and a woman beckons us to follow her into the bar. We’re only good for the bar, apparently. We ordered our espresso and juice as soon as we set our equipment on the floor. I made a dash for the restroom. Pat followed hurriedly. Seated, we counted our blessings and waited for our drinks. An oldish man seated alone at the other end, beckoned for me to come closer. Street-hardened by San Francisco’s pedestrian environment, we were still skittish around strangers. I came close anyhow, and he stood up to lead me outside the portal and directed my attention at the road where an enormous wall stood surrounding a church.
The Santa Real Maria Monasteria, he says. Those massive foreboding walls (it looked like a fort) have repelled pirates, he claims. He leads me back inside the bar and, tracing a Camino map on the wall, regales us with his Camino experiences. He immigrated to this region from France when he was younger. The man worked in the fields. He continued his story. “I’ve seen pilgrims come and go.” I wished I had more time to listen. The towns along the Camino have a lot of history.
Our merienda had arrived. Melocoton juice for Pat. Espresso for me; flan cheesecake, and what seemed like Leche flan? Claiming that the espresso was getting tepid, I detached myself from the man. He went back to his corner and ordered another glass of wine. Pat and I stared at the flan lookalike. “Caramel cheesecake,” the server called it. We dipped our teaspoons and silently muttered an alliterative duet: “Delicate!” “Decadent!” Condensada, we immediately recognized it. The thick yet light was Mama Lyd’s signature flan. That was what the short-lived flan business of Pat’s mom was known for. A young Asian-looking boy emerged from the street and barged into the bar like he badly needed cold water. The server sold him a couple of bottles. It was our signal to head out onto the Camino before the noon sun dehydrates us.
The trail from the Monasteria was hardened sand and downhill. Some half mile ahead, a couple of walkers, peregrinas, appear to enjoy the beach, going to and from the shore rocks. It did not feel like an hour of trekking on the coast when we see a cluster of red beach umbrellas and tables. A cafe, thank goodness. An opportunity to escape the sun. We cornered a table, set down our equipment, and I ventured in. At the counter, acknowledging my schooling in Castillian (four semesters of undergrad units), I blurted out. “Quiremos un cha y chocolate, por favor!” Surprised to hear a POC speaking Castillian, the cafe lady lighted up and took my order. While Patricia and I waited at the table outside, a young lady of mestiza complexion came up and asks, “Are you from the Philippines?” “Yes!” I answered with surprise. “I’m Filipino half-German!” she announced with excitement as if she’s met a long-missing relative.
Earlier, we noticed them on the trail but did not make the connection. There were quite a few young women, single or couple, trekking on their own, enjoying the safety of the Camino. “My mom’s Filipino. She’s from Mindanao! I figured you were Filipino when you spoke Spanish. My mom used to. She was a school teacher, but she’s forgotten it.” Karen was from Munich and traveled with her friend Lisa, starting from Lisbon airport, a few more miles from where we started. We exchanged notes and told her to tell her mom that my group exhibits textiles from Mindanao. Later, she calls her mom on her cell about us. They were on a fast-track 7-day trip to Santiago. There’s work waiting, she said. As we bid our goodbyes, she implores a young American resting nearby to take our photo.
Lesson 5 from the Camino: “Expect surprises. You don’t know who you’ll meet. Relish them.”
We had been curious if other Filipinos have come this way. The Camino, especially the Camino Frances trail, was becoming popular, and we have heard friends, or friends of friends, having completed the trek to Santiago. So far, we have seen and met a group of Chinese from New Jersey, a young Japanese girl, and a young Asian boy (Korean, possibly) at the Taparia. The Camino Portuguese, compared to the Camino Frances, is as not developed. Filipinos, because of our colonial history with Spain, may have found the Camino Frances more culturally familiar. Although it was a one-sided relationship, the Filipinos appropriated aspects of Spanish culture and behaviors like Catholicism and some vocabulary. The cultural aspects were filtered and modified as they reached Mexico. For 250 years, it was from Mexico that Spanish rule emanated. The primary vehicle for this was literally, the galleon that sailed twice a year between Manila and Acapulco, Mexico. For those number of years, a Spanish God, Spanish vocabulary, Spanish food, and Spanish music entered native consciousness. Out of this emerged the modern Filipino, many of whom are in the Diaspora; like Karen’s mom in Germany; or us, in San Francisco.
The cafe had nice, clean bathrooms and showers suited for beach-going tourists. This is really a not too often spoken appreciation for the Camino Portuguese amenities. It caters to the whole spectrum of trekkers—secular, sports enthusiasts, weekenders, and the religious. Nobody will be wanting. From the cafe, we reconnect to N-550 and trudge on the yellow highway tarmac. Not too long on the tarmac, we spot our hotel destination—Hotel Glasgow, in Viladesuso. A Scottish hotel in the middle of the Camino? It sounded absurd. I take a picture of the Glasgow map displayed in the hallway, anyhow.
After settling down in our rooms, we set out to forage for dinner. We were too early for dinner and did not want to stay late until the restaurants open. It would also mean walking further out to get into a decent restaurant. The only option left was to buy some bread, a can of sardines, and some beverages to resemble a dinner. The gas station food mart had all of these. We felt we could get by. On the way out, we bumped into the young American who took our picture at the beach. “Hello again.” Pat greeted him. “Do you have a name?“ “Joseph”, he smiles. “Joseph, from Minnesota.” “Well, Joseph, from Minnesota. Buen Camino!”
Hotel Glasgow is a tourist bus stop. There was a crowd of t-shirt-themed people apparently on the way to a sports meet hustling for breakfast. Pat and I took a seat by a bay window. Across you could see the hills we will have to cross en route to our next destination, Baiona. Just as we were ready to pounce on the breakfast assembled from the buffet, a municipal garbage collection truck parked in front of our window, hissing and spitting steam as it collected the heavy garbage bins. A waiter hastily came to the rescue and turned down the blinds, saying, “We don’t want you to remember the ugly stuff.”