9/23 At dawn, out front of the albergue, I adjust my pack to make sure I can reach my drinking tube. The morning is balmy. I see a woman doing her pre-walk check as well. We meet eyes and strike up a conversation. I’ll call her Clara. We begin to walk together. I’m aware that she is a decade older than me and also aware that her pace is brisk. My ego keeps me matching her stride. After a while, I get used to the speed and am grateful for how quickly the miles pass before the primary heat of the day.

Clara is a recently retired pharmacist from Denmark. I enjoy her company. She’s comfortable with the silence between conversations, so we can walk together and still have the space to have our own thoughts. A perfect balance for me. This kinship reminds me of my mother. When my mother and I spend time together, the silences are comfortable, the being-together is what matters. Growing up in a quiet family means I revert to my inner world quite easily. Clara is walking the Camino in segments and will finish in Burgos. I think I’ll keep walking with her if she’ll have me. Her company dissolves my loneliness and walking together forces me to pick up my pace.

We walk through a huge development of apartments utterly empty. A ghost town of sorts. Not far from here we finally stop for the day at an albergue called Virgin de Guadalupe in Ciruena. This one is the most rustic albergues so far on my journey. We get a small room with a large single-hung window that has only one set of bunk beds.  I wimp out and opt for the bottom bunk. I usually get up once during the night, and I dislike trying to be quiet while descending a tiny ladder with sore legs. And Clara says she doesn’t mind.

The plentiful shower stalls look like American restroom stalls and the floor is concrete. Showering in Spain is a lesson in water conservation, especially when the handle must be held to run the water. Thank goodness for my shower puff which helps me lather up when the water isn’t running. My shampoo serves as body soap and laundry soap when none is provided by the albergue.  Straight from showering I stand in line for the deep washup sink to wash my clothes. When it’s my turn I scrub and rinse my clothes as the expressive Spanish woman behind me sighs with impatience. I hang my wet clothes on the outside clothesline with the others.

I sign up for the early dinner shift. The time I have beforehand, I spend in the common area. The turquoise walls and mismatched couches and chairs around the large living room feels as though I’m staying in the owner’s house. I see Thomas who is staying at Virgin de Guadalupe as well. He is suffering from blisters on the bottom of his feet. The albergue owner helps him soak and bandage his feet. Thomas can speak French and the owner speaks only in Spanish, but they are able to communicate.

Dinner is around a table crowded into a tiny kitchen. A large pot of goulash is rationed onto our plates and served with bread. The intimate setting furthers the feeling of sharing the owner’s home, but he does not eat with us. The food is, wait for it, of course, the best goulash I’ve ever tasted.

In the evening, Clara and I sit at a table out front of the albergue. She wants to borrow my phone to text her daughter to tell her she’s ok. At first, the text won’t go through. I copy and paste her text to try again and somehow end up pasting a text meant for Michelle. Embarrassingly, this is the text I sent to Clara’s daughter:

Hi love, I’m in Ciruena for the night. (6k before Santo Domingo de Calzada) 25.5k today but too much sun and I have a headache now. I might need to take it easier tomorrow if it’s still hot. I walked with a sixty-something woman from Denmark. I have to stay away from these European women. They are kicking my chubby American ass…and they don’t whine. I miss you a lot sweetie. I wish  I could be in your arms.