Laredo was a long town stretching along a 4km sand spit, or puntal. Most of it was new holiday apartments, pretty unremarkable. My travelling companion made sure that I didn't get off in this section, but carried on to the edge of the old town. As I was getting off the bus, I noticed first the plethora of open restaurants! Food at last! I also noticed a scruffy sort of peregrino, a young guy with dark dreadlocks and the ruddy complexion which denoted lots of time spent in the open air. He had none of the usual slick accoutrements of the typical hiker, but looked more like a tramp, or one of those ruffians from the night before, than someone walking the Camino. I found myself avoiding him, and chided myself for judging by appearances.
I wandered into the old town which was, as usual, built on a big hill. As I entered a plaza lined with eighteenth century buildings, The Messiah was blasting from some huge speakers on a balcony. Talk about taking it to the streets! I climbed all the way to the top of a cobbled street to the beautiful medieval church above. It looked like church was just over, as several people were coming down the street carrying ramos, leafy branches, which symbolized the palm leaves waved at Jesus when he entered Jerusalem. I couldn't figure out why they didn't use palm leaves, since there are palm trees everywhere. We do use palm leaf crosses, and we have none. Other people carried ramos decorated with cookies, ribbons and crepe paper. One woman carried an elaborate construction of palm, like a corn dolly. The interior of the church was full of art treasures, but I just wanted to get rid of my pack, so it was down the street again to look for a place to stay.
I stopped first at the Albergue Buen Pastor and rang the bell. The woman on the other end purported not to understand a word of my Spanish, (which is really NOT that terrible) and ended the conversation. I waited for a bit and when she did not appear, decided to go elsewhere. I was offended for a second time in as many days. I decided that she was an 'inhospitalera'.
I followed the yellow arrows to the albergue located in a medieval convent, and run by the Trinitarian Mothers. Once again I went to the intercom to gain access. This time the disembodied voice directed me round to the front, where I rang the bell on a huge old wooden door with a iron grate.
A round and rosy nun welcomed me in, and took me upstairs to my own little cell. The furniture was cheap and mismatched, but everything was very clean, and I had a room of my very own! I had a window high above the street, where I could look out to the hills and see. If I wanted to, I could pretend to be the rebellious daughter of a local count, locked up to control my waywardness. Or I could hang my laundry on the clothesline across the window. Only Jesus, watching me from the picture on my wall, would know.
In all the time I was there, I only saw this one nun. The others were cloistered. I took a peek between the doors leading to the cloister, whose green plaster walls were overflowing with art, presumably done by the nuns. I would have loved to be able to see all the expressions of their creativity, but it was not to be.
After a shower, laundering my socks and underwear, and a snack from my pack, I was ready to see some more of the town.
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