There is very little to do in Pedrouzo, or Arca do Pino, as it is also known. Last time I went on the Camino, I had planned to stay here, and I missed it entirely. This time, the highlight of my day was rescuing a drowning bee from the shower.
As in Arzua, there was very little left of whatever old Arca had to offer. It seemed to be a bedroom community for Santiago, with not much of anything in the way of services; and not much to see. I did my laundry, acted as translator for a lovely Japanese woman who wanted to express her gratitude to a Spanish pilgrim who had been kind to her and her family. How many times had I told someone on this trip that he was a "buen hombre"?
The balcony/laundry room of the albergue hung out over the valley. I hung out on the balcony with the drying laundry and watched swifts and butterflies swooping. In the kitchen, groups of pilgrims were cooking lunch. I had my standard banana and yogurt, along with some scrumptious Arzua cheese. I felt lonely, and antsy. I was only twenty kilometres from Santiago de Compostela now. I had planned to stay just outside of Santiago so that I'd be sure to make it to the Cathedral in time for the pilgrim mass on the final day. This would have made the next day quite short, and I was beginning to feel as if I was just marking time now. I was now pretty sure I'd go all the way tomorrow, and if I happened to miss Mass on that day, there was always the next day.
The albergue was arranged in corridors. I was in a little alcove at the end. A Hungarian man and I had both been assigned Bed 11. I let him have it, and took Bed 12. He had not one word of English. When I pointed to the darling red leather baby shoe dangling from his pack, he tried to explain that it belonged to his daughter, first, (and hilariously) by pointing at his crotch and then making a blossoming motion with his hands, and then, more decorously, by drawing a genealogical chart on a piece of scrap paper. The confusing part about the whole thing was that he was also trying to tell me that the shoe had also once belonged to his mother or sister (though I never was sure exactly which one.).
Luckily for me, the woman with whom he was walking did speak very good English, and was good company. She was Slovenian, but did not speak any language in common with the Hungarian. They communicated in the universal language of smiling and pointing. They had walked together like this for almost the whole way. Both walked very fast, and liked to walk early and far. She explained to me that her favourite part of the day was the pre-dawn when they would hunt the yellow directional arrows using their headlamps. It made it more of a challenge.
There was a young Australian girl in the bunk across from the woman. She wasn't feeling well, and seemed to be a little depressed. We all tried to cheer her up and let her rest at the same time. I would walk with her again the next day, but it would be almost a year later, ( in fact, just this second) when I would realize that she and my walking partner were the same person. She had cheered up so much as to be unrecognizable!
Although I saw my Americans on my many trips up and down the long main street of the village, we didn't really get together on this day, apart from waving and smiling. I had a solitary dinner in a bar, with one last arroz con leche. I wasn't sorry to be reaching the end; in fact, I couldn't wait to get home! I had already worked out that there was probably an earlier flight I could get. I rationalized that the extra cost of it would be taken up with shopping and hotels if I stayed on until my original flight took off. I'd get on that ASAP, as soon as I got to Santiago.
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