SANTO DOMINGO (ish)

It has taken me quite a while to arrive in Virtual Santo Domingo.  The weather has been Arctic, so I’ve been getting my exercise by riding the stationary bicycle while watching Spanish comedy programs.  It’s not quite the same as walking the Camino.  In fact, it’s not the same at all so I didn’t count it.  Once I finally got back to walking, my virtual journey consisted of a walk to the mailbox and a scramble through the spring woods in the rain.  Nothing at all like walking by a highway under the strong Iberian sun.

Santo Domingo sounds like a nice place, but I saw hardly any of it.  I was much too sick to walk around. I’d like to visit Real Santo Domingo again, healthy.  I arrived in a taxi which I shared with a stringy French pilgrim.  He insisted that we stop the taxi just short of town; I imagine that was so that no-one would realize he hadn’t walked the whole stage.  I don’t know why I didn’t insist on being driven the whole way; likely, I didn’t want to make it difficult for the cabbie to figure out the fare.

I didn’t get much of a welcome at the Casa de la Cofradia del Santo, though I did get directions to the local clinic, where I waited for hours while those with appointments were served; a rather nasty doctor insisted that ‘en Espana, habla Espanol’, though I’m quite certain he spoke English.  With recourse to my Spanish/English dictionary, I haltingly outlined my symptoms in all their gory glory, and received four ,count’em, four prescriptions.  A little astonished by this aggressive treatment plan,  I immediately went to an internet café to check for interactions amongst them before heading to the farmacia. 

The doctor also prescribed rest, but the brotherhood at the albergue were having none of it.  I could stay one night only.  The monk at the desk gave me the card of a woman who rented rooms at the edge of town, but by then I just wanted to sleep, eat, and leave this inhospitable place.  Once the drugs kicked in, I slept alright.  But twelve years on, I’m still holding a tiny grudge about the way those two men treated me.  I should learn to get over it.

I have three strong memories of Santo Domingo. The first is being horrified by the state of one Japanese pilgrim’s feet, torn by the leather strap of her highly unsuitable Doctor Scholl’s wooden-soled sandals.  We met again a few days shy of Santiago, and she was now walking in flipflops!   A testimony to her perseverance if nothing else.

The second is seeing the silhouette of a dog through the closed glass door which led to the private quarters of the keepers of the Cofradia.  It was the German Shepherd belonging to a Spanish pilgrim, who I had met earlier that day,  now cuddled and cossetted in special accommodation.  I remember thinking that I was being treated worse than a dog. 

The third memory is auditory.  Santo Domingo de Calzada is the site of a medieval Camino miracle,involving two roasted chickens who were resurrected as a sign that a wrongly accused, hanged pilgrim had also miraculously come back to life.  You can read more about it herehere.  Down to this day, a cock and hen are kept in the choir stall in the church.  But when I was there, they weren’t because there was construction going on in the building.  I felt a bit cheated. 

But later on in the afternoon, as I was lying in a bit of a fever dream, I heard the cock crow;  a sign of good luck.  I rolled over and went back to sleep, a little mollified and heartened by this sign.  Still sick though.

My real walks of late have been more difficult than I would like.  But like that Japanese pilgrim.  I will persevere.  It has to get better.