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.

THE EASTER BUNNY IS REAL

The Easter Bunny is real; at least in the mind of my always creative neighbour.  He was the most extraordinary sight on my walk to virtual Ciruena yesterday.  In the real world, I know this particular walk so well, that it's easy to be blasé about it.  I spent my time shooing away early blackflies, thankful for the swooping swallows intent upon receiving them into their open mouths.  There were other pilgrims out there on the road trying to keep from going stir-crazy in this time of self-isolation and social distancing, I spent my time crossing the road to avoid on-comers and, when overtaken, crossing the road to remove my self from the slipstream of  potentially infected, though clearly asymptomatic breath.  Crazy.

I worked diligently on my gait, still trying to rehab my injured leg.  It's been nearly four years since I fell out of the front door, trying to carry the front end of my dying, 100 lb German Shepherd, and pulled about every attachment in my left leg from the hamstring on down.  Since then, my steps have become much shorter than they should be, and I tend to stump along, bending my knees less than I should.  So yesterday, I did a kind of Scout's Pace between roadside features.  Long steps from the mailbox to the next driveway, short steps from there to the stop sign, and so on.

By the time I made it to Virtual Ciruena, my whole body was feeling the strain.  And today, I've had to resort to an anti-inflammatory cream.  I don't think I'll make it the next five plus km to Virtual Santo Domingo today.

I took a Google Street View walk around Ciruena; it is the quintessential sleepy village.  The main road passes sheds and houses of mixed orange brick and grey river cobbles, with the odd bit of timber framing showing through on adobe upper storeys.  There's a church, the ayuntamiento, a health centre and not much more.  The map shows three albergues, testifying to the extreme popularity of the Camino in the days before Covid-19, but it took me a long while to find the only bar in town.  That virtual coffee was mighty good though.

Another 5.5  km to Virtual Santo Domingo de la Calzada along rural tracks....art imitating life.  Hasta la vista!

VIRTUAL CAMINO MAKE-UP STEPS

Since COVID-19 made a hash of my plans to return to Portugal for another Camino, I have been revisiting previous trips in my mind, making photo-logs and re-reading my journals.

A friend sent me a link to virtual fitness goals; climbing Everest in your apartment building and the like, so I thought I might walk a Camino in my neighbourhood.  I started with that intention yesterday, but wasn't really sure which Camino or why.

Today, things became a little clearer.  The first time I walked the Camino Frances, 12 years ago, I missed a few sections because of illness, and risk aversion.  I decided to make up those steps.  I want to see if I can find images of things I missed, and to replace those images with experiences had closer (much closer) to home.  My spiritual intention is not quite so clear yet, but I suspect that will come as the number of steps mounts up.

My first gap in the Camino Frances of 2008 occurred at Azofra, in La Rioja.  I'd been sick, first with a sinus infection, and later with what medieval pilgrims would have called the "bloody flux" since the very beginning of my trip,( thanks to some suspect whipped cream).  I had started to feel really ill  in Najera the night before, and my new Australian friends, with whom I'd been walking on and off for four days had taken good care of me.  I had vowed to keep walking, but by the time I reached Azofra I knew that I couldn't make the 16 kilometre walk to Santo Domingo de Calzada. 

This was annoying because I had heard this was a lovely stretch of countryside, which I always prefer to walking on or near roads.  But it couldn't be helped.  I hung around the lovely courtyard (and bathroom) of the albergue in Azofra for a while, trying to decide whether to stay here and rest, or try to find a doctor, or to pack it in and go home.  In the end, I took a taxi to Santo Domingo de la Calzada where there was a big health clinic, and got some drugs and a bed.

I look at images of this stage online and find I'm not too sorry to have missed it.  It's very open and exposed, and, as I recall, it snowed a bit that day.  In my weakened state, it would have been an error to have attempted it.

My make-up kilometres have been spent in the immediate neighbourhood.  The sun has been shining and the weather balmy.  I hurt a lot more than I did 12 years ago. My dodgy knee is even dodgier, and my muscles and tendons are a dozen winters  less springy.  I still love to walk though.  It will always be my favourite mode of locomotion.  You have time to see, to listen, to feel, and smell.  You can stop anytime something catches your eye or your fancy.

So, what are the highlights of this virtual stage?

Coltsfoot blooming in the ditches; willows at the height of rising sap, stalks glowing  a neon chartreuse. Blackbirds bravely chivvying crows from their patch; all manner of birdsong, backed by a chorus of frogs.  A majestic loon in solitary ambit of his own personal bay on the lake. A culvert taken over by beavers keen on making their mark on the world. 

Most spectacular so far has been the sight of a pair of bluebirds flitting away from me, cautious but unhurried.  That flash of heartstopping blue is better than any Spanish sky, any day of the year. 

Though only just, mind you.

4 more km tovirtual  Ciruena, where I will have a virtual cafe con leche, before heading onto Santo Domingo.

FREE AGENCY

It's April 1st, 2020.  The first day of my so-called free agency; or in other words, unemployment.

There's also a global pandemic, but this is not the reason I don't have work.  I allowed my contract to run out over an ethical problem I encountered with my never-to-be-named employer.  Appeals to the powers that be fell upon deaf ears, and that made me as mad as hell.  I certainly wasn't going to take it anymore.

So, here I am, stuck at home with a full tank of gas and nowhere to go with it.  Luckily I live in a great country, where we are doing our level best to slow this juggernaut down.  And you can imagine, in fact you know, just how helpless we all feel in the face of that inexorable power.

So what am I doing with my first full day of freedom, you ask?

I'm making masks.

It started to help my daughter control her anxiety over giving Covid-19 to my mom, with whom she lives.  Until two weeks ago E had not one, but two retail jobs, one in a busy mall, where she was in a high risk of contracting the virus from unwitting vectors.  She has kept to the basement at Gma's house since then.  Her two weeks are up today, but a couple of days ago she got a cold (let's hope that is what it is) which sets her back another two weeks.  She really wants to go outside!  Once her symptoms are gone, she can do that, and on the off-chance she is anywhere near another human, she can feel a little less like Typhoid Mary when she goes for her solitary walks through the neighbourhood.

The experts say that the main benefit of wearing a mask is to remind you not to touch your face.  Even with all that handwashing, you might touch a surface with the virus on it and transfer it to your mucosa.  Eww...hate that word.  A mask, properly used, can stop that from happening.

For E, it will allow her to feel less worried about the simple act of using the kitchen at Gma's house, provided she washes her hands before and after, and wipes down every surface she has touched.

So, on to the masks....

A friend sent me a pattern by Dean Renwick, a Saskatchewan designer.  They're quick and easy to make.

Instructions are here: Mask Patterns and Instructions

Dean Renwick has a video tutorial to help you.

I decided to make my masks with a stash of Liberty prints, with a muslin lining.  I adapted the Renwick pattern by encasing a pipe cleaner along the top edge.

They're nice to look at, and fit well.  They may not make a fashion statement, but they're a bit less scary-looking than a surgical mask, and for all we know, they may become de rigueur for the next few months.  In any case, it's good to have something to do.  You never know, it might help.

TRAVEL and FOMO

Why do the wrong people travel, travel, travel,
When the right people stay back home.....


When I travel I love to feel a part of the passing scene; I like to hunker down for a few days, develop a routine, find a bar, a grocery store, a bakery, one that becomes my own, and where the proprietor smiles when I come in for  bread or my evening drink ..something I wouldn't have at home.

Sometimes, it goes further.  Sometimes, I start to believe that I'd actually enjoy life as a cook in a truck stop kitchen, as long as that kitchen is in the Basque country.  Sometimes, I  actually want to chuck it all in and be like that girl selling homemade flapjack on a windy expanse of carpark in the West of Ireland;  I can see me heading back to my peat fire at night, listening to the wind and rain hard against the windowpanes, being cosy and warm, all wrapped up in some woollen confection, rife with cables and the smell of lanolin.  These lives seem more fully alive than mine.

It's more travel voyeurism than empathy.  I'm pretty sure I'd get tired of sassing gruff, possibly alcoholic, road warriors in about a day and a half, and my lungs aren't cut out for damp and cold climates, no matter how soft and green they might be.  But the romantic in me wants to be part of something picturesque; something a little more connected than my life as it is.  I live in a rural suburb.  I have a nodding acquaintance with many of my neighbours, but I can count only a few that I can have a good conversation with.  And I don't seek that out.  Somehow I'm too busy not quite managing the household and focussing on work to have a life outside of my own four walls.

The trouble is that our life is finite.  There's not enough time to do it all.  As my friend Kerry, who has done quite a bit of it ,says, "you can only travel one road at a time".  Right now, the road I'm on is the road I've chosen, and travel is only a little bit of a detour every now and then,  a little call of the open road, to which  like Toad of Toad Hall, I am powerless to say no.

Because I can't do it all, I must instead develop my imagination and go abroad within the confines of my own head.  Travel books help create an imaginary world that I can visit without recourse to airline flight and a budget; but as anyone knows who has travelled to a place they've read about previously, it's not like that;  it NEVER is.  Which is why I wish there was more time and money.  I want to experience it for myself.  ALL of it.

Part of me forgets entirely that I am a person of a certain age.  The me who goes a-wandering, is my younger self, and not even that, one of my many imaginary younger selves--braver, smarter, prettier, thinner, better dressed....I am the Indiana Jones of my own imaginings; with a hint of Stevie Nicks and Colette thrown in for good measure.

It's a lot of fun, this wandering through time and place, but from time to time I draw back a little and ask myself, why do you not go deep, rather than wide.  Shouldn't you immerse yourself in your day to day life?  Cannot you get satisfaction from a day's work well done?  A dinner cooked well and appreciated?  Time spent watching the hummingbirds at the feeders on the back deck?

 Well, I do get satisfaction from these things, of course I do.  But......

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing. A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days.   

These words of Annie Dillard's about structure used to inspire me but now they just make my feet itch to be on the road.

I no longer want a schedule.  Intellectually, I know that I ought to be savouring each moment as it comes, since that's all that really exists at any given moment, but I want a little chaos and whim from time to time.

 Last year, I did a photo journal, one a day, to help me focus in on the present.  I have a great life, and I know it, but sometimes I want one of those other lives.  Maybe as a back-up singer--floaty clothes, glittering venues,  a tambourine...sigh....

ADVENTURES IN COOKERY

So, you’re in the kitchen, happily mixing up a cake for the big double birthday.  You realize that you’ve nearly forgotten the vanilla, so you balance the electric mixer on the side of the bowl, (as you do), just for a second, while you reach into the drawer for the bottle.  Without warning, the mixer leaps from the bowl and runs like a juggernaut across the counter.  Too late, you realize that it is the GREEN bowl which allows you to do that little balancing trick, and today you are using the BLACK bowl.  Carnage ensues.

There is batter all over the walls, the stove, the coffeemaker.  By the time you have the wit to stop staring in helpless horror and pull the plug, the blades of the beaters have become inextricably entwined with a bag of green beans, and bright green shards of crunchy goodness are also everywhere.  You pick a few out of the bowl, but before the baking can resume you have to perform some surgery over at the sink.

It takes several minutes to unwind the plastic bag which once housed the beans from the beater shafts, but you notice, on the upside, that many of the beans appear to have topped and tailed themselves without any effort on your part.  A good thing, since once the cake is in the oven, you will be spending some time with a rag and a ladder, mopping up the mess you’ve made.  Isn’t cooking fun?

CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY

Christmas at my house tends to hang around well after the festive season.  Partly through benign neglect, and partly because I hate to see it go, I tend to "forget" that certain elements of decoration are still with us.   Part of me thinks that there should be a little corner of one's life where it is Christmas Every Day!

Yesterday, I was startled to discover a spray of balsam still stuck into the frame of the living room mirror, so I took a look around to see what else might be lurking well past its due date.  I threw out the mummified pomegranates and quinces that had been the mainstay of a tabletop display.  I felt guilty about not eating them.

From the corner of my eye,  I noted, but did nothing about, the shiny red cachepot and glass baubles decorating Alex's thriving potted palm.  Here it is, February 1st, and there is still a wreath hanging on the wall above the television set, mainly because the golden poinsettias and pine cones go so well with the colour of the wall.  I have no excuse for the giant pink mercury glass eggs dangling from the curtain rod, but you know...Easter IS coming.

Of course, ideally, it would be Christmas Every Day, Everywhere.  And maybe it can be.

Funnily enough, I think it was best put by that quintessential Hollywood Cowgirl, Dale Evans;

“Christmas, my child, is love in action. Every time we love, every time we give, it's Christmas."

Works for me.  Merry Christmas!