Day 9 -- Ferreiros to Gonzar

17.5 km
Monday, June 11

The pendulum swings
After stopping too late yesterday, I think today I stopped too early. But I´m playing it safe, halting at noon at fertilizer-scented, roadside Gonzar, though I could probably make it to the next town with ease. But I´m afraid of not getting a bed.

Portomarin, 9 km into my walk this morning, was a beautiful breezy place by a wide river, but I arrived there at 10 am, too early to end my walking day. Had a coffee and bocadillo on a balcony high above the lake, then called ahead to a private albergue in San Xulian to make a reservation for Tuesday night (I´m satrting to get wise, or at least prudent).

Saw two returnees on the trail today, a tiny Mexican woman walking with a very tall German man. The mexicana is only the 2nd Latin American I´ve encountered (not including Brazilians; there are a lot of them). The first was Andrea, Columbian but living in Australia. She and her Aussie boyfriend, Craig, were very friendly. He told me, as if offering me a gift, that on the Camino they´d been making more fun of Germans than of Americans. Imagine!

Meanwhile, I´m beginning to appreciate Germans more, and to feel kinship with them (and with South Africans). We all come from countries that precede us -- it´s as if we have a strike against us in the world community. Maybe for good reason, but still, it gets old to always be fielding that implied (and sometimes explicit) criticism.

Gonzar no es para gozar
I was first in line at the albergue and got my pick of bunks and hot water for my shower (it often runs out fast). But Gonzar is an unappealing place. Maybe it´s the trucks roaring by, or the stench of fertilizer and working dairies, or the lackadaisical attitude of the alberque-keepers, who fail to provide toilet paper and also run the only bar in town, so they have all pilgrims as their captive audience. At dinner we could choose from plato 1, eggs and french fries and chorizo, or plato 2, eggs and french fries and a pork chop. The women from Denmark chose option 3, coffee after coffee, brandy after brandy, and endless cigarettes. I don´t blame them.

The houses here are old and made of stone, with modern touches like aluminum windows and tin roofs. They´ve been shored up in places with bricks and cement blocks. But here the houses don´t seem charming; they just seem decrepit. The narrow main street is all dug up, and by the smell of it they´re having sewer line problems. Remnants of plastic feed and fertilizer bags litter the fields.

There´s some serious time-killing to do when you stop at noon in a no-horse town. Order a coffee, wait an hour, order a beer, sip it very very slowly, go for a walk, attend to your blisters, sit in the sun, read Daisy Miller in Spanish, order another coffee, go for another walk, make conversation or try to avoid it. Ok, now just two more hours to dinnertime.