In Salamanca, expect the unexpected. When mass at the cathedral ended and Natalija shattered my zen to the sound of a guitar outside, we headed off to explore the city, since our accommodation wouldn’t open its doors until 3 p.m. That left us with two hours to wander this lace-like city, where it feels as if the architects were competing over who could create the most elaborate and unnecessarily beautiful details – here, the walls are basically strutting in a fashion show.
Despite my mangled right foot, I made an effort to give the city a chance to dazzle me. It didn’t disappoint. As we walked toward the hostel, I caught the scent of Burger King. My taste buds squealed like a teenager clutching their idol’s hand. I knew full well this would be junk-food suicide – slow, but with a smile. Once again, I sang while eating. Small victories. From that point on, walking became hard work; my stomach was as full as a family of four going on holiday, cramming the dog, a bike, and three potted plants into the car.
We stopped by a pharmacy because I needed cream and blister plasters. So did Natalija – solidarity blister club. When we reached our home for the night – another donativo – we were greeted with a warm smile by an older lady volunteering there. When I handed her my ID, she started laughing. I asked why. She told me she was Slovenian. I laughed too, though it felt like someone had hit “restart” on my brain and switched it to Slovenian – but with a glitchy update.
Her name’s Lenča, and she’s been walking Caminos since 2018. She advised me to continue via Zamora nto the Sanabrés route. You see, the Camino de la Plata ends in Zamora, from where you can either join the French route or head to Sanabrés. I’d been mulling over my next move for days. The French are familiar to me; I want new paths, and more importantly, places without people. And I definitely want to avoid Sarria – it’s like walking with a herd of sheep there. That’s where a huge number of hikers start, because Sarria to Santiago is exactly 100 km. People jump up and down as if they’ve just descended Mount Everest, and I can barely stop myself from handing them a medal made from tin foil.
Bitch, please! One year I met an American couple in Santiago who had flown all the way to Sarria just to walk those 100 km. I was stunned that they’d cross half the planet for such a short stretch. I still don’t get this obsession with the certificate you get in Santiago for the last 100 km. If it came with a salary raise, fine – but otherwise? Nah. I guess it’s more about Instagram and Facebook likes than the actual journey. So, decision made: I’ll take the lonely path. Sanabrés it is.
Natalija and I have two more days together before we part ways for real. Before heading to a wedding, she wants to stroll a bit along the Camino Catalán, then she’ll grab a BlaBlaCar to Barcelona. A 10-hour ride with a stranger. She said that would be harder than walking from Seville to Zamora. I agreed – if the driver turns out to be a fan of folk polka music, that’s Camino on hard mode.
That day an Italian woman arrived at the hostel, “walking” the Camino by bus or train. We laughed, because we were both thinking the same thing: that’s not the real Camino. She said she was taking the train to Zamora tomorrow and then continuing along the Sanabrés. I’ll probably catch up to her – and if I meet her at the station, I’ll bring her a “stamp” from the train.
That night, Natalija and I ended up in bed at 11 p.m., after one last evening walk through the city. Spain’s nightlife is the most beautiful thing – it’s like the whole country agreed to live at night and sleep through the day. As you already know, I have a massive blister on my right sole, so I decided that the next day I’d only walk 17 km to give it a chance to heal.
We set off late, with no rush. The night had been another round of marination – no fresh air, just tossing, turning, and wishing the room would cool down even a notch. The morning route went through the city, which meant 10 km of asphalt, and we were back to French drama. Nothing but moaning about the path, which was really annoying to listen to. She didn’t stop chattering until we hit gravel. I couldn’t be bothered – way too much useless information assaulting my brain, like a flood of YouTube ads.
At one point I asked ChatGPT how much energy talking while walking consumes. It told me: quite a lot. I asked it to translate that into French so I could text it to my mum, who was walking next to me. When I sent the SMS, her phone rang. I told her to check who was calling. She didn’t want to – too much effort. I insisted, handing her my reading glasses. When she saw it was me texting her, she burst out laughing. We then continued in silence – the sweetest sound of the day.
The next 9 km were all loose stones. I didn’t complain – it wouldn’t have helped. I just gritted my teeth and kept going. The walk was short, uneventful, and completely without shade. We behaved like an old married couple who agreed on nothing – “warm love” in the form of sarcasm. My mother’s humour is sharp as a razor, and a few of her lines cut me down perfectly.
That day we walked just 17.88 km and climbed 133 m. Given the state of my blister, I’m just happy I can still keep going.
