Yesterday, when we arrived in the village, we probably woke up all the locals with our “No” and “Yes” as we argued about where the hostel actually was. Each of us had her own internal GPS, both clearly stuck on “Searching for signal.” I stopped a local woman to ask for help so we wouldn’t kill each other. My Spanish is good enough to understand where she pointed us, but nooo – our dear Natalija “knows better,” because she’s “local” here. She even slightly snapped at the poor woman. That’s hungry French people for you – you don’t mess with them when their stomach starts dictating politics.
Of course, the hostel was right around the corner. So much unnecessary drama! When we got there, I asked her if she really yelled at the woman who was trying to help us. All I got was a smile – the kind that says everything without words. I was happy with the hostel since it had a kitchen, even if it looked like it was straight out of the 1950s – pure retro nostalgia. I didn’t care; it was there, and the village had no restaurant, just a small shop where everything was kept behind the counter like in our grandmothers’ times.
Natalija volunteered to cook lunch. When I asked what we were having, she said: boiled eggs and raw tomato. I asked her what kind of mother serves that – it’s not even a proper meal. I told her I’d cook for myself, she could join if she wanted. True to French form, she doesn’t eat peppers. I said I’d make sataraš – a great, healthy dish of eggs, tomatoes, and peppers. I added tuna and cheese because, well, my muscles need feeding.
Nothing beats the smell of onion and garlic in a kitchen – the scent that says something good is about to happen. If you ask me, the meal was delicious. She, of course, turned up her nose. Yes, apparently cookies are healthier and more nutritious. So I ended up eating a two-person meal by myself. By the end, I was so full someone could’ve rolled me away from the table. That meal could’ve fed me for two days.
Later, an older German cyclist arrived. He was pleasant enough until he started talking about the importance of hugging trees. That’s when my patience tapped out, and thankfully a friend’s phone call saved me. Let Natalija deal with him. Ironically, Natalija finds all men annoying. Actually, to be fair, it’s moderate to severe annoyance with… everything. She doesn’t even like Frenchmen. I don’t know where all this negative energy comes from, but I have to admit – I don’t like it. It’s as off-putting as lemon in your morning coffee.
I’ve told her more than once to swap the word “hate” for “don’t like” – hate is a strong word. Naturally, she ignored me. We later escorted the gentleman to the shop so he’d have something to eat. Bread had to be fetched from the bakery. I bowed out, saying I wasn’t going to hobble around the village with my injured foot, and went back to the hostel. It was already 7 p.m., I was tired, so I went to bed.
This hostel also had plastic sheets – the ultimate enemy of good sleep. A Spanish sauna. I was sweating so much that I abandoned the bed and went to sleep on the hard chairs pushed together. That didn’t work either, so I just lay down on the floor – at least it was a fraction cooler there.
During the night, the German clearly had nightmares – he was shouting in his sleep. A first for this Camino. In the morning, when I woke up, he was sleeping on the chairs – apparently, the Spanish sauna didn’t work for him either. Natalija’s first words of the day were that she was afraid of him and hated him because he shouted in the night. I told her to calm down – the man just had bad dreams, that doesn’t make him a bad person. The day before, he’d been kind to us, and that’s all that matters. He even wished us a good journey in the morning. Why all the hate? Honestly, her negativity is starting to get on my nerves. It doesn’t suit her and can kill a good mood instantly.
We set off at 6 a.m., and thank God we had 32 km of gravel path ahead so she wouldn’t complain about the road. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the stones, but I’d protected my right foot well – two plasters, a bandage, and two pairs of socks. I didn’t feel any pain. The walk just dragged on, like a long afternoon without coffee.
We walked alongside a motorway for 20 km. At the end of that, our reward was an open bar in the next village. We had a quick break and then continued to Villanueva de Campeán. Natalija told me to go ahead at my own pace, and she’d follow hers. I arrived about 30 minutes before her. The village we’re staying in tonight has no shop, no restaurant, just a bar. The hostel has nothing – just beds and a vending machine with cold drinks. That’s good enough for me, but for our refined Frenchwoman, it’s the start of another drama.
Today we walked 33.59 km and climbed 250 metres – which means our legs are grateful, and our hearts even more so, because it wasn’t 400 metres.
