As the Path meanders between picturesque coastal towns and villages, you can get acquainted with market squares, village atmosphere, diverse cuisine, and the always amazing wine, the one in a box. Northern Spain is renowned for its astonishing cookery. Visiting the traditional restaurants and enjoying the local dishes is another dimension of really experiencing the Path with all your senses. There’s plenty of “hidden” gems of the land where even the angels would eat. Starring: pinchos, prosciutto, octopus, clams, paella, tortillas, sangria, wine and cider. If there’s anything the Spaniards love, it’s food, drink, and life. Fun trivia fact: people of Spain spend more money on food than any other EU nation.
This temperamental land isn’t just a land of beaches and sun. It’s a land of flamenco dancers, whirling and clicking with castanets. It’s a land of bullfighters, doing their dance of war in arenas; it’s a poetry of football and wine and paella cleaned up with a slice of bread. Spain is a land of passion with a certain power to enchant you. Add the fact that it is the home of Pablo Picasso, Gaudi, Don Quixote, and Salvador Dali. Spain is a “drug” with no possibility of O.D.
There are days when you take a wrong detour and end up picking up your taste buds from the floor in an eatery where the cook says he’s just having a lousy day. You might get a steak so stiff it would give the cook a contusion if you threw it in his head. Sometimes, Mr. Stomach organizes a big concerto when there are no bars or restaurants. It’s not a nice melody to listen to. We all love good food and you go to a restaurant to make your taste buds frolic from the explosion of flavors. If it’s good, we relish in the array of savors, and if it’s not good, we devour it – because we’re fucking hungry. But you have the right to be angry when the cook does not appreciate your money. And that animal, that was killed for the purpose of being eaten, screams in its grave that it didn’t suffer just to end up as vomit on the floor. A goddamn crime!
But as you walk, you learn that it’s better to walk hungry and suck it up for the last two kilometers before you get to the last restaurant in town, either to keep your buds happy or to keep yourself from murdering the cook.
Another thing I love about the Spaniards is that they don’t give a flying fuck if you’re hungry at three or five o’clock – they’re having their goddamn siesta. What’s capitalism again? They value their rest and quality life more than your coins. Moody or burnt out Spaniards are non-existent. They’re not getting up at six in the morning just to make you, the hiker, your morning coffee and breakfast. If that’s your daybreak ritual, you better grab a portable kitchen with you: gas, a burner and a can. Because you’re not you when you’re hungry.
I’ll never forget the day when Tina, Henry and I reached our destination for the day and there was neither a shop nor a bar in the village. There was, however, an albergo – without a kitchen. We couldn’t care less, because we had our portable kitchen – which is completely useless when you run out of gas while cooking. I was shaking from starvation and when the fire went out, my mind went dark. That instant soup won’t stop the shaking! Well, thank Bob Tina had a can of tuna in her backpack. It saved us from being cranky and cross. Imagine the smiles of three grown up people eating from a single can while burning over three thousand calories every day. It’s the little victories that mean the world in certain moments.