It´s a bittersweet fiesta this year in Moratinos. We celebrated a new Santiago in our church, but the camino brought us brokenness, too.

Fiesta weekend in Moratinos is an anniversary to us. It was at the fiesta of 2006 we first saw the neglected farmhouse that became The Peaceable. Two years later, we opened up our house on fiesta weekend to welcome all the neighbors in to see what we´d done to the place. Last year, Moratinos fiesta was the debut performance of what´s become Camino Guitars, a concert series that´s going on now in three locations on the Camino Frances.

This year´s fiesta Mass was extra happy, because our little Santiago statue took his place up front at the Iglesia de Sto. Tomas. Throughout the week I biked back and forth between the church and Segundino´s carpentry shop, choosing the wood and drawing pictures and demonstrating just where on the church wall we might put the little shelf with the saint on it. Segundino delivered, above and beyond what I could have expected -- a triple-arched pear-wood perch that´s securely bolted onto the wall, with Santi himself safely bolted down, too. Milagros brought in two little vases with carnations, to stand on either side. I put a beeswax candle, (sent from California by Kathy) by his elbow, and he was good to (never) go. Don Gaspar duly sprinkled him during the big Mass. Santi himself looks a little embarrassed at all the fuss.

Milagros says this is the first new saint installed in a good thirty years. He makes her happy, she said, because a new saint means Moratinos is going to survive. You just don´t see new saints in dying towns. 

But while the procession and prayers and music were going on, something else happened nearby.

Out on the N120 two-lane, a French couple from Lyon were zipping down the highway. Inside the backpacks in the trunk were two fresh Compostela certificates, dated Thursday. They´d finished their long pilgrimage, a trip they´d done over several years, one two-week chunk at a time. At dawn they´d held hands in a little church in Finisterre and sang a hymn. They got into their rental car and headed east toward France and home.

Hours later, along the Meseta road between San Nicolas del Real Camino and Moratinos, their car veered off the road and rolled over. The woman died. The man was not hurt.

Fred (aka Federico the Mad Guitarrero), stayed with the man from the moment he came upon the accident scene -- it was Fred who brought the couples´ belongings here, and drove the man along behind the ambulance to the hospital. Fred made sure the man was checked-over by a doctor. Then they went to the Tanatorio, the mortuary, and got Antoine started on the mountain of paperwork and decision-making that awaits him. Then Fred brought him back to Moratinos.

The man, Antoine, is here with us now. He is numb, red-eyed, eating everything we put in front of him. He´s keeping busy, clearing out his backpack and his wife´s, wondering what to do with her shoes, her walking stick, the things she packed herself this morning, but will never touch again. He´s washed the dinner dishes, taken the pills the doctor gave him, scrubbed the black stains off his shirt and shorts. He´s made the telephone calls. He told his five-year-old granddaughter what happened, but she doesn´t understand, he said.
 
His son will come tomorrow from France.

The neighbors were upset that we didn´t tell them sooner what was going on -- but we didn´t know, not til much later, after the accident when Fred brought Antoine here. Nothing much can be done on the weekend. There was nowhere else for the man to go, at least nowhere a compassionate person would leave him. It´s good he´s been on the Camino, and still has his full pilgrim flexibility. None of us speaks French. He has little English. His Spanish is about as good as ours, so we struggle along.  We try to engage him when he´s open to that. But we know he´s got to be left alone, too.

The neighbors, once they knew, were eager to lend a hand.
Oliva and Justi gave us the church keys so Antoine could go there and pray.
Milagros and José came over to offer whatever help the man might need. Later on, Esteban showed up too. He  offered to drive Antoine to Palencia in the morning. Esteban knows his way around that city, and it´s an offer Antoine may have to accept -- he´s got to be at the Tanatorio at 11:30, and we don´t know which of the several funeral places to go to.
Antoine couldn´t decide yet.

I took Esteban to the gate. "I can´t imagine," he said. "To suffer such a loss, in a land that´s not your country. In another language. The poor man."

Over at the plaza the Mobile Disco tells us "Tonight´s gonna be a good night."
This year we won´t dance. We don´t want to leave Antoine alone.
He´s asleep now. I think he will be alright.
Tomorrow is on its way.

Back to Granada to wait for a big fat cheque to arrive :)

I've only just discovered I've had plenty of cash available since January. I am a bit useless at this sort of stuff. All those nights spent camping out and clocking up debt in cheapo pensions. Idiot!

Never mind. It means start of next project can happen very soon.

Granada. Then Sevilla, then a brief visit to Santiago, then.......

The World is my oyster. A huge adventure :)

New laptop. New digicam. New clothes.

If I return to Spain to settle, it will be in Leon. This city is always incredibly friendly and exceptionally good to me. Cold winters, but beautiful summers.

The old town of Santiago is busy. Very busy. There is a lot going on. There is programme of organ recitals for the whole week and the street entertainment is amongst the best I have ever seen. The other evening outside of the massive Church of San Martin a family set up shop. Electric piano, drums, double bass, guitar and the mum on the violin completed a very special jazz quintet. The place rocked. It is hard to keep up with the variety of sounds and sights. One moment a group of singing nuns marched in line under my office window heading for the Cathedral. The next moment the skirl of the pipes squeezed out all other sounds as a multiple processions of Gallegos in national dress met in the great Cathedral square.
The queues for the Holy Door and the Cathedral have been unrelenting. People start to line up early in the morning and they are still doing that well into the evening. The Pilrgims´ Office has been frenetic at times. Last weekend was a local bank holiday weekend. It also combined with the major liturgical feast of the Assumption. Two great reasons for the City to celebrate. As if scenting a party pilgrims made their way in huge numbers to the City. On Saturday last we issued over 2,300 Compostelas. The staff got their heads down and almost everyone was happy when they doors closed at 9pm. All I could hear was the occasional “Siguente” or “Next ” as the ever patient pilgrims filed forward. Singing would break out in the queue from time to time to break the monotony of waiting for so long. Some very sweet scenes punctuated the day. “Next” went up the cry and a couple stepped forward. “Only one at a time please” my colleague said. “But we are finishing our honeymoon by getting our Compostelas”, they pleaded. Of course they were seen together with congratulations from everyone.
In they trailed. Pilgrims old and pilgrims young. “Am I the oldest today? ” Enquired Raul who at 82 had walked from Pamplona in 30 days. Assured that he certainly was he went off bearing his certificate with pride. Then there was young Gabriela who at 8 had walked step by step with her mum and dad from Oviedo. Sometimes there is disappointment. A young couple approached my desk and handed over three credenciales. I duly stamped the first two and wrote their compostelas and asked where their friend was holding up the third credencial which was full of sellos. That belongs to Petra they said looking down. I looked over and resting on the ground was a boxer dog. I explained that the Compostela is only issued to humans as a symbol of the spiritual journey. They weren´t convinced and went off really quite unhappy.
Those who have reached Santiago know the office well. It has a broad stone staircase which opens onto a dilapidated office. This is church property after all! The floor is old and is disintegrating. The legs of our chairs catch in the holes. When the place is full of pilgrims it can be bedlam.
 This year sees the fruition of a project to extend the Pilgrims´Office. The intention was to create a better environment which would be more pleasant for every one. A new entrance/exit has been created one door down and pilgrims walk into a pleasant patio with a pergola before entering or leaving by a new staircase which leads to a broad stone corridor with vaulted ceilings where the new office has been formed. 10 or 12 staff can work here. The IT has been installed. It is cool and pleasant. This week we have been using it as overflow from the main office and I think it has made a huge difference. The plan is only to use this new place in winter when there are few pilgrims and to use it as overflow in the busy season. Opinions about the new office are mixed among my colleagues. We´ll see what the pilgrims think. All they want is not to wait too long for their compostela. So, I better stop writing this right now. “Next, please”.

Anyone who has been following my blog will probably know what I'm on about.

I have a bag full of letters. I can't get rid of them! I don't want to get rid of them, but I feel I have to. Very occassionally you meet someone who has a very profound effect on your life. Damn them :D

I'm going to take a short break. Visit an island off the coast of Galicia for a couple of days. I'm going to have a letter burning ceremony. Possibly. Or, I'm going to drink a bottle of wine. Wash and dry the bottle of wine. Fill it with letters and a couple of photographs and throw it as far as I can into the Atlantic. Knowing my luck it will wash up on the beach of new boyfriends home town where his dog will find it and deliver it to him. I will then be accused of devising some elaborate plan to interfere.

Now I've planted that little seed in my mind I'm going to have to burn them. Nah, keep them. Burn them. Keep them? Burn? Bin?

Damn you!

The planning of this pilgrimage is turning out to be the busy part - I look forward to when all I have to do is walk everyday. Language, history, culture, and logistics are all competing for the little available time remaining.

Honestly, though,whether I had 10 days or 10 months, I'd fill it completely with reading and planning, so it makes little difference in the end... 8 more weeks is a good amount of time; still, if the temperature dropped enough tomorrow, I'd leave at dawn. (It won't drop enough until October, though, so the departure date is set at October 10th.)

Becoming conversant in Latin American Spanish isn't particularly daunting, but it takes a little time... two or three times a week, I get myself to a happy hour or cocktail party where everyone speaks only in Spanish. I've found meetup.com a fantastic resource for locating such places around town. Every day, I create an opportunity to speak out loud, even if only to the cats. Spanish fits much easier in my mouth than Russian or Ukrainian - I have to force myself to remove the 'vee' sound from the alphabet, but I'm not crying out to buy a vowel like in those eastern dialects.

The Pilgrim-in-Training is walking so much around town that she's already walked the equivalent distance of 90% of the way to Chimayo. The training is paying off - in four months her pace has increased from a scant 2 miles per hour on relatively flat paved surfaces with a rest required hourly to more than 2.75 miles per hour, sustainable with only short shade rests for 12 miles with a 15-pound backpack. She's lost more than 20 pounds in the process and has noticeably more energy. Which is all great, because there's no good way to Chimayo without crossing a few very big mountains.

The route planning is not at all straight forward... there's a multitude of permutations and no direct path. Under such conditions, there's no way to get lost. We'll head south along the Front Range of the Colorado Rockies, crossing them in the first week and then the Wet Mountains and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in quick succession into the expansive San Luis Valley not far from the headwaters of the Rio Grande River, which continues all the way down to Mexico. The 'mile-high' city from which we start will mark the lowest altitude of the route to Chimayo. We'll have to weave our way between many 14ers - mountains exceeding 14,000 feet (4,300 meters) - to get into the San Luis Valley.

One week after leaving Denver, we'll encounter an interesting but subtle demarcation. The Arkansas River between the Front Range and the Wet Mountains was formerly the extent of New Spain and a long-standing border between Mexico and the US. In an interesting geographic and linguistic relic, once we cross the river [at Cañon City], the predominant language will be Spanish. I'll have plenty of miles to transition from English through Spanglish into full-fledged Spanish.

Although the distance between Denver and Chimayo - 331 miles, it seems - is perhaps only 10% of the distance to Mexico City, it's an important milestone. This is a bit further than the distance between Burgos and Santiago de Compostela in Spain along the Camino Frances whence tens of thousands of pilgrims pass every year. It's a very do-able distance to trek in about three weeks. Of course in Spain there is an abundance of pilgrim houses to stay in and a well-worn broad path marked with big yellow arrows to walk along with no fear of straying from the destination, and an absence of mountain lions, bears, rattlesnakes, and other creatures of the day and night looking for a meal... Otherwise, there's beautiful landscape with wilderness challenges that can be an interesting alternative to the Camino right here in America.

Chimayo may be one of the most-visited and long-standing pilgrimage destinations in the US, but it lacks the inveterate tradition of foot treks originating from places further afield than Santa Fe or Taos, New Mexico as compared to Santiago de Compostela. There are a lot of foot pilgrims to Chimayo, but mostly limited to Holy Week for specific traditional celebrations. I think originating in Denver will be spectacular with regard to culture and nature and landscape, and in October when the golden leaves of the aspen trees will be quaking in sweeps within spruce and pine groves below the snow-capped 14ers during harvest time in the broad Rio Grande Valley, passing through various mining districts and ghost towns of the Old West... this will be something I'm sure a lot of people will enjoy. Giant yellow arrows and pilgrim houses aren't requirements for a pilgrimage.

I do like this city. Hoping I will find enough work to stay here until the start of my next project. Trying to find a man to talk about designing a psychedelic, multimedia, mobile stage for classical guitar performances!!!

I have a kitchen. I can cook my own food. I have a washing machine. I can wash my own clothes.

Leon is positively thriving. It's a fresh, fun little city with fantastic bars, affordable accommodation, plenty of art, nice parks and plazas, a river and a nice relaxed vibe - no Policia Local ripping up sketches.

Policia Local in Granada are fucking the place up as far as I can see. They started using 'black leather glove' psychology to scare people. They only seem to pick on those who appear to be the most vulnerable also. I may return later in the year if I have to.

Plan now is to clear a bit of debt and find enough work to see me through until December when funds become available for my next project. Small exhibition in Barcelona next week may, or may not provide cash also. It's a bit of an experiment really.

Next project? It is either going to happen in Africa, Eastern Europe, or London. Yet to decide.

The way I use the term “headbanger” is peculiarly Scottish. Sure, a Google definition will bring up a reference to Heavy Metal which I suspect is not on the Periodic Table. However when people from Glasgow call someone a headbanger they could easily mean that they are seriously intellectually challenged. Equally it could simply mean they are totally crazy. It can be used as a term of endearment or of scorn. This week I met a few headbangers.
I´d come to Santiago with a number of resolutions. I wanted to work in the Pilgrims´Office dispensing wit and compostelas in equal measure. I wanted to have lengthy late afternoon lunches with friends after work. I wanted to write entertaining blogs. I promised the Friday Night Boys that I would blog regularly and keep them posted. On the flight to Santiago I wondered if I could become the Alistair Cook of Santiago. I planned to sit quietly of an evening with a chilled glass of Alboriño fueling the creative process. Hugging the Saint, visiting friends, writing two important personal letters and going to see Joaquin at the organ in the Cathedral were all on the list.

8 days later. Nada.
When I arrived last Monday there was a wave of heat blowing through the airport. This was not the 40 degree plus of Sevilla in August. This was the 30 degree plus of Galicia. But in Sevilla they have air conditioning. Here in Santiago they have queues. Queues for everything. Queues for the Holy Door, queues for the cathedral, queues in supermarkets and the king of queues at the Pilgrims´Office. Today the sun is beating down on a queue that is taking 2 hours to snake to the front door downstairs.When I arrived this morning just before 9am I spoke to the two boys at the head of the queue, Pedro and Nacho. “We arrived at around 6 am,” they said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. I stared at the queue. It filed around the corner up the street and round the corner into the next street. When I got upstairs to the office I asked if they had seen the queue. “Tell us” Eva said and when I did she blessed herself. “Headbangers” all, I thought fondly. Me included. Why else would we stand and wait for a stamp and a certificate which to many is just a piece of paper?

The answer is of course that it marks the end of a significant journey. A personal pilgrimage which has taken time and effort. Long distance pilgrims can be very sniffy about people who “only” walk the last 100 kms. The insulting term “tourigrinos” is often on their lips. I´ve thought it myself as I´ve trudged for weeks only to meet fresh faced Spaniards with day packs marching sprightly out of Sarria which stands at the beginning of the last 100 kms. But they are pilgrims nonetheless and I recognise that there is something about this pilgrimage to Santiago which lies deep in the soul and culture of Spain.
 Dealing with the unremitting flow of pilgrims is demanding. Collectively we write 200 compostelas an hour. Personally I spend around 3 minutes on average with each pilgrim. Only time for a brief word of welcome, a cursory inspection of the Pilgrim Passport, the stamps and then their name applied in Latin on the Compostela. Pilgrims have questions. Where can I sleep? When are the Masses? How do I get information about the route to Finisterre? Where can I charge my battery? It is absorbing and has taken over the lives of the staff and volunteers. I can see it happening. It is exhausting. There are no long lunches, only a shower and a sleep. As I drift off their faces often appear:
The wee woman of 72 who walked on her own from her home in Switzerland. She simply sighed as the final stamp went on her credencial. Ramon from Madrid who had walked for 5 days from Sarria. He cried when I gave him his Compostela. “I never knew it would be like this” he said. The tall, proud Spanish chap who appeared with a crowd at the head of the queue. “Is this a group?” I asked the usual question. “No,” he said with his chest swelling, “this is my family, 26 of us from all over Spain, we have come together to walk to Compostela.” So they trouped in mingling with Scouts and nuns, the young and the older, those who had walked from afar and those who had clearly walked far enough.

Last week a young German lad appeared at my desk. He asked in clear English,"excuse me, I read in a book that there is a stone where pilgrims insert their fingers before banging their heads on a statue. Where is it please?" I explained that the sculpture of the Tree of Jesse stands at the door of the Cathedral. It has the imprint of millions of pilgrim fingers over the Centuries but alas, for the moment, it is sealed off for restoration. However there is an exhibition and for a moment´s respite the other day I made my way up to the Plaza Cervantes where the Caixanova Bank has opened an exhibition and conference centre. The ground floor is taken up with a stunning photographic illustration of the Portico de la Gloria. The huge photographs were taken from eye level and also from the perspective of the pilgrim passing through this magnificent doorway. This is the work of Master Mateo depicting the glory of heaven for the medieval pilgrim. This is what they had walked to. This is why they had walked. This where all their journeys would end. It is now as it was then. The commentary explains that it is said that the statue of Master Mateo is the image behind the Portico. This is where visitors bang their heads three times following the tradition of mothers from Compostela who brought their children to ask the Master to give them some wisdom.

For the throngs in the streets and the staff in offices it is hot. Pilgrims bathe their feet in the fountains and most of the people in the various queues are good natured. Not so at the Pilgrims´Office yesterday when another record was sadly broken. A group were keeping places for each other in the queue as some went off for coffee or to use the toilet. On their return they went back to join their friends. It was hot and sticky. People had been waiting a long time. A couple behind the group got angrier and angrier at what they saw as queue jumping. Words were exchanged. A push became a shove. One pilgrim bashed the other on the head with his stick. An ambulance was required and the police were called. For a moment I thought I was back in Glasgow. There has never been such an incident in living memory and the staff of the office is determined that this will not become a modern tradition.

As if to counter the ugliness of the incident yesterday today brought the arrival of Amado, Redemptorist priest, Professor of Theology, athlete, peace protester and former political prisoner. The pilgrims who he had met on his Camino and those around him in the queue knew nothing about him except he was the priest who had walked barefoot from St Jean de Pied Port in France. I knew he was to arrive today and as the morning wore on I wondered if I should go and find him in the queue and bring him forward as I knew he wanted to participate in the Mass at 12 o´clock. I decided not to do that. He was a pilgrim like all others. Although he is leaving tomorrow there are two other Masses in the day. However Amado, barefoot and long back in the queue mentioned to his companions that he was worried about not getting to the Mass. Word was sent forward in the queue, pilgrims whispering to pilgrims. The huge crowd parted and a way was made for the barefoot priest who was cheered along the line and up the long staircase into the Pilgrims Office.

Amado would definitely be called a Headbanger in Glasgow but it would be with huge affection. As we left the Office I found it difficult to get him along the road as people stopped and asked for his photograph or wanted to pose with him. Pilgrims he had met on the Camino hugged him fondly. He proudly displayed his feet. “No blisters” he beamed. We all applauded. Pilgrims it seems like their priests simple and spiritual.

There´s a message there for heabangers everywhere.

Ever since a French pilgrim walked from Bordeaux to Jerusalem and back in 333AD, ordinary people with an extraordinary wanderlust have trekked long distances to sacred places. The Anonymous Bordeaux Pilgrim http://www.scribd.com/doc/26855737/The-Anonymous-Pilgrim-of-Bordeaux-333-a-d
My good friend "Little John" is one of those extraordinary pilgrims who is planning on walking from Santiago to

Since I got to Minneapolis almost a month ago, I have spent hours walking the city, trying to figure out how the city "works." Nothing more, nothing less.

I know a few neighborhoods -- Longfellow, Cedar-Riverside, Milltown, Northeast -- and know there are many, many more. I find a pool and learn the best times to swim and the quickest routes to get there and back, factoring in traffic and time of day. I discover where to shop, bank, dry-clean, and get coffee. I memorize the grid of "avenues" running north-south and "streets" running east-west -- at least mostly.

What has puzzled me, though, is Uptown, Midtown, and Downtown, because Uptown doesn't seem "up" at all, but "down," specifically, south of the downtown area. I was stumped.

Then, a conversation with DeAne Lagerquist, Americanist and lover of the Twin Cities, made everything clear: "It's all about the River," she said matter-of-factly. "Everything is oriented around the River."

The River -- the great Mississippi, which bends through the Twin Cities on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. Suddenly everything falls into place.

The Twin Cities developed along the River, and Minneapolis was the mill town, with the mill races and wheels. Pillsbury and Gold Medal lined the River; their signs are still here, though the granaries have long been converted to museums and lofts. Downtown was the area around the River; Midtown, a bit further afield; and Uptown, an ex-urbia, far enough away to be residential, but still close enough in to get to work.

With the River to orient me, everything suddenly made sense. It really is all about the River.

So I begin paying attention to the River: the Great Blue Heron that fishes its shallows, the loon's cry in earliest morning, the locks and how they work, the short blast of a horn that signals it's safe for boats to motor out again, where the river has structure and shoals, and the fish that hide there.

Attending to the River, I notice other things. It captures light in the evenings, lighting up the city long after the sun has set. Power lines arc along its banks, and their towers are not horizontal, but curved. This seemed to me an odd design until I realized the curves allow ice and snow to slide off, where horizontal structures would eventually only break under the weight. The arches of these powerlines are painted whiter than the vertical columns that support them. Against a gunmetal blue sky, they are luminous, like giant seabirds winging their way to the Pacific.

Attending to the River, I'm settling in. I could dwell here.

Dwelling demands a different kind of attention than pilgrimage. Pilgrimage is about destination. Even though the way becomes as compelling as the arrival, pilgrimage requires a kind of focus. I wanted to get to our destination each day; I wanted to reach the top of that hill before stopping. I wanted to log at least two hours of walking before we found a cafe con leche.

Dwelling demands I take a broader view, a more unfocused kind of focus. I pay attention, but I try to take it all in -- even what I'm not expecting to see or hear, smell or taste. Now that I've found my bearings -- or my bearing, the River --I scan broadly, taking in as many things as I can in a glance.

It's like looking for dolphins. I love to watch for them when I'm back in Delaware. There, it's all about -- the grey Atlantic. Occasionally, a fin breaks the surface, and all I know is that the next sighting will be anywhere but where I saw the first.

I learn to look with a broad view, taking in as much surface water as possible, waiting for the next epiphany. Good practice for dwelling in a place.

I'm surprised at what I'm seeing. Mary Oliver was right:

"Everything in the world
comes.

At least, closer.

And, cordially."
("Where Does the Temple Begin? Where Does It End?")