Category: Life and Living

Part 34. The Cruz de Ferro

Posted on by Pete Schloss

 

May 10, 2013. Rabanal to El Acebo.

To some walking the Camino the Cruz de Ferro (“Iron Cross”) is at best a curiosity and at worst an eyesore that spoils an otherwise pristine high mountain vista. It is a house-sized pile of stones sprouting an overlarge telephone pole that is capped with a small iron cross.

To others it is a mystical place, a place for silent spiritual contemplation, with each stone marking the passage of one of countless pilgrims who over the centuries have passed this highest point of the Camino on their way to Santiago. Each stone is a burden cast aside and a hope taken up that one’s life may someday be measured favorably in the Final Judgment. To all it is a magnet, an irresistible draw for those walking “The Way”.

In making our preparations to walk the Camino we had not neglected to prepare for this day. Christine and I had each carefully selected stones to carry as metaphors of our life burdens. Mine was small and of red granite. I had “harvested” it over 25 years earlier in rural northwest Missouri, one of thousands that we and our children had cleared by hand from acreage upon which we made a home and raised our children through their teenage years. Although we had sold the home and land 15 years before setting out on the Camino, I had taken a selection of those red granite rocks in 1998 to our next home in suburban Kansas City and then again years later to our current house in the central city where they remain vine covered and almost forgotten beneath a large pine tree.

Why have those stones followed me for the last 34 years? Perhaps for the same reason that a small one from their number accompanied me to Spain and now resides among countless others, 4,940 feet high upon a mountain at the foot of a curious telephone pole that is capped with an undersized iron crucifix.

On the morning of May 10th we set out from Rabanal. I was still filled with wonder at my time spent the prior evening with an aged German monk inside the town’s ancient cave-like chapel (see Part 33).

The Cruz de Ferro was 8km distant, but at a climb of nearly 1,200 feet Christine elected to take a taxi to the cross and wait for my arrival. In turn I walked in the company of Dutch pilgrim, Jacobien Ubbink. 5 years later “Jackie” would graciously host us as guests in her home and show us the sights of Amsterdam as we wound our way through Europe.

It was a beautiful day. The sky reflected turquoise and just a hint of a chill showed as wisps of fog on our breath.

As we walked, Jackie and I each shared parts of our personal stories. She had recently lost her father and was still working through that grief. She reflected that her father often encouraged her to periodically stop and turn to see where she had been.

Where one has been often looks different when viewed from where one is. I remarked at what a wonderful lesson those words provided, not just for a physical journey but for one’s journey through life. Her father was a wise man.

Along the way we paused at fountains to drink and fill our bottles.

The mountains and meadows became more prominent as we climbed the trail through the pass of Irago and arrived in the tiny village of Foncebadon.

Local tradition holds that during the Middle Ages the town was granted a tax exemption in return for placing 800 stakes to mark the path of the Camino as an aid to Peregrinos. Over the years the once thriving town fell to ruin and was virtually abandoned by the 1990’s. In recent years the resurgence of interest in the Camino has brought to Foncebadon a small renaissance in the form of building renovations and the establishment of a store, Albergues, and a café that have become popular on the route.

Our climb continued along a track that passed various nameless (to us) ruins.

In the distance that “curious telephone pole” came into view and beckoned to us as it had for millions of others over the centuries.

At the Cruz de Ferro we were greeted by Christine. She had delayed her departure from Rabanal so as not to spend an excess of time waiting for us at the top. She had been there for about an hour and embraced the opportunity to watch the arrivals and departures of scores of pilgrims. She reported seeing a spectrum of reactions. A group of bicyclists took turns riding to the top of the stone pile, touching wheels to the pole, while others of the group took pictures. A van arrived, disgorging a group of people who each hurriedly cast stones on the pile only to board the van with virtually no pause and then drive off. Poignant was a pilgrim who asked her to take his picture at the cross. With great care he slowly ascended the stone pile and reverently left a pair of crutches at the base of the cross. Kissing the crutches and making the Sign of the Cross, he descended with the same slow care with which he had climbed.

We found that the crutches were among other non-stone artifacts left by passing pilgrims. There were religious items, prayer flags, funeral cards, pictures of loved ones,… and sadly, a baby’s silver spoon.

Christine and Jackie shared a bench at the side of a small chapel near the cross.

They talked of the pain felt over the recent loss of parents, Christine’s mother, Doris Nichols, having died 2 years earlier. Thought of their tearful embrace still stirs deep emotion within me and contemplation of the passing of my father (2009), mother (2020), and father-in-law (2020).

One aside: The iron cross atop the pole is not the original. It is a reproduction that replaced the original cross which may still be seen in Gaudi’s Palacio Episcopal in Astorga.

The three of us continued on together to El Acebo. At times the path changed from mountain trail to lightly trafficked lane. Christine remarked that the song, “I’m On the Top of the World Looking Down On Creation,” kept playing in her head.

We passed the unusual “eco-albergue” at Manjarin which was bedecked with all varieties of flags and banners.

The 35 pilgrims who choose to make the night here are afforded mattresses and the simplest of accommodations. Water is solar heated, and heat is provided by an open fire. A simple communal dinner is served. I would have enjoyed the experience, perhaps on another Camino.

We arrived in El Acebo where we enjoyed cold beer on a delightful sunlit patio.

Christine and I decided to forgo a night in an albergue in favor of the charming accommodations of La Casa Del Peregrino, a simple adjoining hotel.

The evening concluded with a sunset stroll through town, a few pictures, and thoughtful consideration that my Camino had become something far greater than a mere checkmark on a bucket list.

Peace Everyone, and Buen Camino. Pete

PS. It is traditional to say a prayer at the Cruz de Ferro. Along with my stone I carried my prayer, typed on a small piece of paper. After I recited it I returned it to my pack. It remains among my possessions, a memento of a day briefly spent closer to Heaven.

“Lord, may this stone, a symbol of my efforts on the Pilgrimage that I lay at the foot of the Savior’s cross, one day weigh the balance in favor of my good deeds when the deeds of my life are judged. Let it be so, Amen.”

Part 33. A Confession in Rabanal

Posted on by Pete Schloss

 

Note: Portions of this post have been variously penned by me in 2013, 2016, and 2018. The continuation of Part 32, “Destinations are Fixed, it is The Spirit that Moves” appears within this chapter, ***.

I have heard it said that there are no atheists in foxholes. Perhaps it is the same for one who sees that the horizon of life is limited by the approaching shores of mortality. My thoughts here expressed are not intended to change anyone’s mind about their own theology, or lack of theology. Indeed, it is precisely my intention not to convert anyone to any system of beliefs, but rather to encourage a pause for mindful contemplation of the beliefs already held. I have found that I better know my own mind when I listen to the thoughts of others. An obvious example of this is the visceral revulsion that I feel when I hear certain doctrines of coercive conversion that are preached in some quarters by those who claim to exclusively know the mind of God. As an example, “god” as expressed by the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas, is a bigot. It is not difficult for me to understand my own mind when I listen to that “theology of  hatred”.

A closer question arises when the thoughts of others are not a clear affront to my own. When the beliefs of others provide me with a moment to pause and consider my own beliefs it is a gift, an “ah ha” moment. Perhaps there is a small shift in my world view, or maybe I grow more comfortable in my beliefs, having had an opportunity to mindfully inventory them.

I was raised Catholic, however from the earliest days of my Catholic grade school education I found it difficult to understand how certain doctrines could be those created by a loving God. I accept that Catholicism is a man-created structure that seeks to understand God. It is a “language” that may assist in communicating our efforts to know God. However, as a child I could not understand how God would punish whole segments of humanity with damnation for not being Christian when the opportunities for being Christian did not universally exist. I wondered if God really was offended when I accidentally ate a “Chicken in a Biskit” cracker one Friday afternoon during Lent. What really did happen to all of those folks who had been hanging out in the waiting room called “Limbo” when it ceased to be in the lexicon of Catholicism. I choose Catholicism for my examples because it may be less offensive to others if I question the tenets of my own faith tradition.

Dogma is not a trivial thing. There was a time in the history of the Catholic Church that the failure to follow the dictates of dogma might have earned a person a turn on the rack, or worse. The same can be said for many religions. The same can even be said today for such transgressions as the drawing of a cartoon caricature of a long dead Arab man.

Sacramental Confession is an offering of the Catholic Church. My Lebanese grandmother went to confession weekly as many Catholics of her time did and some still do. I often wondered what that wonderful lady could have done each week that compelled her to stuff her prodigious frame into a tiny closet-like space and then struggle to bend her arthritic knees to begin her act of contrition. In Catholic grade school we had weekly confession. Once when I told my teacher that I didn’t have anything to confess, she reminded me that over the past week I had probably fought with my brother and disobeyed my parents. For many years of my childhood, fighting with my brother and disobeying my parents became standard sins of choice to “confess”, whether warranted or not.

I stopped the practice of Confession when I reached high school. However, there were two occasions that I chose to return to the confessional. They were both memorable and stand as an affirmation that there really is a voice of God. It is just up to me to listen.

In 1972 I travelled overseas for the summer as a part of a group of 22 students studying ancient history. I visited St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome and concluded that as a Catholic to not go to Confession and receive Communion there would be like going to Hawaii and not visiting the beach. The confessional booths each indicated the languages spoken by the priest within, primary language was in bold letters and any secondary languages were declared in smaller case. I found a priest who spoke English, but only as a language secondary to his native German. He sounded very old and I feared that I may have made a mistake, but I continued with the prescribed litany. When I came to the point of saying that it had been years since my last confession he stopped me and addressed me in a thickly accented conversational tone. He asked me why I chose to go to confession. We spoke for nearly an hour through the wood and cloth screen that separated us. I remained kneeling on the hard wooden kneeler throughout, but without discomfort. The distillation of his message to me was that he believed that I was a good person, a person of conscience. He said that I should be more guided by what I honestly believed in my heart to be right, and less by Church “rules”. I emerged from the booth with a “penance” to always do my best and listen to my conscience. I opened the door of the confessional to a line of little old ladies. Their expressions of near horror hinted at their belief that I must be some kind of an ax murderer, having been in the confessional booth for so long.

***The second occasion occurred in 2013 while Christine and I were walking the Camino de Santiago across Spain. We had arrived in Rabanal, which is the site of a German Benedictine Monastery. The monks presented an evening service for the Peregrinos (Pilgrims) in a cave-like chapel that was over 700 years old. The chants and prayers offered by candlelight were moving. At the conclusion, one of the four monks addressed the assembly of perhaps 25 pilgrims and indicated that one monk would remain should anyone wish to visit. Christine and I exited the church but not before I turned and saw the monk seated on an ancient wooden bench in prayerful repose. It was apparent that he would be alone in his contemplations.

Christine knows me well, so when I hesitated in the courtyard outside of the church she said to me, “You want to go back, don’t you.” It was more a statement than a question. I returned to the church and entered the dark and now silent interior. As I approached the monk he made no acknowledgement of my presence other than to slightly move his hand and indicate that I should sit at his side. I became uncomfortable with the silence and returning to the roots of my childhood I began, “Bless me Father…”. He again made a gesture that halted my words. There was the slightest hint of a smile and then this aged monk, a German monk, asked me what I did in life. I replied that I was an attorney and that I mediated divorces, seeking to assist people with resolution of the questions that they faced concerning their relationship, property, and the care of their children. He sat silent for a time and then slowly nodded, looked deeply into my eyes and said, “That is very important work… very difficult work.” He then asked me why I had started with words of confession. I felt the presence of that other old German priest from 41 years earlier. It was as if that priest, certainly long dead, had returned from the grave to ask how I was doing with the penance that he had issued to me.

We spoke for another 30 minutes during which time the monk encouraged me to listen to my heart and to be thus guided. He urged that “rules and rituals” of religion are secondary to following an honest conscience. At our parting he asked if I wished absolution which is the customary conclusion of Confession. I accepted but knew that with absolution there is typically a penance. He placed his hands upon my head and said that for my penance I must conduct myself in life as if God is always at my side, watching… that I must treat each pilgrim that I encounter on the Camino as if they were Christ in disguise.

I believe that miracles exist now and always have, it is just that our capacity to see them has dimmed. Is it a mere coincidence that on the two occasions that I returned to a faith practice from my childhood I received the same message, the same affirmation, and the same “penance” from priests from the same country? Calling this a coincidence would not change the reality of what occurred. It would however be closing my ears to the voice of the Spirit.

As rich in meaning to me as these two events were, it does not escape my notice that these men did not focus upon the rules and rituals that some might cling to as the path to God. I believe that when we place the rules above the search for a relationship with the Creator that we create a “god” in our image and likeness. We were imbued by creation with free will and a questing spirit. If that is the gift from our Creator then religion runs contrary to that gift when people seek to coercively convert others to their particular definition of “god”. The voice of the Creator as heard upon the wind by the First People is the same voice that was heard by Moses in a burning bush, and by those who gathered in an upper room breaking bread and drinking wine on a Passover night two thousand years ago. It is the voice of Christ, the Buddha, Vishnu, Mohamad, the words of Mormon, but only when the words advance the search for our humanity and are not misapplied for the subjugation of others. The challenge is to be mindfully aware of the difference between what we do in pursuit of a relationship with the Creator and what we do in the pursuit of mere earthborn advantage.

One of my grandchildren once asked me if magic is real. I replied that “magic” is whatever we know to be real but do not understand. I gave examples of magnetism and gravity as things that are real but not really understood. The quest for that knowledge continues and someday may be grasped in a way that renders them no longer “magical”.

If I change the focus of my grandchild’s question from magic to Spiritual and answer the question for myself, then Spirituality is what I know from experience yet do not understand. The quest continues because faith is a journey, not a destination.

Peace Everyone. Pete Schloss
PS. As I noted in the previous post, “It is often said that the Camino presents itself to the Pilgrim as three distinct experiences: first as a physical challenge, next as an emotional encounter, and finally as a spiritual awakening.” My Camino had become Spiritual.

 

Part 32. Destinations are Fixed, it is The Spirit that Moves

Posted on by Pete Schloss

 

May 9, 2013. Astorga to Rabanal.

Our hopes were high that with our departure from Astorga we were also leaving behind the drama of the past two days.

The steel gray sky released a near constant drizzle that kept the puddles filled and shoes laminated with mud. At times the humidity was such that if felt like the mist formed under rather than over our rain gear.

In spite of these morning conditions the fact that we shared the path with like-minded souls made for a spirit of camaraderie more than equal to the elements.

Rabanal was 22km ahead, but more importantly we were now only 264km and 13 days from Santiago. Whether measured in days or in miles we were approximately two-thirds of the way to our final destination. This was not the home stretch, but I could sense its presence over the horizon.

It is often said that the Camino presents itself to the Pilgrim as three distinct experiences: first as a physical challenge, next as an emotional encounter, and finally as a spiritual awakening. It occurred to me that ours was thus far a textbook example of those words transformed into reality. I understood and expected the physical aspects that we had experienced. My still evolving focus upon self, others within the orbit of my life, and most of all my relationship with Christine was unanticipated and emotional. Spirituality? Speaking for myself, this was still more bucket list than pilgrimage. I was not looking for a spiritual experience.

The path that day avoided main roads and was almost exclusively a meandering walk through open countryside.

We would pass through 4 small villages before reaching Rabanal: Murias, Castrillo de Los Polvazares, Santa Catalina de Somoza, and El Ganso. The largest of these “Maragato” villages is home to fewer than 300, and most were suffering the ravages of time.

La Maragateria is a small and ancient historical region, with a distinct ethnic and cultural community, the Maragatos. Homes and buildings are of stone construction. Efforts to preserve the unique traditions seem linked to the failing efforts at preservation of the equally unique structures.

In the tiny and crumbling village of El Ganso stands the almost absurd “Cowboy Bar”.

We were greeted at the door by Ramiro, its owner and ”bartender”. It seemed that his total command of English was loudly calling out the words, “Whiskey! Whiskey! Whiskey!”, as if it was our responsibility to order up a shot or two.

However, when Christine replied, “Si!”, his smile and zeal slumped, and he politely shook his head, “no”. There were strong libations behind the bar, but perhaps it was too early, or possibly he did not wish to become the temptation that derailed her Camino that day. In any case we ordered non-alcoholic drinks which he cheerfully served, I took pictures, and we enjoyed the unique experience of “The Cowboy Bar”.

Spirits lifted, but not by alcohol, we continued our pleasant and picturesque hike through the countryside, arriving in Rabanal shortly after 2 p.m..

The tiny village (pop. 50) offered a surprising variety of lodging options capable of tripling the hamlet’s population. Among the alternatives were a 34 bed municipal albergue, a Hosteria, a small upscale hotel, two private albergues, and for up to 10 pilgrims willing to spend at least 2 nights, the Monastery of San Salvador del Monte Irago offered beds in its retreat house. We registered at the popular 76 bed Albergue Nuestra Senora del Pilar.

To say that this was a unique experience would be an understatement. First the good: The albergue offered a pleasant courtyard, bar, and restaurant. The staff was friendly, attentive, and the price was right.

The not-so-great parts centered upon the bedroom accommodations and lavatory facilities. 76 beds were tightly situated into two large dormitory rooms. The unisex bathroom contained only 2 water closets, 2 showers, and 2 sinks.

Except along the walls where single two-high bunks were reserved for unaccompanied females, 4 bunks were secured together in tandem, two up and two down. There was little room to stow our wet clothing and gear.

We had grown accustomed to sacrificed privacy, but Nuestra Senora del Pilar rose (descended?) to a new level. The feet in the toilet or shower stall adjoining the one you used could be male or female. The two sinks were so close to each other that bumping elbows while brushing ones teeth was almost unavoidable. Lines of Peregrinos “in need” formed before each toilet, shower, and sink. In the beds next to ours a young couple hung up their sheets so that we could not see the passion that we could not avoid hearing. In total the stay was an “interesting” experience that still brings a smile when recounted.

At the center of the town is the 12th Century Iglesia de Santa Maria.

This tiny church, cave like in its interior, was open for pilgrims to attend. 7 p.m. Vespers and 9:30 p.m. night prayers presented by the Benedictine Monks of the adjacent Monastery of San Salvador del Monte Irago.

Four of these monks, each originating from Germany, offered prayer in Gregorian Chant at Vespers. This moving ceremony was attended by us and perhaps 25 other pilgrims who filled the chapel to near its capacity. At the conclusion of Vespers one of the monks addressed the gathering saying that a monk would remain to speak with any Peregrino who wished to visit.

Christine and I exited the church to dusk falling on the small outdoor courtyard. It troubled me that no pilgrim had remained to accept the offer of the solitary monk who remained within. I hesitated. Christine turned to me, “You want to go back, don’t you?” After a pause I replied that it saddened me that no one had stayed to accept the monk’s offer. Christine encouraged me to return to the church. She promised to wait for me outside.

I entered the chapel’s dark and now silent interior. Barely visible in the flickering light of the votive candles was a bent and aging figure seated in one of the six ancient choir seats aligned along one wall. As I approached he made no acknowledgement of my presence other than to slightly move his hand, indicating that I should sit at his side…

To be continued. Peace Everyone and Buen Camino. Pete

Part 31. Astorga

Posted on by Pete Schloss

 

May 8, 2013

“Sorry that I can’t finger type all the details, but keep in mind that the sculptures, manuscripts, paintings, and robes date to between the 13th and 16th Centuries. There are a few really bizarre paintings which are presentations of someone’s medieval idea of hell, and which gender is the source of temptation. Perhaps the alchemists knew how to cook LSD in the 1200’s.” Written at Astorga, Spain, May 8, 2013.

We arrived at the Renfe train station just outside of Astorga in mid-afternoon. The “adventure” that resulted in our transport by train is recounted in the previous post.

Astorga’s size (pop. 12,000) is less than a tenth that of other major population centers on the Camino such as Pamplona, Burgos, and Leon, yet its historical footprint is just as significant.

The region in which Astorga is located was home over 200,000 years ago to the earliest hominids known to inhabit the Iberian Peninsula. Archaeologists have found evidence and artifacts of metal tool making at Astorga dating to 2,750 BCE. Celtic cultures inhabited the area in the 3rd Century BCE, and the location was an important Roman military outpost beginning in the 2nd Century BCE. The civilian town was established by the Romans in 14 BCE and featured elaborate baths, a thriving mercantile center, and significant fortifications. Roman ruins still dot Astorga, and portions of Astorga’s present day sewer system were constructed by the Romans 2,000 years ago.

Astorga was at the crossroads of Rome’s important gold, silver, and commercial transportation arteries. It also remained an important military stronghold. Pliny the Elder called Astorga a “Magnificent City” in CE 73 as he wrote about the 560 mile long Via de la Plata (“Silver Road”).

In the Middle Ages, as today, Astorga was at the crossroads of two major Camino routes, the French route and the Via de la Plata. In Medieval times over 20 pilgrim hospitals were located in Astorga. One of Spain’s oldest and largest dioceses was established here in the year 747.

The city and its imposing fortification walls were immediately impressive as we approached on foot from the train station. The Cathedral and Gaudi’s Palacio Espiscopal (“Bishop’s Palace) were visible above the ramparts that date to the Romans.

The 3 star Hotel Gaudi would be our home for the night and was conveniently located across the square from the Cathedral and Palace.

Regrettably, we did not plan an additional day to explore the town’s other museums, 9 plazas, and Roman excavations. There was just enough time to enjoy visits to the Cathedral, Cathedral Museum, and the Palace.

Catedral de Santa Maria de Astorga was magnificent although not rising to the scale, grandeur,  or significance of the cathedrals in Burgos, Leon, or Santiago.

Construction of the Gothic cathedral began in 1471 and extended over a period of 300 years. Thus, it features a mixture of other design elements, Baroque, Renaissance, and neo-classical among them.

The interior vaulting is magnificent,

as are the 97 hand carved chairs in the choir.

Especially noteworthy is the High Altar and statuary created in 1558 by artist and sculptor Gaspar Becerra, a former student of Michelangelo.

It seems that every church and museum along the Camino has its own version of an image of Santiago (St. James).

The Cathedral Museum presented a treasury of ancient texts,

religious vestments,

remarkable statuary,

and works of religious art. Some truly bizarre, 

and others more conventional.

The crush of time and our desire to yet tour Gaudi’s Palace required us to hasten our visits through the Cathedral and Museum.

The Palacio Episcopal is  one of  only three buildings designed by Antoni Gaudi outside of Catalonia.

Gaudi agreed to undertake the project at the request of his friend Juan Bautista Grau, Bishop of Astorga. Construction began 1889 but was suspended shortly after Bishop Grau’s death in 1893. Disagreements arose between Gaudi and a committee appointed to oversee the continuation of Palace construction. Gaudi then permanently left the project in favor of dedicating the remainder of his life to the construction of the Sagrada Familia Basilica in Barcelona.  Construction of the Palace did not resume again until 1907. Management of the project was undertaken from that time to its completion in 1913 by Architect Ricardo Garcia-Guereta.

The building has served as a military headquarters during the Spanish Civil War, and since 1964 has been purposed as a museum dedicated to the Camino de Santiago. According to the Palace website it has never served its original purpose as residence for the Diocesan Bishop.

The Palace consists of 4 floors, including the basement. The collection of art objects deserves at least an afternoon’s visit. The Palace itself is remarkable art, worthy of focused examination. These few images that follow merely hint at the experience:

The chapel as seen from below and from the balcony above.

The throne room.

A dining/reception room.

A bust and statue of Mary, the bust dating to 1520.

Two sculptures of Santiago (St. James).

and the original Cruz de Ferro (CE 1000).

This iron cross was once mounted for veneration atop the highest point of the Camino. Today its place has been taken by a replacement where Peregrinos still stop to deposit a stone and perhaps pause for thoughtful reflection.

Peace Everyone, and Buen Camino! Pete

Part 30. What ALSA Can Go Wrong

Posted on by Pete Schloss

 

Man makes plans… and God laughs. (Proverbs 19:21.)

“Tomorrow I plan to bus out of Leon’s central city and 12km on to the end of the urban/industrial sprawl. I will then continue on foot from Hospital de Orbigo, site of a Medieval pilgrim hospital. It is also the site of an ancient bridge, portions of which date to Roman times. The bridge is 670 feet long and consists of 20 arches. My goal is to meet Christine in Astorga.”  -Written May 7, 2013 at Leon, Spain

May 7, 2013. Question: What could possibly go wrong? 

May 8, 2013. Answer: Everything.

What ALSA can go wrong!?! Leon to Astorga.

ALSA (Automóviles Luarca, S.A.) is Spain’s major bus and coach company).

6:30 a.m. I wake and pack for bus ride to Hospital de Orbigo to be followed by an 18km hike to Astorga.

Breakfast with Christine at the hotel. Goodbye kisses are exchanged. “See you this afternoon in Astorga!”

8 a.m. I arrive at the bus station and confirm at Passenger Information that the ALSA bus to Hospital de Orbigo departs at 8:30 a.m. from space #3.

8:30 a.m. The driver says he is not stopping at Hospital de Orbigo. He says that I want the 9:30 bus, space #3, which stops there.

8:45 a.m. I again “confirm” bus time, destination and space number at the ticket window. 9:30am, Hospital de Orbigo, space #3. Check!

9:45 a.m. No bus!!

10 a.m. Christine shows up to take the 10:15am bus to Astorga. She has her ticket. The lady at the (mis)Information counter says, “No problem, the driver sells tickets. I and a few other Peregrinos decide to take this bus.

10:15 a.m. Bus arrives, I place my pack in the luggage hold of the bus. The driver DOES NOT sell tickets! I and the other pilgrims make a mad scramble to the ticket window where the (not-so) helpful ALSA lady says that it is too close to the time of departure for her to sell us tickets. We need to get tickets at the ticket machine. A short walk follows and  THE TICKET MACHINE IS BROKEN. Christine rescues my pack from the hold of the bus just as the driver is closing the luggage door. Damn close call that! The bus leaves without Christine since she is waiting for me to return from the non-functioning ticket machine. After an “animated discussion” with the lady at the ticket counter Christine gets a refund.

11:15 a.m. We walk to the train station, buy tickets for the 1:53 p.m. train to Astorga.

So much for the peaceful 18km walk on the Camino. St. James may have attended Mass regularly, but he never had to deal with Mass Transit.

Epilogue: In less than an hour the high speed train deposits us at the station in Astorga. With 53km of the Camino thus “erased” we have time to check-in to the Hotel Gaudi,

and do justice to visits to the local Cathedral, Museum, and a Palace designed by Antoni Gaudi.

A 7 p.m. Peregrino Mass and dinner follow, all shared with my wife. The day’s cloud has a silver lining.

May 8th. Astorga. The Silver Lining on a “Cloudy” Day.

“Getting to Astorga from Leon was a grand “Cluster F***”! However, the afternoon was a wonderful surprise. Astorga is a town of 12,000, with world-class art, a 13th century cathedral, and a palace designed by Antoni Gaudi.” Written at Astorga, Spain, May 8, 2013.

Peace Everyone, and Buen Camino! Pete

PS. Pictures and narrative from the extraordinary sites seen in Astorga will follow in the next post.