The Legend of Johnny Paragüayo

I wish we could have learned more of the story of the man who owned the place where we stayed last night. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I got the sense that there was something more to his story than we knew. After all, he ran a hostel by himself in a very remote location, and you would sometimes get the feeling, from a look or the way he answered a question, that still waters ran deep. For whatever reason, my heart went out to him, for my sense was that he had and has a hard life. I wondered if perhaps he was a widower. I was very glad when quite a few more pilgrims came in later in the day to eat a meal and stay the night. My own thoughts, which I had not really voiced, were mirrored by Dad as we walked down the mountain this morning. He said, "I have a feeling there is a very sad story there". It made me reconsider the interactions I have with people, and the judgments and conclusions I make based on my worldview, perceptions, and interactions...and how dangerous that can be.

Our walk today was magnificent, but tiring. The first half was down the mountain range we climbed yesterday, and thankfully, the weather cooperated just enough thatwe were rewarded with magnificent views that I'm sure will not convey well through a camera lens. Yet another reason for you to take a trip to Spain with me as your tour guide! The second half of the walk was again along a river gorge, through farmland, and yes, up and down hills that were not supposed to be that taxi g according to the guidebook. They were taxing.

Galicia is a land of smells. Sometimes, it's rain and wet. Sometimes it's baking bread or meat being roasted. Most of the time it's various forms of manure that you are invariably walking in as you proceed on the Camino, as in many places the Camino is what the local farmers use as a thoroughfare for their livestock. I have now cleaned more kinds of manure off my boots than I knew existed. And let me tell you, dry manure is bad enough, but when it has been freshly dropped and is being rained on to keep it wet and oozing...well, I hope you're not trying to eat a a meal while you read this. Even Mom, who admits she grew up on a farm, has been overwhelmed more than once: "I'm pretty sure I smelled manure when I went to bed last night, and my boots were in another room."

We stopped today for a breather at the top of one of the hills that was not supposed to exist. Mom and Dad decided that a piece of fruit would go a long way toward restoring their vigor. I was hoping for a nice cold beer to restore mine, but I was out of luck. Anyway, the folks had bought an odd little fruit (I don't mean Richard Simmons) called a Paragüayo. It's basically a white peach that looks like it's been stepped on; it's shaped like a frisbee. They had three of them, so Dad asked if I wanted one:

Dad: Do you want a piece of fruit? There's one left.

Me: Nope, I'm good.

Mom: He does not like Paragüayos. He's never tried one, but he knows he doesn't like it and that's that.

Me: Actually, I just didn't want a piece of fruit, but whatever.

About this time, Dad finished his Paragüayo (that sure is a hard word to type on an iPad), so he threw the pit down the slope. As I mentioned, we were standing at the top of a rise, which was pretty wooded and covered with ivy. There was a terraced flat spot about 15 feet below.

Of course, I had to give Dad a hard time about throwing the pit away.

Me: Litterbug.

Dad: it was a seed!

Me: Yes, and when some poor farmer comes to plow that field he's going to have a giant Paragúayo tree to contend with.

Dad: Like some farmer is going to try and plow that field. More like, some poor pilgrim is going to come along and see the fruit on the tree and say "Thank you, Johnny Paragüayo, for planting this tree so I could have something to eat."

Me: Well, I guess we'll call you Johnny Paragúayo, then.

Everything is funnier after you've walked 13 miles with a 30-lb. Backpack. Believe me.

In due course (and several more unscheduled hills) we arrived in the town of Samos to the sound of...gunfire and a band playing bullfighting marches? It turns out that today was the festival day of the patron saint of the town. No gunfire, just fireworks in the middle of the day. There was also an old car show at the other end of town I didn't have the energy to walk to, and the centerpiece of the town is a HUGE 6th century monastery I don't have the space to tell you the history of. Here's a generic rundown: somebody found a relic and built a church. Later, some king thought that was cool, so they built the monastery. Even later, another king on the run hid here. Eventually the Moslems attacked and destroyed most of it, but the Christians reconquered and rebuilt it. Repeat as necessary. For 1400 years.

We enjoyed a late lunch of steak cooked on a hot stone at our table, hard apple cider on tap, and French fries of course. Tomorrow is a thankfully shorter day, and we have retired to our room in the hostel that overlooks the Monastery to recuperate.