Zabaldika to Pamplona

1Chronicles 29:10-20 (NKJV)
v. 11 Yours, O Lord, is the greatness, the power and the glory, the victory and the majesty; for all that is in heaven and in earth is Yours; Yours is the kingdom, O Lord, and You are exalted as head over all.

All that is in heaven and earth is the Lord’s, everything that exists, absolutely everything. It’s easy to say that, but when you’re walking, weighted down tight to the dusty ground and tripping over rocks as you go, watching the kilometers inch by, it really seems like an enormous amount of earth. We’ve followed the Camino for five days now. It is astonishing to me that we’ve walked over a mountain range. It is amazing that we’ve walked a measurable distance on a map, from St. Jean Pied de Port to Pamplona. But Maurice estimated our distance covered so far in numbers that we can really grasp: 42 miles. Only 42 miles, maybe 43. It’s just a speck on the earth. When we climb an alto and the sky is clear, all the fields, woods, farms and villages that we see are but a smidgen of the surface of this planet–and it’s all God’s. Every rock on the ground, every animal in the field or burrowed underneath, every magnificent view from the mountaintop, every godly home and pagan street, every ear of corn and work of art and glass of water all belong to the Lord. It is by his grace that he gives generously of his bounty for mankind to use and enjoy. We cannot even give God our own gifts in thanksgiving, for, as David prayed, “All things come from You, and of Your own we have given You” (v. 14). We are truly “aliens and pilgrims before” our Lord (v. 15), walking and living and serving in a land not our own. What to do but to do as David instructed the Israelites: “Now bless the Lord your God!” (v. 20). With repentant and thankful hearts, with bowed heads and working hands and walking feet, with words of love and praise, with bodies prostrated before him in joy or fatigue, let us worship our mighty God and King.

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It was a gentle awakening in the convent dorm. We didn’t drag ourselves out of bed until 6:30, but others were moving about quietly. Breakfast was self-serve–mostly the standard hard toast, though there was a bag of Sugar Crisp on the table. As we put our shoes on outside, the sister from last night pedaled her bike down the hill with her helmet on.

We were, of course, the last ones out (8:30). The path meandered up and down scrubby hillsides before descending toward Pamplona.  Several towns along the way were still accessed by their medieval bridges.

Medieval bridge at Arre

We soon caught up with last night’s elder ladies (Barbara and Holly from New Mexico and Sandra from somewhere that included British Hong Kong), chatted a bit and moved on, selecting the alternate parque fluvial route into Pamplona. It was a long green park along the river, the path busy with joggers and walkers. Knowing we had a reserved room at the inn, and being tired and sore, we took our time. We stopped to eat our fermenting peach. My toes felt squeezed in a vise, so we stopped for me to change to my sandals (aaaahh!).

Once in the city, we stopped for decadent pastries. Maurice narrowed the search area for our hostel, but the map was sketchy and we hadn’t signed up for the overpriced international roaming or fully solved the phone issue. A man passed by walking his dog. “A Santiago?” he said. Well, yes, we were the only ones in this part of town looking like pilgrims, and lost pilgrims at the moment. But before Santiago we needed to find the Aloha Hostel. We showed him the address. Si, si. He gestured that we should follow him, and he and the pooch led us at a fast clip through several city blocks right to our door. What kindness! 14,870 steps

Hugo greeted us at the hostel, one floor up in an old building, but he wasn’t finished cleaning it yet. We tossed our packs in the stack and were invited into the sitting area, a bright and cheery room with tall windows overlooking a side street. I collapsed into the sofa with the cushy slanted back and dozed. At one o’clock Hugo took us two more flights up, through two security doors to our private modern double room, a small white square with a double bed, nightstands, two windows and an oversized closet; the bathroom was next door, to be shared with two other rooms. A bed in the main hostel downstairs costs 15 euros apiece; our private, secure double room with clean sheets, real towels and better wifi is only e40 per night–a definite blessing. We took showers and did laundry, which included dropping it out the window as we tried to hang it on the clothesline passing by our window. “Maybe you should stay down here,” said Hugo on my second trip down to retrieve Maurice’s wayward clothing. After lunch in a triangle of shade on the patio, we balanced the rolling shutters between airflow and hot afternoon sun and slept.

Deluxe accommodations at the Aloha Hostel.  You can see our washcloths on the clothesline outside the window.

When we went downstairs about 6:30, equally friendly Christina was on duty. We asked about an inexpensive local place to eat. “Dinner?” she said. “Restaurants don’t open until about 8:30.” Oh, right, we forgot. “But you could have pintxos,” she added. Like tapas. She told us her two favorite places with local specialties. We bought groceries for the following day then hit the little bar around the corner, its wood-paneled walls decorated with local maps, posters, and pictures. Displayed along the counter was a selection of pintxos, which the senorita did her best to explain to us (with the help of Google). We sat at a wooden table with refreshing iced sangria and enjoyed our excellent choices. It was nearing seven thirty and we were the only customers. But it was so delightful that we decided to try it again at the second recommended bar. Things were hopping at Gauchos on a corner in the old town and their offerings were more elaborate. We selected a skewer of fat marinated mushrooms (doused with olive oil, sprinkled with big grains of salt and heated) and a slab of tortilla with potatoes and onions, also excellent choices. To drink I ordered Christina’s recommended kalimocho. The bartender raised his eyebrows but mixed it for me–red wine with Coca Cola, lemon slices and ice cubes. Hugo told us the next day kalimocho is a popular local drink that everyone has in big glasses at the running of the bulls. Back at our hostel we had olives and coke on the patio before pulling up our shutters and letting in as much night air as we could to cool off the room. The day’s temperature had reached 36 C (97 F)–and no AC.

Tasting pintxos at La Servicial in Pamplona