Thursday May 23, 2019

Rubiaes to Valença, Portugal—Day 8; 31,196 steps

Proverbs 8

v. 22, 26, 30-31 The Lord possessed [wisdom] at the beginning of his work…before he made the world or its fields or any of the dust of the earth….  I [wisdom] was filled with delight day after day, rejoicing always in his presence, rejoicing in his whole world and delighting in mankind.  But in me?  I was having a miserable day and no one was delighting in me.  I didn’t sleep well and everything hurt, including the scrape on my shin I got trying to climb into my bunk which had nothing I could grasp to stay balanced and pull myself up.  And we had how far to go before we stopped?  I was pretty cranky all day.  Was it because this morning I was not listening to the Lord and waiting at his doorway (v. 34)?  Dear Jesus, please forgive me.  Help me to remember you are where I find my life.

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We got omelets at the snack bar and two hardboiled eggs to go then set about finding our clothespins.  Dear Sonia had taken down and folded our laundry before we returned from dinner last night but our clothespins got mixed into her collection and put…somehwere.  Sonia was not out and about (pilgrims keep much different hours from the regular local people) so we searched the yard and finally located a big basket in a partially covered storage area.  I had written our last name on all but one of our clothespins but we still had to dump Sonia’s basket to find most of ours.  Let’s just say we came and left with thirteen.

We were tired and moving slowly down Roman Road #19, and I was already sure we would be the last pilgrims into whatever unpronounceable town we were going to and have nowhere to sleep tonight. 

We came to a fruit stand run by a delightful lady and I plopped down into one of her chairs for fresh orange juice, which I took my time drinking as Maurice drummed his fingers. 

A highlight of the morning was a guy out walking his sheep.  He had the big one on a rope with two of its legs tied loosely together so it couldn’t run but the two smaller sheep just trotted along with the group. 

Farther along thick branches hung over the sidewalk.  “They leave them that way for the pilgrims,” said someone in front of us.  We looked closer at the branches.  They were full of black cherries, sweet and fat.  I was a little happier until my handful ran out.  A sign announced an área descanso, which was really a bench in the sun, but it sufficed as a place to eat our hardboiled eggs and the two crackers I had left and the fifty-pound orange I was carrying.  

We walked and walked some more.  We had expected to cross the bridge into Spain but decided to stop in Valença, the last town in Portugal, hopefully early enough to get a place in the municipal albergue and have one more night of that wonderful Portuguese soup.  It was a long walk into the city to the Albergue Saõ Teontonio, where blessedly (probably because it was across from the bathroom door) a set of corner bunks was still available by a windowsill for extra space to put things. 

It was a nice hostel, with enough natural light as well as individual lights at each bed, adequate soap, toilet paper and even paper towels in the (one) bathroom (OK—two toilets, two showers and five sinks for thirty people), comfortable seating downstairs, clotheslines in the sun and even free lockers near the front desk if you wanted to secure any small belongings, all for only five euros apiece.  But really, I just wanted to sleep.

After a rest we walked around town.  The part in the old fortaleza was lined with tourist shops featuring towels—embroidered towels, beach towels, matching towels, even towels by the kilo.  We stopped at a shop on a square for a pastry (guess what kind) in the sun.  I had seen an ad at the albergue for a particular pilgrim meal that appealed to me so we headed that direction.  We spent almost an hour searching for the right restaurant in streets with no names and buildings randomly numbered.  At last…at last!…it was closed for the day.  So we stopped at the Vodafone store we had passed several times.  Even when we buy local SIM cards, Maurice’s phone never works right overseas; this time it said (in Portuguese) there was no money for calls and had no data.  The Vodafone lady did not speak English so we communicated via Google Translate.  “Weird,” said the lady/screen when Maurice typed in his problems.  She fiddled and tapped and clicked while Maurice muttered “we shouldn’t be wasting our time” and finally VodaScreenLady declared it solved.  Maurice made a test call to my phone—and it worked!  We think she had to manually adjust something in the phone that newer models do automatically, so Maurice assumes the phone won’t work when we get home.  Ah, well—a problem for another day.

It was windy and cool and I hadn’t worn enough clothing.  We walked back toward our albergue and had dinner at the hotel next door.  To our surprise they had a pilgrim menu and it was delicious.  Maurice and I have never been fish eaters, but here in Portugal I’ve gone over to the dark side and enjoy the local fresh fish more than the hunk of chewy beef (it’s one or the other).  Portuguese soup, buttery boiled potatoes, a mound of fresh greens, some roasted carrots, brown soda bread and butter, a whole bottle of vino tinto, even ice cream and tea to end the meal—I was happy at last.