Cheers from the Oceans of Green

The lack of a book is slowly driving me nuts. Three days ago I finished a 1000 page brick and am lonely for literary companionship. The book ¨Shantaram¨was an autobiography of an Australian excaped convict living in Bombay. One of the things I liked the best that I learned about Indian culture was that they name days and groups of people and periods of time. Anything that they plan on commemorating through story telling or celebrating gets a name. They do not have to saÿ "Remember that one time I got attacked by two thousand slugs?" They can just say "On The Night of The Slugs" and everyone knows what they are talking about. Anyways, I have been walking along, giving titles to things. Let´s see,so far I have The Nights of Snoring, self expanatory. And The Night of The Ear Infection, also needs no further, painful explanation. I met The Fountain of Youth Men--four middle aged pilgrims who were convinced that I was the fountain of youth, and who all wanted pictures of themselves with me, in front of the church,eating dinner, drinking coffee, smoking cigaettes, you get the idea.
There was also The Night of Mount Everest.I had known this Canadian named Mary for two days. During dinner one night, the police came with a message from the embassy, saying that she needed to call home. Her husband who had been climbing Everest had died. I had never seen someone go through something like that.I helped her pack her bag and get to the waiting police car, and it was like she was dying and coming back to life with every breath. All she would say was "I really loved him". The next few days as I walked alone, all I could think about is love and life and death. It seems the smartest thing we can do is love really hard, really honestly. The recipient of our love has part of our heart, and we have part of theirs, and it transcends death and distance. Love is a curse if we do not make it worth it.
I stayed in The Worst Pensíon Ever. That is what it was called in my guide book, and that is what it was. There were holes in the floor, mice, and drunk men rattling my plywood door during the night, and a 13 year old running the place. I was just dying to see how bad it could get. It gets bad.
This whole journey has several names. The Plague of Blisters. The Time of Coffee and Cream. I vascilate between loving the porcelain cups and saucers of Europe, and longing for the quitessential American bottomless cup, but I often feel that I walk from one cup of coffee to the next. The best name is The Spring of Many Smiles (it even sounds good in Spanish--La Primavera de Muchas Sonrisas). It is really extraordinary the hospitality of the people along the Camino. I am taking part of a millenium old tradition. I am one of hundreds of thousands of people to walk this road in the last few years. These old ladies sweeping their front steps see hundreds of people like me hobble past, the farmers see lines of backpack laden people swarm past their fields every season, the bartenders have served innumerable beers to stinky pilgrims, yet they all smile and wish me a Buen Camino.
I really am having a damn good time. The fields that stretch away from the path are outlandishly green. I always think that this intensity of green can not last, like a peacock spreading his tail, or a kind-of-pretty woman using makeup to make herself dazzling. But every day, the expanses of land, whether hilly or flat, are rippling in viridian fecundity. I have no idea what this crop is, but it is like walking through days of emeralds. The towns I walk through are incredible. If it were not for the Pilgrimmage, they would have ceased to exsist hundreds of years ago. And in many of these villages I can not tell the difference. Nothing has changed in centuries--no stone walls have been straightened, no paint touched up on wooden shudders, no signs erected to let you know the difference between a bakery, a bar, or a private home. I know that it is my urban American self on vacation, but it is so darn quaint, so extraordinary to pass through these villages on foot, so rich in the wabisabi aesthetic(a japanese word introduced to me by Tim Davis, meaning Lovely Decay).
I am lonely a bit. There are few english or spanish speakers with whom I can converse. There are alot of Germans. Germans seem to only talk to other Germans. Oh, another title: The Disturbing Habit of Overweight German Men to Walk Around in Their Itty Bitty Undershorts. Maybe that is why they stick to themselves. We all look at them with fear and revulsion. When people find out that I am from New Mexico, I often get a funny reaction:"Oh! That is why you speak such great spanish, and why you are so tan, and why you are so muscular!" So, all you New Mexico dwellers, work on your bilingualism, lay out and get buff! We have an international reputation to uphold!
Time passes slowly, at the pace of one foot placed in front of another.Afternoons, I do yoga and drink wine and write in my journal and limp around towns in strange outfits. It is a pretty great life, the best and cheapest I can imagine for a solo journey in an expensive foreign land. I have walked one third the way from France to the west coast of Spain. The main marks of that feat are the blisters on my feet and the calm in my mind. Even the most sporty of pilgrim, the speediest kilometer counter, must know themselves better by the end of this. Enough for now, dear fan club. Nos vemos, cariños!