Learning to Walk 17

CAMINHO PORTUGUÊS – PORTO

(42,048 STEPS – 32.29 KMS – 20.05 MILES)

“Sometimes life is too ridiculous to live.”
– John Mellencamp, Between a Laugh and a Tear, from the Scarecrow album

The Good First Half (The Laugh)

Your assignment for today is to click on the link above and listen to the song. It is a fine collection of words and sounds…

The Suburban Stroll

The first half of the day was perfect.

After a good night of sleep, I was awake and out of the albergue by 7:15 am, excited at the thought of arriving in Porto today! And there was an open pastelaria two blocks on the way out of this perfect little town, I would have expected nothing less.

The path itself was a dedicated hiking/biking trail; totally suburban, it wound its way up and down and through the towns and forests for ten kilometers. Because it was a dedicated path, I didn’t have to navigate, didn’t have to worry about traffic or crosswalks, all I had to do was walk. Every now and then I would crest a hill and get a good view of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s been a while since those early days along the coastline.

I plugged in my ear buds and listened to music. It was fine morning – a good walk, perfect weather, and good views all around.

A view of the Atlantic Ocean near Porto, Portugal. — *One of the big views of the ocean!*

Mental Health

While walking and jamming, two songs came up on my playlist – The Fisherman by The Waterboys and Under the Milky Way by The Church. These songs reminded me of two recent deaths in my circle. One was a friend I had lost contact with over the last couple of years because of work and life. The other, a friend and mentor. His wife called to tell me of his death while I warmed myself by the fire at Moinho Garcia a couple of days ago. Both friends struggled with their mental health.

Today was Sunday, and Sunday was my day of intentional introspection. These deaths, the friendship I enjoyed with each of them, mental health, and the ritual of pilgrimage was the focus of my introspection.

I have walked with two pilgrims on the Camino whose counselors had prescribed a walk to Santiago as therapy. It makes so much sense to me – the physical exercise, the sunshine, the cycle of struggle/reward, and good fellowship without the distraction of modern life. I prayed for my two friends, I’m sure they have found peace.

And then I made it to Grijó and the second half of the day…

The S--*-B**** Second Half (The Tear)

After spending some time off-Camino, Grijó was where I would reconnect with the Way to Santiago. Also, speaking of mental health, Grijó was the town where my day took a turn for the worse.

Church Traffic

It all started with the Sunday church gathering at Mosteiro de San Salvador de Grijó, but first a note about Portugal. Many of the streets are made entirely of granite cobblestone. These cobblestones are difficult to walk on and when cars drive over them, it sounds like a single-engine airplane flying ten feet overhead.

My peaceful walk ended as I entered the town, a constant flurry of cars passed by within feet of me as I made my way into Grijó society. The constant traffic seemed abnormal, car after car. No more peace and quiet and no more cool tunes, the noise was maddening. When I neared the Mosteiro de San Salvador de Grijó, I realized all the traffic was from those rushing to church this Sunday morning. I assumed the roar would decrease when I passed the church. Incorrect.

The Camino passes by the exit of the Monastery, and there were just as many cars leaving as there were entering. This road noise continued for two kilometers until I reach the edge of town.

Pilgrim Frogger

Another observation about the Camino Portugues that was amplified on this walk…a lot of the walk is along the streets. And many of these streets don’t have sidewalks, so the pilgrim is in full competition with the automobiles for rights to the roads. As I’ve mentioned before, the people of Portugal are unbelievably nice. That is until you put them behind the wheel of a car. Then they act like Texans in our F-350 King Ranch Edition Pickups – survival of the fittest, might makes right, go big or go home.

I’m convinced there’s a secret national game with pilgrims being the object. I imagine there is a point system where points are awarded based on the inconvenience/scare given to the pilgrim sharing the road:

Were they startled as you whizzed by on the cobblestone street? 1 point.
Did the pilgrim hug the side of the road as you whizzed by? 2 points.
Did the pilgrim hug the side of the road AND turn their back to the rock wall? 3 points.
Did the pilgrim hug the side of the road AND turn their back to the rock wall AND suck in their gut? 6 points.
While squeezed against the rock wall, was the pilgrim accosted by a dog in yard? 7 points.
Did the dog make contact with the pilgrim? Add 1 extra point.
Did you slow down, make room for the pilgrim or stop and allow them to pass peacefully? Deduct 5 points.

This is my only complaint of the Portugues route. Parts of it are not pedestrian friendly and the pilgrim has to walk with extreme situational awareness.

*Author’s note – this is a poor attempt at humor, so please hold your angry comments. But I’m pretty sure this game exists…

The Penitent’s Hill

The walk from Grijó to Porto is almost entirely through suburban sprawl. It was noisy, busy, and intense. There were a lot of people moving around today, most NOT on foot.

About 5 kilometers from Porto, the Camino departed the suburban path and led over one last hill before entering the city. This trail was narrow and steep going up, and going down, narrower and steeper. It was reminiscent of that goat trail Doug and I covered between Fátima and Tomar. I’m in good enough shape to cover these ascents and I’m an experienced enough hiker to not be troubled by the sketchy descent. No, what bothered me was more philosophical, and remember, I was already on the slippery slope to a foul mood, beginning in Grijó.

What bothered me about this diversion was not the physical requirement of the hill, but that there was a perfectly good and level pathway that led around the hill. It was as if an angry priest or a frustrated nun designed this part of the trail. I can hear them talking to themselves, laughing maniacally as the imagined the struggling pilgrim fighting this last battle:

“Take that lowly sinner! You must be preemptively punished for the sins you will commit in Porto! Sweat those sins out, pay for your failure with your gasping lungs or wobbly knees! Bwahahaha!”*

The Camino has historically been a path of penance, the sinner’s act to make things right. And there is still some value in walking that way. But for a lot of us (maybe especially USAmericans), it is a path to grace, to abundance, to REAL life. We miss out on these gifts because we are too distracted, have misdirected motivations, and pay too much attention to the charlatans. Walking to Santiago on a rainy day, or a hot day, or lonely day, or a long day, or any day, is a gift because it reminds us that life is a gift!

One of these days I’m going to write about Jesus’ proclamation, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” It’s a profound statement.

*Author’s note – this is yet another poor attempt at humor, so please hold your angry comments. But I’m pretty sure this is how this part of the Camino was designed.

The Dog

So, I paid for sins of the day on that last hill, but I conquered it. Well, I was now in a worse mood, so conquer isn’t the right word, it was a draw. I survived but was still in a dark place. Now all that was left was a slog through the southern side of the big city.

The Pollyanna optimists, those cursed with toxic positivity, would say, “When you’re at the bottom, the only way is up!!!”

I’m a realist, I proclaimed that this afternoon had been a S**-**-*-B****, and that I would walk cautiously through whatever remained.

What immediately remained was a walk through another narrow street with no sidewalk and lots of traffic. I had mastered the art of traveling through these scenarios while maintaining my mental/emotional health. This particular stretch presented me with an obstacle for which I was unprepared.

As traffic zoomed by in both directions, I walked as close to the rock wall that bordered the road as I could. I was so close to the wall that my left arm scraped the rocks with each swing. This wall rose above the street level to about 5 feet, shoulder height to me. At the top of the wall was an iron fence, with dense shrubbery behind. As I walked, dodging and cursing the cars, a little dog, probably a chihuahua, stuck his head out through the shrubbery, through the fence, to about 3 millimeters (1/4″) from my left ear. He immediately launched a verbal assault as only chihuahuas can. To say it startled me is an understatement. I exclaimed:

“S**-**-*-B****!”

The dog, satisfied, returned to licking himself, I assume. I saw a smile on the face of the passing driver. 7 points, would have been 8 if I didn’t have cat-like reflexes.

My adrenaline spiked and my mood responded in contrast. It couldn’t possibly get any worse, right? So says the Pollyanna Optimist.

But like Billy Mays would say, “I’m not done yet!”

Rusty, Sharp Metal

I was close to Porto, if I could only hang on. The last hurdle, though, the 9th Level of Purgatory, was yet to come.

Nearer to the city, sidewalks were more common, so at least I didn’t have to deal with traffic or nipping dogs. But there was one area on a long bend of the city street where the sidewalks were under construction. The entire length was fenced off to prevent safe passage.

I waited for a gap in traffic and scurried as near to the fence as possible, my right arm scraping it with each swing. When I neared the end, there was a sudden convergence of traffic from both directions. I sprinted* the last ten feet and then jumped up to the safety of the sidewalk. As I jumped, my swinging right arm snagged on a loose, and very rusty piece of fence wire. The wire cut my arm from the center of my forearm to 20 centimeters (8″) above my elbow.**

The fence accomplished what the chihuahua could not. Blood was drawn, and it flowed freely down my arm. Ten minutes and one blood-soaked bandana later, I stopped the flow. I had conquered the levels of purgatory, the Devil and his hounds (namely the chihuahua***) be damned!

I stopped for a rewarding beer at the first open bar.

*Author’s note – sprint is probably not the right word. I had endured 19 miles of walking carrying a 20 lb. pack; maybe lumbered? heaved towards? Lurched forward?

**Author’s note – conveniently, I am very familiar with treating wounds from rusty fence wires.

***Author’s note – still another poor attempt at humor, so Chihuahua owners please hold your angry comments. But I’m pretty sure you know better than anyone.

Porto

Post-beer, my mood had not improved, but Porto was within striking distance.

When I rounded that last corner, I knew the suffering of the afternoon was behind me, and the glory of Porto was revealed. I stopped to gaze at the wonder. What a beautiful city!

I crossed the bridge with 4.3 million other tourists and made my way to the Sé Cathedral. Dozens of pilgrims sat in the shade of the cathedral. The Sunday fellowship of the weary, the tired, the weak, the dog-nipped, frazzled, and joyful. We had all endured the same path. My Dutch friends from Pinheiro da Bemposta were among the tribe!

A man with a saxophone sat at the foot of the stairs, he played Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Everyone present, people from all over the world, knew this song and listened in silence. Deep down in our being, we know.*

Another bonus, Doug found himself in Porto today as he was working his way to Spain, across, and on to Saint-Jean-de-Port. We were reunited for the evening and the first part of tomorrow morning!

*In a book about this song, Leonard Cohen is quoted as saying, “…the song represented absolute surrender in a situation you cannot fix or dominate, that sometimes it means saying, ‘I don’t f****** know what’s going on, but it can still be beautiful.'”

The stunning city!