The Camino For American Long Distance Hikers, Part 3: ¡Cada día es un día en la ciudad!

Approaching town!  Again!

American Long Distance Hikers are probably familiar with the excitement of “Town Day.”  You’ve
probably been talking for at least the previous 24 hours about what you’re going to eat first, how long a shower you’re going to take, and how little walking you’re planning on doing once you get there (I once actually hitched to a place I could point at in Gorham, NH).  Sure, there are always chores to attend to, but town is also a place to enjoy things you’ve been missing, like flush toilets, chairs with backs, and large pizzas you have absolutely no intention of sharing with anyone.

On the Camino Frances, however, you won’t have very long to miss those things, because you’ll most likely start and end every day in town -- and many days you’ll hit a few along the way as well.
  

Leaving Pamplona at 6am.  Breakfast is at a cafe 11km away.

Our day usually started with packing up and getting out of town early, as we tried to get in our miles for the day before it got so hot that the whole Siesta thing started to make sense.  Some albergues offer breakfast, but we were rarely around for it.  Instead we were on the Camino by 6am, looking for yellow arrows in the dark, anticipating yet another beautiful sunrise, and listening for the first rooster of the day, whose crowing is the signal to all other roosters that it’s time to start annoying everyone and, despite what you might think, keep doing so for the rest of the day.  Also despite what you might think: somehow this is true whether you’re in the middle of nowhere or the middle of downtown Burgos.

Just in case I haven't made it clear: I'm not a big fan of roosters.

After a couple of hours of walking we’d stop in the first town of the day for breakfast. Towards the end of the Camino we discovered that orange juice in cafes in Spain is fresh squeezed to order and one of the best things in the world ever, but usually we’d just have some coffee and a pastry and move on.


Breakfast, lunch, and dinner in town.
In this case breakfast involved the smallest muffin in the world.

Sometimes the fuente is
disguised as an elaborate
statue.

More walking, and then another town (and sometimes two) before ending up at our end point for the day, which, by now it should go without saying, was also a town.  And while each town definitely had its own character, there seemed to be a pattern to the towns we passed through during the day:

“There's the edge of town!

There's the fuente.

There's the pelota court.

There's the albergue that has a cafe and a store.

There's the bar.

There's the Church.

There's the plaza next to the Church with another fuente and the cafe.

There's another albergue.

There's the tienda.

There's the edge of town.

(Ten minutes later)

There's the cemetery.”

Eventually you’ll reach your destination for the day and the first thing you’ll notice is that everything is in Spanish, because it turns out that you are in Spain.  Unless you’re at the very beginning of the hike in France, or just a few days on trail (in which case there might be some Basque), or at the end (where you’ll also see Galician).  The one guarantee I can offer you about the language is that by the time you figure out what word to use for “bathroom,” you will have walked to where the word for that is completely different.  In any case, it’s good to know some Spanish before you get on the Camino.  You don’t have to be able to tell your life story -- my Mom knew enough to order red wine and decaffeinated coffee.  And I knew enough to make hotel reservations over the phone (but not quite enough to guarantee that the person on the other end of the phone agreed that’s what I was doing).  At the very least, learn enough to avoid accidentally ordering cheese-flavored ice cream.

I wasn't kidding about the cheese-flavored ice cream.  I think.

The second thing you’ll notice upon arriving is that it’s getting unbearably hot, which will either make you want to have an ice cold beer (me) or lapse into something like a coma (my Mom).  But first you need to get some chores out of the way.

The Municipal: big, cheap, and loud.

 First you need a place to stay, and the obvious and sometimes only choice is an Albergue, which is essentially a hostel.  But the larger the town the more options there are -- everything from an Albergue Municipal, which is cheap and large and jam packed with snorers, farters, and way more Canadians than you were expecting, to an actual hotel -- which is more expensive but does have one English-language TV channel that only ever seems to be running an Alaskan Bush People marathon.  The main downside to hotels, aside from the fact that the only English-language TV channel is running an Alaskan Bush People marathon, is that you don’t get to hang out much with other peregrinos.  We stayed in hotels about once a week, but mainly chose the middle path of smaller Private or Association Albergues.  Eventually we figured out that many have non-bunkhouse private rooms (with their own bathroom!), which I highly recommend if you are a fan of sleeping.

One of my favorite and least pronounceable Albergues.
Maralotx?  Really?

Once you’ve secured a bunk or room: unpacking whatever bedding you have, journal & guidebook, first aid kit, clothes bag.  Next: shower & change clothes.  Then: rinse out hiking clothes and hang to dry.  And finally (for now): relax, because it’s Siesta and if you try to accomplish anything else you’re just going to end up all hot and bothered.  And not in a good way.
 

This is what you do during Siesta.  If you're smart.

I know some Americans get frustrated with Siesta.  You want to get things done so you can relax.  But Spaniards seem to have a different approach: relax all of the time.  And relax even more during Siesta.  All I’m saying is that no one is on your schedule.  Stores will be open later than you’re used to.  Dinner will be much later than you’re used to.  And if you’re worried about not getting something done in town today you have missed the entire point of this article: you’re in town again tomorrow.  So relax.

Don't worry.  It'll be open later.

You will know Siesta is over because the guy who runs the outfitter will unlock his shop and go back to the bar next door, at which point you can complete the rest of your tasks.  There will be a tienda where you can get tomorrow’s snacks.  If you need to replenish your med kit there will be a pharmacy (marked by a green arrow).  There will be a pharmacy on the next block over too.  And a pharmacy on the block after that, assuming there is a block after that.  Spanish towns have more pharmacies than Gatlinburg has ice cream shops.  And if the town is too small for a pharmacy, fret not: there will be a pharmacy vending machine.

 

The Pharmacy Vending Machine, on the
other hand, is never closed.

And that’s pretty much it for shopping, although I should add that from personal experience I can tell you a Ferretería is a hardware store and not a place to buy ferrets.  Apparently.

No ferrets.  But feel free to ask.  That should be hilarious.

Back at the Albergue, your clothes are most likely dry and possibly scattered all over the place because someone took the clothespins you were using.  Clothesline space is highly valued real estate, and becomes more so later in the walk -- unlike American trails that are more crowded at the beginning, the Camino is more crowded towards the end.  People with less time to walk hop on at places like Sarria, because everyone wants to end their walk in Santiago (and from Sarria to Santiago is the shortest distance that qualifies a person to get the Compostela -- the certificate of completion).

This beautiful Albergue has room for thirty, a full restaurant
and bar, and one tiny drying rack in the lower left.

Once a week, when we hit a large city, I wouldn’t have to worry about rinsing and drying clothes because I’d go to a laundromat.  The best thing about laundromats in Spain?  The machine puts the detergent in ALL. BY. ITSELF.  The second best thing?  They’re all across the street from a bar AND open during Siesta.  That’s really two things.  But I couldn’t choose and anyway they’re kind of related.

Sometimes the laundry facilities in smaller towns are, um, subpar.
But every Albergue has, at the least, a place to rinse your clothes.

 Housing secured and tasks completed, there’s not much to do until dinner, which at the earliest happens at 7:30pm and often much later.  But it’s worth the wait.  Some Albergues have communal dinners, but even in restaurants the meals are cheap, the portions are enormous, the food is often local, and dinner usually includes a bottle of wine.  Town food every night is the reason why the Camino is the only walk I’ve done where I think I actually gained weight.

I know a lot of long distance hikers who don’t eat meat.  I do, so I didn’t really pay much attention to how good the dining options are for vegetarians.  All I’ll say is that it wouldn’t surprise me if the Spanish word for “vegetarian option” also translates as “slightly less ham.”

I'm not going to tell you what this is.  But if you're offered
it after dinner, drink it.

One thing I should add about restaurants and cafes is that you have to ask for your check.  Nobody is going to bring it to you unasked, because that’s considered rude.  The restaurant and cafe culture doesn’t revolve around tipping and turnover, so when you sit at a table you have basically rented it out all night or until you feel like leaving.  Some Americans have somehow been convinced that it’s bad service if your server isn’t essentially asking you to get out.  It’s not.  Good service is letting you sit at your table in the Plaza Mayor after dinner, maybe with a bit more wine, chatting with your friends, enjoying the night air,  and wondering what all of these toddlers are doing running around the Plaza at 10pm.  Where are their parents?  How the hell are they still awake? I mean, geez.  I can barely keep my eyes open over here.

We finished dinner about an hour ago.  If we never ask for the
check they might let us sleep here.

Anyway.  When you want your check you just raise your hand in your server’s general direction and say, “La Cuenta?”  And then he or she brings you your check, you pay it, go back to the Albergue, possibly fall asleep, and do it all again tomorrow.

Because every day is Town Day.

If you missed the rest of the series so far, what's wrong with you?  Part 1 is HERE and Part 2 is HERE.  Don't let it happen again.

On a practical note, I highly recommend "A Pilgrim's Guide To The Camino De Santiago," which has all of the information you need for planning and walking the Camino, including info on different housing options, facilities and services in towns, and handy maps.  You can find more info on it HERE.

In the next (and final) part of the Camino Series, entitled "La Mezcolanza," NHTM will cover all of the things I forgot to include in the previous parts, including flora & fauna and other odds & ends.

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How To Help Jester Love Backpacking

If you take Jester hiking, you're going to
have to put up with a certain amount of bunny
ear.  Metaphorically speaking.

Every four years or so Shane O'Donnell (AKA Jester) forgets that he doesn’t really like backpacking and decides to do it for five months straight.  But perhaps you want to take Jester backpacking for just a few days, although it’s difficult to say why you would think that’s a good idea.  Maybe you like watching people fall down in unique and comical ways?  Not sure.  Anyway.
If you’re considering taking Jester on a trip, follow this advice to ensure you continue to love backpacking.


Don’t be a teacher or a guide.  Be a hiking partner.  A really, really tolerant hiking partner.
Be on your best, super-considerate behavior to make sure Jester has a good time, and also because you are not a jerk.  But curb your instinct to do everything for him, because he’s lazy and will totally let you.  And that will eventually annoy the crap out of you, making it difficult to be super-considerate.

Don't buy his argument that the silly things he's carrying
are the lightest versions of those silly things.

Get involved with gear.
Help Jester pack.  Definitely.  If he packs his own backpack he’ll end up bringing half of the stuff he needs and all of the stuff he doesn’t.  While making sure he’s carrying what he should you can screen out the random extras -- on past unsupervised hikes he’s brought a kite, a Twister mat, various stuffed animals, bunny ears, water guns, glow sticks, Hawaiian shirts, a frisbee, and ridiculous amounts of camera equipment.  Including a tripod.  He once carried an actual license plate he found for about 200 miles.  And let’s not even discuss the 4.25 pound Wizard statue.
I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point -- nothing ruins a trip like a too-heavy load that includes a magic kit and a Chuck Norris poster but no cookpot.

Pick your spot well.
Choose a satisfying destination (hot tub, massage therapist’s office, fast food restaurant, etc.), because for Jester the journey is the destination, unless there’s a McDonalds nearby -- in which case the McDonalds is the destination.  Once you’ve got that nailed down, don’t worry about the mileage.  Jester will walk all damn day if there are 30 Chicken McNuggets at the end of the hike.

"The journey of a thousand calories begins with a single McNugget."

Hog the map and compass.
Jester is easily confused and honestly can’t navigate for crap.  He’s gotten lost on trails that blind people have successfully hiked.  He’s gotten lost in towns.  Not cities, towns.  And maybe you can understand that when it happens in Ashland, Oregon, but he’s gotten lost in East Glacier, Montana, which has a total area of less than five square miles and something like six streets. 
So it’s important to make sure he’s never involved in doing any real navigating, but on the other hand he likes to believe he’s in on the decision making.
So let him carry a map.
But not the actual map of where you actually are, because you may need that and he’ll probably just lose it.  Give him a map of a random National Park, or the I-95 corridor, or Barrow, Alaska.  It’s not like he’ll know the difference.

If you do get lost, do not let Jester become aware of it.
It's difficult to concentrate when someone is suggesting
cannibalism every five minutes.

Plan a mouth-watering menu.
Jester should not be involved in meal planning on any level.  If left to his own devices, he’ll only pack cheese, mayonnaise, and gummi worms.
It might be tempting to just buy a bunch of Mountain House meals and call it a day, but if you’ve ever been around Jester after he’s eaten Mountain House Chili Mac With Beef, you know that’s a terrible idea.  And by “after” I mean “for the following 72 hours.”
The problem here is that the trail food Jester likes to eat makes him revoltingly gassy, so you’re faced with the following connundrum: if you don’t bring food he likes he’ll complain the entire time, but if you do bring food he likes YOU’LL complain the entire time.
Don’t know what to tell you.  Bring whatever food you want.  Plus earplugs and a noseclip.  And don’t share a tent with him.

Keep him involved in camp chores.
But not, you know, any important ones.
Whatever you do, DO NOT TRY TO TEACH HIM TO LIGHT THE CAMP STOVE.  He’s already come close to starting a wildfire in a windfarm and he definitely set fire to a tent in the 100 Mile Wilderness.  And destroyed the stove.
Don’t have him help you hang the bear bag, either -- 42 percent of people who do end up being hit in the head with a rock tied to a rope.  Even if he’s not doing that on purpose (and he might be), do you really want to play those odds?
Ideally you should pick a simple chore where it will be difficult for him to hurt anyone or damage any gear.
You could have him blow up the sleeping pads, which, amazingly, will not prevent him from talking.  Or have him collect deadfall for a campfire you’re not really planning on having.  Or ask him to locate the privy, recognizing that you may never, ever see him again.

Don’t take any of it too seriously.
Lord knows he’s not going to.


Note: This is a parody of a real article in Backpacker Magazine entitled, “How To Help Your Girlfriend Love Backpacking,” which a number of my female backpacking friends have found more than a little insulting -- it includes advice such as, “let her hold the map” and “teach her to light the camp stove.”  Perhaps it would seem less condescending if framed in a gender-neutral way?  Dunno.  But I decided to take the opportunity to poke some fun at both the article and myself.  Hopefully I’ve done my job well and it’s funny even if you haven't read the original.



I should also note that unlike most of the articles on this blog, just about everything mentioned in this one is true, although some of it is slightly exaggerated (but only slightly)(and only some of it).

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The Power Of Cheese

I’m reasonably confident that this will be the best blog article I’ll ever write.  Because it’s about cheese, and cheese brings out the best in everything.  And even if it’s only 10% as good as cheese, it’ll be pretty close to perfect. 

But before we get to the actual article, I think that we should take a look at some of the things I’ve previously written about what I have referred to as “my possibly illegal love of cheese”:

                                                                                                                                                                                         

CHEESE CHEESE CHEESE!!!!!!!!!!!

I loves me some cheese. Largest block you can carry out of town without causing stress fractures, say I.

Bigger lasts longer! Harder is better!

Cheese does not go bad!

Melty/Oily? Recombines at night!

Moldy oldy? Cut that part off and keep chomping!

One Pound blocks! Eaten like candy bars!

Bonus feature: no poopin' 'til the next time you hit town. . .

Cheese, baby! Sounds gouda to me! 

I have yet to meet a cheese I haven't liked immediately; with which I haven’t struck up a long, meaningful conversation and developed a deep, abiding relationship.

Cow, goat, sheep, cat, out of a can, on a nacho, with my breakfast, between my toes, on pasta, on stuffing, on Donner, on Blitzen!

With cheese!

Con queso!

Avec frommage!

Ag tigh cais! 

The only reason to cut cheese with a knife is if you're sharing it with someone, which is what I was thinking of in my post regarding what one needs a knife for. Unless you want to do a whole Lady and the Tramp thing, but with a big block of Sharp Vermont Cheddar. My god that's romantic. 

Combine cheese with everything. Anything. I can't stress it enough. CHEESE.

And don't just limit yourself to "flavoring food" with it. Flavor everything with it. Flavor your joys and sorrows with it. Flavor your Flav with it. Flavor your life with it! 

The author at the Cheese Monument.

I live in a world of cheese, all of it there for the taking. Cheese hanging from the trees, cheese raining from the sky. A world where cheese is an accepted form of currency, an appetizer, a meal, a way of life, an acceptable thing to wear to a formal occasion. Where you can love cheese as you wish, and it doesn't accuse you of being codependent.

A world of possibilities, all of them shot through with cheese. 

I have done my hajj to Vermont. I have bowed before an alter of delicious sharp cheddar, and then eaten it. I didn't have to go to the bathroom for four days.

Award winning?

Soul winning! 

I have been to the monument to cheese along the AT in Cheshire! I have leaned against it, filled with thoughts of cheese! I have gone to the post office across the street, taken a picture, and been drawn magnetically back to "the Big Cheese Monument." Intending to stay in town for a moment, I stayed for what felt a lifetime.

Then I went to the convenience store on the way out of town, and bought some cheese. 

                                                                                                                                                 

Okay.  We’ve set the mood.  Now on to the actual article!  But first, some historical facts about cheese that I will make up off the top of my head.  Did you know that:

The word “grieve” comes from Greve, a Swedish cheese made from cow’s milk? (it’s current meaning obviously referring to the sadness of not having any)

John Lennon originally wrote a song called “Happiness Is A Warm Gruyere” about Fondue, but changed it due to rhythmic and meter issues?  And the fact that Gruyere is a terrible cheese to use for fondue?

The seemingly endless wars between Britain and France in the 18th and 19th centuries were motivated primarily by the English desire for French cheeses?  And that the blue of the Napoleonic Army uniforms was meant to mock the quality of English cheeses such as Cheshire Blue, Devon Blue, and Yorkshire Blue?

I have to say that at this point I feel like I’m never going to get to the actual article.  I mean, this thing is already getting long, isn’t it?  And looking at what's been written so far it isn't readily apparent that this is supposed to be a backpacking blog.  So I think that before getting to the actual article I’d like to write for a bit about the history of cheeses along the Appalachian Trail, and in particular the 90s -- arguably the high point of backpacking with cheese.

A hiker resupplying at "Cheese Row" in Dalton, Mass.

Believe it or not, there are people today who don’t carry cheese while hiking (I know, I know -- It makes no sense whatsoever).

Not so the 90s!  

The average hiker of the time carried between four to five pounds of cheese when leaving town -- a weight that today is equal to many people’s big three.  And this love of cheese was fueled by the high quality fromageries of the trail towns.  Who can forget “Edam And Weep” in Duncannon?  “Limburger King” in Damascus?  Or possible the greatest cheese shop of the era -- “Live Brie Or Die” in Hanover?  This was a time of cheese-fueled hiking, a time before Baltimore Colby Jack shortened his trail name.  Sadly, this high-flying cheesy, lactose care-freesy era came to a close, with only the blue blaze trail to the Cheese Factory (between Tray Mt. & Indian Grave Gap in Georgia) and the walk past the Cheshire Mammoth Cheese monument in Massachusetts to remind us all of a better, cheese-filled time.

But an interest in cheese persists -- as you can imagine it would pretty much have to.  Because cheese will not be denied, and cheese will never surrender.  Even now, hiking forums are filled with questions about the longevity of cheese on the trail, and I think that this must at long last be the focus of this blog article, an article that I think we all have to admit is all over the place and not my best effort.

I feel like I am failing cheese.  But I must cheese press on.  Cheese would want me to.

The Longevity Of Cheese On The Trail

Always the question at the forefront of any prospective thru-hiker’s mind. Yes, also: what tent, where maildrops, which shoes, why hiking poles -- but always, always, HOW LONG CHEESE? And the answer, to be honest, is: not long. And not because of spoilage (after all, cheese extends the life of milk). But rather because while you may have the willpower to hike a long trail, you honestly don’t have the willpower to not eat the cheese you’re carrying. It will be gone all too soon, like the light dew of the morning, the crisp days of a New England Fall, indeed like the hike itself. Only more delicious. And with more fat.

Lactose-tolerant hikers enjoying a breakfast of
ice cream with cheese.

So once we accept the fact that the cheese will not last longer than its trail life, the questions you really want to ask become, “how much, which cheeses, and in what order?”

 I see where you’re going with those questions, so I'll continue the thought. You're going to want to bring a lot of cheese with you. I mean A LOT. Studies have shown that while lack of sunlight will eventually drive you insane, lack of cheese will make you incredibly unhappy, to the point that you will drive everyone else insane.

The two essentials for a successful thru-hike.

But you've got to get on a schedule. Say you're going out for a week. You want seven days worth of cheese, but not the SAME cheese. You want at least seven different kinds of cheese, and you want to eat them in ascending order of hardness.

So maybe you bring a huge thing of crumbly feta with you for a salad topping on day one, with maybe some goat cheese for lunch. Then you move on to your mozzarella ball on day two. A really big mozzarella ball, and you eat the whole thing by itself, like you're eating a snowball.

You get the point, so I won't belabor it. You end up on the last couple of days with some extra sharp Vermont cheddar and then a block of parm. I do recommend also carrying a can of grated parm to put on top of every other meal you eat, as well as to add to coffee and tea.

The cheese will last, as long as you eat it in the right order! You'll hike like you have wings! You'll stay toasty warm at night! You won't poop the whole time you're out there!

Good luck, and enjoy the cheese!

My god, I got a little amped up there at the end, didn’t I?  Hard not to do when writing about cheese, though.  I’m going to go lie down for a moment.

I’m back.  Now that I’ve calmed down a bit I’m looking back through this article and I realize that the whole thing is a mess.  All sorts of tenses, multiple perspectives, no coherent arc or pattern.  I mean, how did John Lennon get in there?

Have I failed cheese?  I think perhaps I have.  But the brilliant thing about cheese is that it loves us all unconditionally, with the exception of the lactose-intolerant.  Cheese forgives me and I know that cheese will give me a second and even third chance, which is more than I can say for hypothermia or my ex-girlfriend.

So I retire now from this piece, knowing that although it is awful, I will try again.  And write the greatest trail-related cheese article ever written by man.  Or cheese.

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