Language Lessons

I first meet the twins, las gamelas, in Logrono. Felicidad, well-named, always smiling, with waist length blonde hair, strikingly stylish and impossibly thin, seems to radiate happiness.  Marilo is identical, but with red-auburn hair. They do not appear to speak much English. 

We walk together toward Los Arcos with Gaby, a butcher from Valencia, making our first stop at the famous fuente de vino in Irache, where two spigots freely dispense water and wine.

The twins are school teachers from Bilbao. Gaby is a butcher from Valencia. The correct verb to describe our walking is andar, not caminar. The beetle I notice is un escarabajo, which leads to a discussion of Egyptian art, which leads to the distinctions among antiguo, anciano and viejo. Felicidad is an art teacher, which leads to a discussion of the Spanish education system of escuelas, colegios and facultades. And I’m actually understanding this stuff, kind of!

We stop at a bar. Flushed with my new fluency, I try to strike up a conversation with Gaby.  He doesn’t have the slightest idea of what I am trying to say to him, and I have no idea of what he answers.

By mid afternoon I realize that I can still understand Felicidad’s Spanish walking down hill, but not walking up.  Elizabeth from Ireland comes along, and I decide to walk with her, choosing the comfort of my native tongue. That evening in Los Arcos, I have my picture taken, smiling, sandwiched between Felicidad and Marilo. “The fantasy of every old man!” I say. “Don’t joke about that,” says Elizabeth.  I was joking.

Between Villafranca and Atapuerca I meet seven women traveling together. I know they are from northern Europe, because their English is better than mine. They are from Estonia. Aada teaches Estonian to immigrants. She tells me that there was a contest for the most beautiful language, and that Estonian came in second to Italian. As the women talk amongst themselves, their language sounds like water over stones, and I think it should have placed first.

I ask Aada why they come so far from their beautiful country to walk.  She tells me they come for the mountains.  Spain is the second most mountainous country in Europe, after Switzerland.  Estonia is flat. Right now, flat sounds good to me.

She introduces me to their leader.  MAHR-i-ka, as she corrects my pronunciation: with the accent on the customary penultimate syllable, the word would be a derogatory epithet for a homosexual. Marika has done the Camino ten times, once all the way from Estonia. I ask her why? She tells me the first time she walked from St. Jean she was looking for answers.  She didn’t find her answers, so the next time she walked from Tallinn, 5,000 kilometers to Santiago. “Did you get your answers then?” “No.” “Then why did you do eight more Caminos?” “I just liked it.”

We stop at a bar and Marika introduces me to my now favorite drink, tinto verano, red wine over ice with lemon, aqua con gas, and a splash of sweet vermouth. The Estonian women end their day’s walk at Atapuerca, the site of the oldest human remains in Europe. I continue toward Burgos.

Spanish is not the only language I can’t speak. In the Plaza Mayor in Burgos I am trying to give away my wooden walking stick, which I have just replaced with two metal sticks. I spot two girls speaking German I think must be peregrinos, but now nicely dressed. I ask where are they from, and they tell me Munster. I say there must be many peregrinos from Munster, as I met two just last week. They tell me they are the two I met.

In an effort to recover, I remember a line that Toni sometimes used. In my best schoolboy German I say, “Sie sicher aufraumen gut!” Met with total incomprehension, I try in English, “You sure clean up well!” I am relieved to get a polite laugh. They take the stick.

A few kilometers outside of Burgos I meet Julia.  “De donde?” She’s from Mexico City. “Where did you start your Camino?” I ask. “Roncesvalles.” I feel obliged to correct her Latin American pronunciation: “Ron  thay VIE eth.”

Toni and I struggled with Spanish for years. I got the grammar and vocabulary a bit better than she did, so I thought it unfair that she was the one who could actually talk with people, understand and be understood. Unfair, but not surprising. Note to self: for the next Camino, bring a pocket dictionary.  Or, better, just learn the damned language. 

Apologies to my friends and teachers,  Denise and Lito. Since I have not installed a Spanish keyboard with Spanish characters, of course everything is misspelled.