Banished from Burgos

Our Saturday of rest in Burgos did not go as planned.  As it turns out, albergues are very strict about only letting pilgrims stay one night, so after much trudging around the city in our backpacks and several phone calls, we made reservations at an albergue in Rabé de las Calzadas, a town 13 km away.

Some strong-hearted members of the group decided to walk, but the rest (myself included!) decided to bus it.  We made sure to devour a Spanish favorite, churros con chocolate, first.

The bus dropped us off 2km from Rabé, and though the walk was short, it was clear we'd left the gritty glamour of Burgos behind us for the backcountry, for crumbling concrete houses and a woman smoking cigarettes behind a parted curtain.

Sunday morning, our knees stiff with the sudden cold air and our noses chilled, we embarked upon the meseta: the endless flat fields and plains between Burgos and Leon.  Sky so blue it hurts, with clouds that look computer generated.  As we move further west, it's earlier in growing season, wheat and sunflowers getting younger and younger before our eyes, like we're traveling back in time.

Maybe we are.  In Hontanas, where we stopped Sunday, there was no WiFi, supermarket, pharmacy, or ATM.  Just albergues and bars and Spanish flags draped over windowsills in celebration of the night's EuroCup soccer finals.  Maybe we're getting younger too: For dinner we made macaroni and cheese with sliced hot dogs.