Yesterday we began from Palas de Rei actually at 5:30 for once, and it was pitch black outside. It was like we were walking at night, through all these spooky forested hills. Something about the cold air or the stark fear or the lack of bathrooms drove us on, though, and we made great time. Planning to walk 5km, we arrived at the 15km mark fresh-faced and exhilirated. I even got to try pulpo, a local dish of boiled octopus doused in amazing olive oil, seasoned with spicy paprika, and served with crispy salted french fries. 10 a.m. octopus -- absolutely divine.
Then things started to get a little hairy. It got hot, and the terrain got rather steep, and the day was getting later. A temporary reprieve was an honor system fruit standl selling raspberries for a Euro. But the day dragged on, our feet aching, our brains growing narrow and irritable. We were outside Ribodiso, the 25km mark, ready to drag ourselves exultantly into the city.
And then we found out we had to walk 3 more kilometers.
It was an honest mix-up with albergue reservations. Everyone responded differently. My group, the caboose, added to the days obscene calorie count of ice cream, soda, cookies, and bread by inventing a delicacy of epic proportions: homemade fruit tarts. Take a knock-off of the already cheap and metallically sweet Principe cookie (2 round biscuits with chocolate cream in between). Separate the biscuits and place a slice of nectarine and a raspberry on the biscuit with chocolate. Eat. Be infinitely happy.
After more ice cream and more confusion involving plans to backtrack to Ribodiso, phones dying in the middle of calls, and a hot, hot march up a hill, we made it safe and sound to a private albergue in Arzúa, where the greatest conflict was the battle with the washing machines.
Well, except for the part where the group nearly fulfilled other pilgrims' prophecies and broke like glass into a handful of gleaming, sharp shards. But that, my dear, is another story.
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