May 18th
Got my passport and map. Start tomorrow. Now enjoying...hold on. Oh, well, kinda enjoying glass of white wine and waiting for pizza. Two car train from Bayonne with grey-haired Europeans. Pray I can outwalk them, as we'll all likely be starting at same time. Did hear one young American voice coming out of the refugio, complaining/querying the cost of something. From the station, I followed signs to "centre ville" then a main road with first clusters of confused looking old backpackers looking at maps, then the road signs. I followed clusters instead of signs until their density levels indicated I was right outside the official start (bureaucratically speaking) of the camino.
Backpacks (all huger than mine, but so are the people) lined the back wall, hiking poles protruding from each like protective thorns. Along other wall three or four tables pushed together, a middle-aged official (volunteer?) behind each, sorting out the pilgrim with map and passport.
Ended up standing behind the murderer from Bayonne. I asked him if this was a queue and was relieved when he spoke no English. "Italiano." Then a couple got up from the closest official and he made to sit down, but the official said, "English. No Italiano. English or Spanish. Italiano there." He pointed at guy at furthest table.
I cried out, "English!" and made my way past the other people who'd been ahead of me. His English was rudimentary. Like, he indicated a point on the way to Roncesvalles and said, "Forest. Beautiful view. Danger. Slippery. Last year, woman dead." He asked if I needed a place to stay (too late to start today. He said 9-11 hours to Roncesvalles and "extremely difficult"). I said yes. He said talk to the lady one door down on the right. But, as other pilgrims were waiting at the door, I kept walking. Happened to look in open door of another refugio and saw adolescent sitting, slope-shouldered, on top bunk and that decided me. I'd get a regular hotel room. Probably be sick of communal living by this time next week. So, 40 euros for top floor room (no elevator). They didn't even ask me my name -- the young man just showed me up. On entering, I said forlornly, "No CNN?" He looked around and then understood. "No, no tv." But, at least I have a shower. Thank god I stole a book from the other hotel. Also regretting I didn't bring a French phrase book.
Don't yet know which path to take tomorrow, but will be glad to get started -- St Jean Pied de Port is rather oppressive, though less so now, maybe now that he hordes of identically clad (like me) pilgrims have disappeared and the postcard shops closed. Nothing but identical cafes and refugios.
Hmm...the waiter or whatever here sings as well. A musical people.
Walked a bit out of the old town and saw down below a horde of tour buses -- suppose it carries people's crap and then takes them around for little jaunts at each destination.
Gosh, I hope I can find another book before finishing this one. What madness to assume I could go without!
"The 'now' was both specific and general, at once the next hour which somehow had to be filled, and the rest of a life which seemed increasingly predictable and pointless, in a vaguely cosy way." - Verga, author.