The day started overcast and threatening rain, but except for a very light shower soon after I started, the rain held off. I had intended to stop short of Pamplona today and walk through the city tomorrow, but I couldn't find a place to stay, because the Festival of San Fermin is taking place here this week. Every bed before Pamplona was booked full, and I had been told repeatedly that all of the pilgrim's refiges in Pamplona were closed due to the fiesta. I was fully prepared to walk through Pamplona and all of its suburbs and was even looking longingly at the city buses. Taking a bus downtown and a second one out to the western suburbs would save me miles of walking. However, I would not be able to say that I had walked the entire Camino, so I trudged on.
Just as I was approaching the wall of the old city, I saw a sign saying "Casa Paderborn, Abierto." I knew that Casa Paderborn was a refuge run by Germans, but I had expected it to be closed. I detoured left, and a few minutes later I was standing in front of an older German couple who answered my inquiry with the words, "Ja, wir haben noch ein Bett frei." I had arrived in time to get the last bed. I had lugged my backpack 14 miles and was grateful to be able to stop.
Soon after I arrived, a young Chinese woman and a young Japanese woman arrived together. I had been running into them off and on for the past several days. They are hiking the Camino together and speak to each other in basic French, although both also know a few words in English. They were also looking for a place to stay. The German couple speaks no French, so I ended up translating between German and French until an agreement was reached to allow them to throw down their sleeping pads in the cellar.
Here's a picture of where I'm staying.
I walked around Pamplona a bit after arriving.There is no doubt that there is a strong Basque separatist movement here. I hear about it feom the people I talk to, and I've read about it on signs and written in graffiti ever since I crossed the border, written in Basque, Spanish, French, and English. The sign and graffiti below are in Pamplona
I think I have figured out the way that Pamplonans honor San (Saint) Fermin, the city's patron saint. They dress in white clothing with a red sash around the waist and a red bandana around the neck and honor His Saintliness by walking around with an alcoholic drink in one hand and a lighted cigarette in the other making as much noise as possible. Both the drink and cigarette are replenished until one is so drunk that one cannot speak coherently. At about 3 or 4 am, one gets two or three hours sleep at home or in a convenient doorway and then starts again. There are bands playing everywhere in the streets with an emphasis on drums. For the first time, I heard the cumbia Juana la Cubana played mainly on snare drums. I also had more than one drunk hanging onto one of my shoulders speaking to me incoherently in a mixture of unconnected Basque, Spanish, and English words. The following picture will give you an idea, although it doesn't do justice to the density of the crowd in the background.
Just as I was approaching the wall of the old city, I saw a sign saying "Casa Paderborn, Abierto." I knew that Casa Paderborn was a refuge run by Germans, but I had expected it to be closed. I detoured left, and a few minutes later I was standing in front of an older German couple who answered my inquiry with the words, "Ja, wir haben noch ein Bett frei." I had arrived in time to get the last bed. I had lugged my backpack 14 miles and was grateful to be able to stop.
Soon after I arrived, a young Chinese woman and a young Japanese woman arrived together. I had been running into them off and on for the past several days. They are hiking the Camino together and speak to each other in basic French, although both also know a few words in English. They were also looking for a place to stay. The German couple speaks no French, so I ended up translating between German and French until an agreement was reached to allow them to throw down their sleeping pads in the cellar.
Here's a picture of where I'm staying.
Incidentally, as I was writing the above, I was conversing with a middle-aged French woman who said that she and her husband started their Camino in Paris over a month ago.
Back to the day's march. One thing about speaking four languages is that I can hold a comversation with almost everyone except the Italians, who mostly speak only Italian. The Spanish I meet on the route become very talkative when they realize that I'm fluent in their language. There was a spot on the trail from Zubiri to Pamplona where the trail divides in two. Just before I reached fork, I greeted a little old lady (probably close to my age), and she suggested that I take the upper fork and visit the old church at Zabaldica. When I entered the church, the Japanese and Chinese women were inside. Also inside was a Spanish guy who insisted that I climb the narrow circular staircase to the top of the steeple and ring one of the oldest bells in Navarre, cast in the 1300s. The camera app on my cellphone refused to work -- moisture problems, I think -- so I didn't get a picture. However, here's a picture that I took later of one of the better sections of trail that I walked.
And here is a picture of the Bridge of the Magdalena, which I walked across to enter Pamplona followed by a picture of one the walls of the old city.
I think I have figured out the way that Pamplonans honor San (Saint) Fermin, the city's patron saint. They dress in white clothing with a red sash around the waist and a red bandana around the neck and honor His Saintliness by walking around with an alcoholic drink in one hand and a lighted cigarette in the other making as much noise as possible. Both the drink and cigarette are replenished until one is so drunk that one cannot speak coherently. At about 3 or 4 am, one gets two or three hours sleep at home or in a convenient doorway and then starts again. There are bands playing everywhere in the streets with an emphasis on drums. For the first time, I heard the cumbia Juana la Cubana played mainly on snare drums. I also had more than one drunk hanging onto one of my shoulders speaking to me incoherently in a mixture of unconnected Basque, Spanish, and English words. The following picture will give you an idea, although it doesn't do justice to the density of the crowd in the background.
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