Rabbit From Flavor Of Love Weave

first stage: Burgos-Hontanas (30 km routes, hours of travel 8-13 and 14-17.30).
Arrival in Burgos to indecent hour of the morning, with no hope of finding bars open for breakfast. I rest on a bench waiting for dawn (I left last night from Barcelona and I spent the night in train), and when I wake up is exactly the right light to photograph the cathedral. Then intercept shells and arrows and start my own little way. The Mesetas have a long line of barren plateaus, monotonous, semi-deserted and beautiful. Lacking more than a fortnight I decided to start from here, giving up to the Pyrenees and Navarra. It was a desert that I needed, and I'm served.
Then of course, could also be more careful and not begin with a stop from 30 km, I was not even a veteran of the pilgrimage. Oddly, the feet are bear signs of devastation, only a couple of blisters. But chances are good that tomorrow I wake up with a tendonitis of the Madonna, just to stay on topic.
First Impressions: few foreigners, on the way to meet present predominantly indigenous. I came across a group of Italians that rested on Hornillos, but after a few minutes after my arrival did I get a bus and uploaded them. I am a Spaniard and we looked a bit 'surprised. When I said that God so you remember, maybe did not understand all the words but he understood the meaning.
Since I am going on holiday so preposterous, it is good that way you can understand it too. The question I have made many: Mox, why do the Camino de Santiago? And, depending on inspiration, I answered each time in a different way: I go for a walk, I want to find God and they told me that here there is something to sell, do not have a license, I have nothing be done in August, an indulgence is always helpful; I ate Chinese last year and four steps will help me to finish digesting. All good reasons, but in itself insufficient. The real reason is the same that led me to Trent: I felt the need to introduce a minimum of randomness and unexpected in my life.
And here starts the rant.
The highest aspiration of the bourgeois middle (sorry to the nearest, but this is a damn blog, not a treatise on sociology), for the holiday like life, is organized package, the all-inclusive: you know where you are, where eat, where to stay, what to see. The great enemy in the holiday as in life, is the unexpected in all its forms: the flight overbooked, the restaurant already complete, the apartments that proves to be a dump, the city sucks. The unexpected changes in the vacation time lost, that is a waste of money: a valuable investment and financial chronological went up in smoke.
So that's exactly what I do not want to become. The only antidote was known more or less from the goal, but with a vague idea of \u200b\u200bhow to get there and when, and even vaguer idea of \u200b\u200bhow to get back. Anyone who is handy low-cost know that a return ticket should always seemed a nice gesture to start with a single ticket, then we'll see.
I admit, my wandering is not a proper. The path is well marked and you can not lose (the real traveler can get lost, it will eventually lose), and in almost all the villages there are restaurants and lodges for pilgrims. Ultimately, the only uncertain variable truly is my strength, my ability to get to a place or ten miles ahead at the end of the day. It 'a little, but that's something. It 's like the difference between traveling on the highway and climb up a path. My path is more like a trip to a resort. It is not adventure, but it is not just a holiday. E 'walk for a few hundred kilometers from time to time discovering what awaits me. And 'experience.
Relations with other pilgrims when we meet we exchange a "hola" and a "buen camino". Difficult to get past, at least while it is running. The breath should be kept for the primary objective. In my case there is also the language barrier, and I noticed that the English have two special characteristics: 1) worse than the Italian average, speak English (there is) 2) do not understand that Italian and English are two different languages. When they ask me something I say "no hablo español ," to which I repeated the same question at the same speed and with the same words.
maybe in a week or two beg desperately for a human touch, even of humanity as the minimum my roommate (an exaggeration, mind you), but for now I'm happy that exchanges with other travelers merely a word and a smile. The only exception, I had dinner tonight with such a Maxim Lamarque, sixty-two years, retired bank, based in Reunion. E 'on the road since 8 April, has made the route Saint-Jean Santiago and then took the way back on foot, with the authentic spirit of the medieval pilgrim. At the height of the willing as our pathetic attempts at communication (he does not speak English, I do not speak French), I wrote on a napkin, trend albergues and a restaurant in Santiago.
long before I conclude this diary entry with a couple of well known service: Anyone want to venture into the journey, will do well 1) to get used to cold showers (I say literally, not as a metaphor for the terror that takes the walker when it finds a restaurant with a "pilgrim's menu" at 25 €) and 2) to adopt a policy flexibility to determine the ideal boundary between a pair of soiled underwear and a pair of clean underwear.