Day 32: Sarria to O Pena
Ah, Sarria! After an emotional start on crutches from Sarria in 2013, I looked forward to a different exit from Sarria this time. Again, be careful what you wish for. “Different” can involve pain without crutches. Damn!
Our hospitalero hugged me on our way out the door. The front door sat about four steps up a long-ass flight of stairs I could not avoid when leaving Sarria. I passed the arrow I’d posed beside two years ago, but resisted taking another picture there. No point mocking the past. I did not want to invite any more trouble.
Our upward climb was greeted with more hills, but the uphills wind through lovely forests, past stone walls covered in mossy green, along softer paths. We were in Galicia. Yet, even green Galicia wore the scars of the scorching heat wave that earlier swept through Europe. Berries hung like little stones, unwanted by passing pilgrims or birds. I remembered enjoying their juicy deliciousness in the autumn of 2013.  
Andrew and I could not stop recalling the people and coffees enjoyed at different spots. These memories do not mock the past the way a New and Improved Penny photo might. We enjoyed pointing out the exact rock I sat on when exhausted, or the secluded area where one of us…ah…peed in Nature.
However, we also experienced another element of Spanish culture that was somewhat stressful: the Spanish vacation period. The Spanish vacation period begins August 1st. Crowds of Spanish tourigrinos, summer camp pilgrims, school groups (religious, choirs), families (we really liked these short-haulers), and what seemed like various exercise club members hit the Camino. One Spaniard, a long-hauler from France, lamented, “The Camino ended in Sarria, then the Carnival began.”
The Camino from Sarria became: a noisy, chatty, overrun, colourful, Spandex, scantily-clad fashion show. In some perverse way I enjoyed the gaping of the teenage group. Their eyes openly shocked when I aired my ugly bandaged, bloody, blistered feet at the ends of slightly (?) hairy legs. If being a pilgrim meant looking like that….
Our hospitalera in O Pena explained that the 115-kilometre short walkers reach into their closets and grab whatever matches and looks good, then hit the road in thin-soled glittery flip flops to have five cheap days with their friends. They order their food and expect it prepared instantly. “Even at Burger King you must stand aside and wait for them to make it,” she explained.
I was not as annoyed by the shift in atmosphere along the Camino as Andrew was. I became inexplicably proud of my Camino wounds and hunchback of Notre Dame schlepp, and so proud of Andrew quietly bearing the burden of two backpacks. I started to come to terms with how the Camino shifts your perspective. Here, 115 kilometres is a short walk. BUT, if you were to say to friends at home, “Hey! We have a week’s vacation. Let’s walk 115 kilometres over the next five days! What do you say?” …well, you know…
Keeping that thought before me, it was easier to be gentler with the short haulers who, for whatever reasons, walked 115 kilometres that my own kids would never consider.
Still…we arrived in Ferreiros looking for a bunk. Completo. 
We went to the next place. Completo. 
I hated the word and the short-haulers.
We walked on and almost past a tiny albergue in A Pena. The owner is from the Philippines. She speaks seven languages and makes everything, including amazing ice cream in unusual flavours: ginger-cinnamon, olive oil, dulce de leche (an Argentinian favourite), and chocolate. We enjoyed our meal with two old Sicilian friends, Salvatore and Vittorio, and were later joined by a young German couple. Six beds in the albergue. Six pilgrims. Perfecto!
We toasted the night with wine and complimentary shots of Grappa. We fell into lower bunks, or climbed metal ladders to top bunks. Lights out for six tired pilgrims, including two Sicilians we felt we’d known a lifetime. Another gift of the Camino.
¡Ultreia!
~Penny