Behind the Albergue Door: Inspiration Agony Adventure on the Camino de Santiago

plus side, baby-faced Andres has never looked as excited on the pitch as he apparently was to be aiming that phallic ice cream cone at his grinning mouth.
    Do those overwrought Spanish soap operas have any redeeming qualities?
    Well, at least they aren’t overwrought Spanish talk shows. And there must be something to them considering the one time we found ourselves lucky enough to have access to couches and cable TV (parish albergue in Santo Domingo de Calzada) it was one of these shows that all the Spanish men crowded around to watch, not football, not the news, not even that woman who dances the weather forecast in a halter top. Plus, the actors speak really slowly and dramatically which makes it easy for even the least accomplished Spanish speakers (i.e. every person in England) to understand them and, eventually, form a strong opinion as to what Carmela thinks she is up to having an affair with Alejandro’s brother when everyone can tell the person she really wants to be alternately slapping, kissing and crying on is the Admiral’s wife, Roberta.
    Fact: 42% of all Spanish women have sex for money.
    Fact: Sometimes I just make shit up for no reason.
    What is the etiquette when waiting in line for a bus?
    First of all, we were only taking the bus back downtown after shoe, toque and scarf shopping at Decathlon sporting goods store, so don’t start thinking there were any shortcuts taking place. Second of all, it seemed as though the rules were very similar to home. Namely, the first people to arrive go to the front of the line. The last people to arrive go to the back of the line. Simple enough, right? What may differ is what happens when two teenage boys (I could tell they were teenagers because of their dramatic faux-hawks and smirking mouths that made you just ache to destroy them with a metal toaster) buck the system and suddenly show up and insert themselves third and fourth from the front. In Canada this would probably result in some dirty looks and a bunch of angry muttering. In Spain, however, this apparently means that anywhere from six to eight elderly ladies with tightly permed gray hair and unstylish coats that smell like mothballs will surround the culprits with a quickness that belies their use of sensible walking canes and proceed to harangue them vociferously and shrilly for a number of humiliating minutes, occasionally poking them weakly in the chest to emphasize their point. That point being, it seemed, that their indiscretion was serious enough for their souls to burn in hell for all of eternity.
    Is it gross being around all those Spaniards?
    Sometimes, but if you can get used to sharing a bar of soap with a Scottish prison guard you can get used to anything.
    Why do Spanish waitresses hate me so much?
    Normally I would chalk it up to the hickey on your neck shaped like a goat’s mouth, but it is just possible there is more to it than that. First off, we did meet a number of very friendly, very competent waiters and waitresses throughout our five weeks. It’s just that they happened to be in the minority, and highly weighted toward people who remained behind the bar and didn’t have to run back and forth to our table every time we remembered some other little tidbit we’d forgotten we had a hankering for. As for reasons, one could have been the fact that we were making our way through exhausted towns and villages at the very tail end of a hectic season of having cheap, dirty pilgrims ask for things that aren’t on the menu. Some suggested it could be as simple as staff being tired of tourists and fed up with serving free ice cream cups for dessert. Or maybe language played a part, or a lack thereof, in the case of most pilgrims, many of whom, even after four weeks on the trail were still pronouncing ham (“jamon” in Spanish) as either “jay-men” or “HAM!!” Personally, I think it is simply a cultural thing and that all Spanish wait staff would be well-served to invest in some looser, more comfortable underwear.
    How would you describe All Saints Day in Spain in one word?
    Underwhelming.
    In one sentence?
    Underwhelming, and all the stores are closed.

Dylan
    I’m not gonna lie, Dylan isn’t my favourite. But he has stories, too, and fits a certain profile, so who am I to say his stories are less deserving than Zoe’s?
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    Dylan Davidson is 20 years old and hails from Des Moines, Iowa. He is a business major at Iowa State, or at least he was until he decided to