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

pulleys and fridge magnets but at this point it is still in the developmental stage (I keep running out of healthy salamanders) but will do my best to acknowledge any favourable reviews in person with an enthusiastic and heartfelt slap on the ass.
    And if you did not enjoy it but still managed to finish it then you have just demonstrated exactly the kind of indomitable spirit and mindless stubbornness you will need to complete the Camino. Congratulations!



Bonus Excerpt
    F rom Random Acts of Travel: Featuring Trepidation, Hammocks and Spitting

    Apparently the Word “Indian” Still Flies Down Here So Get Your Fill
    The taxi ride from the Trivandrum airport was in one of those ubiquitous and awesome old white Ambassadors, and resulted in more serious concern for our lives than full contact table tennis at Alan Alda’s sixty-fifth birthday party. It was a wild blur of palm trees, swerving, honking, banana stands, narrowly avoided oncoming traffic, cell phone signs, the smell of onions, far too much time spent on the wrong side of the road and men walking along the shoulder wearing some type of skirt-like contraption with the bottom tucked up and out like a large linen penis, faded and frayed as though it had been scrubbed far too vigorously, probably using unhealthy amounts of bleach. Although we really needn’t have worried, what with all the precautionary honking going on. Also, as an added safety measure we occasionally closed our eyes.
    Then, next thing you know, we were settled in a rickety little hut way up on the South Cliff in Varkala with great views, one comfortable chair and more wildlife scuffling loudly around the bamboo walls than either of us remembered requesting. Within hours we had seen cockroaches, centipedes, an unnervingly large snake, some overly curious crows, thousands of ants and one gigantic, heart-stopping spider that, by comparison, instantly banished those legions of large Guatemalan arachnids to “cute and perky” status. Somewhat impulsively, I took a bold swing at it with my trusty “Flip Flop of Death” but he/she/Your Majesty was far too quick, suddenly reappearing three feet away before we even heard the slap of rubber sole on dry, crumbling bamboo (normally the chilling sound of mortality). Which I suppose was just as well since, in hindsight, the two most likely results of that hasty offensive were either having the sandal slapped out of my hand dismissively, which of course would be embarrassing, or actually angering it and ending up pinned to the wall by the front of my shirt being forced to play a rough game of “Why are you hitting yourself?”, in all likelihood ending with me either crying or peeing myself. So, as I said, just as well.
    Although the actual beaches of Varkala are somewhat average (as average as hot sand in January fronted by gorgeous blue water and warm rolling waves can reasonably be called), the big highlights are actually the stunning cliffs looming over the beaches. From nearly anywhere along the many kilometres of cliff top walking paths you can enjoy dramatic views out over the ocean and down onto the legions of white, ant-like creatures far below. From certain vantage points it can feel like you’re sitting in nosebleed seats at a “Leather Skin” game (just a little creation I’ve been working on that involves practically nude people competing at sleeping, sweating and quietly developing melanoma. New moles are like a touchdown). All of the hotels, restaurants and shops are located along the cliffs as well, jumbled together haphazardly like drunken frat boys wrestling at a sausage party, or a large plate of mixed vegetables. We still really liked it, though, finding it sort of a middle ground between some of the untouched stretches of overly quiet sand found in places like Indonesia, Belize or Nicaragua and the teeming pockets of humanity one often finds in Mexico, Thailand or Hawaii. I can only imagine, though, what it must look like to someone who loved it ten or fifteen years ago. Seeing the rampant development and crowded sea side would have to be sadder than a snowman with a rotting carrot penis, or being David Schwimmer’s agent. The views, though, the views! I literally had to restrain myself from overdoing it on the cliff top photos, since it seems that around every corner is a scene just begging to be captured digitally forever, much like Sofia Vergara’s cleavage, but at some point you just have to say enough is enough. Which