I Feel Like Chicken Tonight...

Well hellooo there,

we are now in the beautiful Spanish city of Santo Domingo de la Calzada. So if I have my maths right this means we have walked over 1400 kms. This is good, ya? (Bet you didn´t know I also speak bad German).

Thanks for your feed-back about this blog. It seems you like to laugh at the French almost as much as I do. To be honest I´m a little nervous as to whether I will find such anecdotal treasures amongst the Spanish hills. The French made it just so easy for me - you would have to get up really early and practice NOT being funny not to be able to make the idea of pouting French men wearing tight spandex seem amusing. Merci beaucoup France et Vive la difference (especially with regards to national swim-wear choices)!

Here goes nothing - some thoughts that did occur to me while I was in the country commonly referred to as Spain:

- I think the true miracle of miracles, is that anyone can believe in them. The miracle that is believed to have occurred in the 14th century in Santo Domingo de la Calzada is particularly bizarre. The account goes something like this:

One day, a pilgrim family- father, mother, and son-arrived in Santo Domingo. At the inn where they stayed, the owner's daughter developed a crush on the boy or, in the words of the sixteenth-century Englishman Andrew Boorde, “for ther was a wenche the whych wolde haue had hym to medyll with her carnally.” But the boy's virtue could not be compromised while he walked. Angry at being scorned, the girl slipped a silver cup in the boy's rucksack. When the family was leaving town, she informed the local authorities of the apparent theft. Chased down, the boy proclaimed his innocence, but he was sentenced to death and hanged from a tree at the edge of town (interesting to see that they practised zero tolerance policing in those days... makes the previous New York Mayor, Giuliani seem a little soft...).

The grieving parents walked on to Santiago to fulfill their pledge. On their return trip, as they approached Santo Domingo, they could still see the silhouette of their son's body dangling from a branch. (In some parts of Europe, the indignity of a death sentence was rounded out by leaving the body to rot out of the rope.) As they neared the tree, though, they could see their son moving: He spoke, explaining that their dutiful journey to Santiago had won James's heart. The saint had returned the boy's life and then held him up by the arms until their return.

The parents ran to the town mayor and insisted that he come and see what had happened. The mayor was seated at his dinner table, ready to cut into two hot roasted chickens. He dismissed the parents as insane and complained that their crying was interrupting his meal. Annoyed at their persistence, he finally shouted, “Your boy can no more be alive than these chickens could get up and crow!” Immediately, the main course stirred. The roasters kicked away the garnishes and vegetables. They stretched their plucked brown wings. They squawked and danced across the table. The boy was cut down and the miracle proclaimed. The story of resurrected chickens had a profound tug on the medieval mind. Hundreds of versions of the miracle-dead and dancing fowl- can be found throughout Europe, and paintings of Santo Domingo's chickens can been seen as far east as Uberlingen and Rothenburg ob der Tauber. The motto of the town remains: "Donde la gallina canto despues de asasa", meaning "Where the hen crowed after being roasted". Today, they still keep a pair of live white chickens in a chicken coup near the cathedral´s south door in honour of the miracle.

Though it seems to me highly unlikely that a roasted chicken danced a jig (let alone the other stuff) I think it for the best that if anyone wants to cook for me post-completion of the Camino (hint, hint!), we avoid a sunday roast. (See what I mean about being funny about the Spanish. Look how much I had to research and write just to arrive at a rather weak punch-line. Give me men in Lycra any day.)

- I have a Lonely Planet guide to speaking Spanish. My favourite bit is the chapter on "Romance". There are many, many amusing phrases contained within this section (allowing the traveller to deal with amorous situations with imaginary Spanish lovers) but my favourite by far is: "No te preocupes, lo hago yo", meaning "Don´t bother, I´ll do it myself".

- Me-thinks the Spanish are guilty of liking Kitsch a bit too much. For example, in some churches they have replaced the option of being able to light a candle and make a prayer, with a big plastic box containing plastic replica candles. The would-be-devotee simply inserts 20 cents into a slot whereby a red light illuminates at the end of one of these "candles". No, no, no.

- I met a very interesting woman from Belgium whom is a dancer. Her name is Laure and she is confident she could beat me in an arm-wrestle. Yet again, I am guilty of bringing your attention to non-salient facts. The reason I mention our meeting is her telling me an anecdote that I think beautifully illustrates someone solving a "problem" that didn´t need to be solved. Laure is currently working on a film that requires dancing while in a swimming pool. This, as you might imagine, is fairly tricky as it is very difficult to dance for more than about 15 seconds under-water without coming-up for air. The dance sequence lasts several minutes and so lots of stopping and starting was required with lots of re-filming necessary.

To my amazement, the pool that Laure and her fellow dancers use, is fitted with underwater cameras that use motion detecting software. If they notice that a person has stopped moving for more than 30 seconds they sound alarm sirens and lights. This ruined at least one of their filming endeavours as the dance piece required one of the dancers to sink without moving for more than 30 seconds.

Now, I know these cameras are here as a safety precaution, but isn´t this what life-guards are for? I don´t know about you, but the last time I checked the guys and girls wearing red sitting on their high-chairs, they didn´t seem overly worked. I suspect they might like a chance to actually do something and could probably fit a rescue into their diaries... .

- The Spanish seem to like being creative in their toilets. One of the bars I went into had loads of portraits of the owners (in various pouty poses) pasted all around the urinals. Another helped you indentify which room was for men and for women by having life-sized naked pictures of the designated sex on the walls.

- I think I have already experienced what my life will be like post 60 years old. As you are aware I am currently on a stimulants ban. The consequence of this is that on several occasions I have sat down for a hot chocolate in a cafe only to promptly fall asleep. When I awake, I have inevitably dribbled down myself and I am confused as to where I am and as to why there is a cold "hot" chocolate in front of me. I miss my poisons.

- Snoring. As I have already confessed I am guilty of snoring. But a few nights ago I met my nemesis. He was a very muscly Italian man whose snore made the floor shake. It seems he kept most of the dormitory awake the majority of the night. After about an hour of hearing him growl I decided I had to move my mattress out of the room into the outside corridor, for some peace and quiet. I believe he was a cyclist and this explains why he had a spare cycle tire against the wall, near his head. He was sleeping right next to the door and had inadvertently moved the wheel so that it blocked the door and my exit. While attempting to leave the room, the opening door knocked the bicycle wheel over the snoring man´s head. The Italian immediately woke up to see me standing by his bed with a mattress while he had a tire around his body, pinning his arms to his side. Unfortunately, I did not know the Italian for, "Forgive me for treating you as a hoopla game my Italian friend, but it´s just that while attempting to leave the room I inadvertently knocked this-here tire around your torso..." so I pretended not to notice and quickly left the room. I then spent the rest of the night in fear for my life and wondering what the Italian man would do to me in the morning... . Note to self: in future avoid treating muscly sleeping Italian men as hoopla targets.

See ya. x