This post is to document some of the more lighthearted and ridiculous stuff that happens on the Camino that might be NSFW… or FB or whatever. Just some memorable and goofy stuff that’s not exactly suited for our more… genteel associates. In addition to all the deep spiritual/relational hoohah that’s been posted by Kev on his blog and Doug on his FB profile, this will give you a bit of the flavor (and stench) of what it’s like walking the Camino with us… (Doug, me, and Kev as seen above from left to right, at the monastery at Samos.)
- Our first leg was from Ponferrada to Villafranca. The second half is through beautiful vineyard country. The first half is along a busy highway in the middle of a semi-industrial/urban wasteland. From our Aussie acquaintance, Matt, at the alburgue in Villafranca, the modified rules for the Camino- generally:
- Live in the moment
- Welcome each day, its pleasures and its challenges
- Make others feel welcome…
- (and F* You Ponferrada…)
- The legend of the “German Man-Lady.” There are some folks on the trail… for whom based on appearances alone… it might be kind of ambiguous as to whether they be a “he” or a “she.” We met a German… person… our first day. We saw her quite a few times, and we were originally quite impressed with her pace and endurance, considering the… mechanics of the grab-bag of anatomical features involved here… until we saw her getting out of a taxi at one of our destinations. Total bummer. Anyway, we agreed that “German Man-Lady” would be a great band name. I’m looking for other members to start work on an album. I’m thinking it’d be a Swedish metal band.
- I’m proud to say that I played a part in introducing Kev and Doug to a single malt scotch that they both really like… but 90% of the credit goes to a nice Spanish bartender in Vega de Valcarce. I was craving some scotch to accompany some good Cuban tobacco and Belgian dark chocolate, and the first decent bottle I had seen since arriving in Spain was the Cardhu 12-year single malt. I indicated, what I thought, was that I wanted a single or a short pour. The bartender promptly poured about 6 ounces- and I had an aneurysm freaking out about how much that was gonna cost, and that I really didn’t need to drink that much. I then proceeded to ask how much it cost, and she said… 2 euro… and I proceeded to have a second aneurysm. That’s the cheapest and best drink I’ll ever buy in my life, it’s all downhill from here. Doug was gonna buy some, and asked a different bartender if he had any more Cardhu in back- they didn’t, so the bartender just emptied what was left of the bottle into a glass and just gave it to him for free. Later Kev decided we didn’t have enough to drink, so he went to get us a few J and B’s. He walked back with two glasses with another 6+ ounces each… for 2.50 per drink. It looked like apple juice, not scotch. (Note: the crappy blended scotch was actually more expensive than the 12 yr. single malt… pretty sure the barkeeps had no idea what’s going on.) The main point is, if you wanna buy these guys scotch, get the Cardhu 12-year.
- I… unfortunately have been trapped with two of the most prolific and gifted farters I’ve ever come across. Doug, for his volume and duration; Kev his astounding toxicity.
At the alburgue in O Cebreiro, after a big dinner, Doug was courteous enough to decide to vacate his bowels of any excess gas before entering the dormitory room jammed with 24 peregrinos in like a few hundred square feet. He proceeded to audibly rip-ass for at least 10 seconds… it was incredible. I feel like it was the farting equivalent of watching Michael Jordan’s free throw line dunk. The hang time… it just seems to go on and on…
The next night, we splurge for a triple room in a pension in Triacastela, so we can get some good sleep. Kev gets the bed by the window cause he likes it cool at night, and Doug gets the one furthest away, cause he likes it warm. This information is important, ’cause there’s a slight breeze into the room through the window. Due to the breeze, Kev’s gas blows into the room, and away from the source. As a result, he doesn’t smell his own farts… and he starts happily tooting away. It’s not epic- nothing 10 seconds long, they don’t last even a second long really.. and not particularly loud. But… the smell. The first whiff, and I was just filled with wonder. Like… how deep is the ocean?… how many stars are there in the universe?… how do Kev’s farts smell so bad? After the first time I was like…. haha, I ain’t even mad, I’m just impressed. Then there was the second, third, fourth, etc. Each time, just as shocking in it’s pungency. I think Kev’s sphincter may have free will, cause apparently he can’t stop it even if he wants to. I think I recall him rebuking his own butthole but it didn’t appear to work. Anyway. At some point we made the comparison to the miracle of birth. Except for …”methane babies.” And we started naming them. “Ubaldo” for one- that’s apparently a popular name around these parts.
So that’s the stuff you don’t get to see on the KJcamino blog and facebook.
Beauty, eh.