Viana do Castelo

My left foot started aching yesterday, and it’s no better today. My right foot is still sporting a blister. Im feeling very un-pilgrimish.

There’s a strong cadre of Camino hikers dedicated to suffering. These are the folks who March 20 kilometers a day, blisters be damned. They sleep in bunk beds and share simple pilgrim meals at albergues, which are cheap, trim hostels designed to offer simplicity. This group holds a certain sway over the rest of us ‘tourists.’

So it’s difficult to chose a 5-mile taxi ride to the nearby city of Viano do Costello. Part of me wants to be a tough guy. But the foot part of me is vehemently opposed. I can’t be both smart and tough. I lean tourist when it comes to pain.

In the morning, owner and gifted storyteller Cecilia at Casa De Reina tells the tale of her own 30-kilometer pilgrimage to Fatima. By the time she reached the town across the river from her destination, she had a dozen blisters. I am convinced when she says she wished she could have walked on her hands. She quit her pilgrimage and instead offered prayers to the saint of the town across the river from Fatima. There is no such saint.

“You have to listen to your body,” Cecelia says.

I’ve not shared my own failed-feet story, so I take this as a sign. And take the taxi.

Guilt is a tasty dish, so I can’t completely stop ruminating over what a wimp I’m being. There are, however, plenty of reminders in Viana do Costello that my plan was never about pain. I’m here to meet people and soak up the culture. Happily, that’s exactly what I get.

It starts at Casa Sandra, the embroidery shop where Cecilia buys her beautiful, traditional linens. The driver drops me in front of the shop, which is in old town across from the Lima River.

Closed. Darn.

I hobble a half mile to a couple other shops, and pass my hotel for the night. (Kismet! I’ll find it easily later.) The other shops are fine, but touristy. I grab a coffee, because that’s what you do with a couple of extra minutes in Portugal, and head back to Casa Sandra.

“Please be open. Please be open. Please be open.”

It’s 2 pm, and the gentleman has just opened the doors. (Note to self: I repeat, nothing is open during siesta.) There are plenty of simple things here, but I know these folks have something more because I saw in in Chafe. I track down five finely embroidered pillow covers. By now Sandra has shown up and we’re having the familiar English/Portuguese/pantomime conversation.

“I do embroidery myself. This is beautiful work. Do you have others?”

“No. These take much time.”

I pick two. I also choose a table runner, because I can’t help myself. I ask the couple to ring me up. It’s big dollars. I don’t blink. Cecilia has told me 80-year-old women make these cloths. And I know from experience the hours and hours that they sat pulling floss though linen.

Sandra and hubby are shocked and delighted that I don’t haggle. It’s a big destination town. I imagine they constantly dicker with tourists.They toss a couple of extra trinkets in with my linens, their faces aglow at having been appreciated.

“Our hearts go with you on your Camino,” they say. I know they mean it.

I spend the rest of my cheater’s afternoon hobbling around Old Town. I come across the Museo de Traje de Viana do Castellano. It’s an old bank building filled with the linen-and-wool, traditional costumes of the area. It was on my list of things to do. More kismet.

I grab a burger at a nearby cafe and drink a sangria the size of my head before getting a decent nights sleep at my hotel.

My foot still hurts, and I haven’t completely shaken my guilt. Yet, here is another day that has unfolded beautifully.Læs mere