Monday, May 21, 2012
Santiago de Compostela to Esteiro de Muros

I must get to my cousin's apartment in Esteiro de Muros on the estuary some time today, but I am in no rush. I have some trepidation about going there: the last time I spent any time in Esteiro it was 1965 and I was eleven years old. My father's first cousin, Ramiro, was a teacher and head of the local school, which was only a short distance from the beach. He lived in a building attached to the school, a perk of his position, with his wife Sarita, and their two young daughters, Rosy and . My parents, my sister and I stayed in rooms above Bar Carmina, a bar across the street from Ramiro's home, which meant that we joined Sarita and her young daughters at the beach every day. Sarita, a person with a positive and practical disposition, gave my parents a bit of a break by taking us on beach excursions, so my parents could spent time with family members and friends (one and the same) they had not seen since their 1965 trip.

That was then, and this is now, so I dawdle in Santiago, visiting the shops selling traditional Galician jewelry: vermeil filigree pendants, coral beads, silver pieces, and carved jet. The carved jet is particularly prized. Jet is a petrified wood that has been carbonized to hardness. One store is run by a family called Rodriguez Mayer which also runs a museum devoted to jet jewelry and carvings. The cross of Santiago, a sword with a scallop shell at its center, is a popular subject to carve, as are scallop shells, the symbol of the pilgrim. Amparo, who runs the shop with her mother, is surrounded by a few thousand pieces of Galician fine craftsmanship. She shows me a large antique rosary that belongs to her mother: its beads are made of garnet, the cross of vermeil. It looks like one an infanta would wear. Amparo shows me another in tarnished silver, to which are attached old silver religious medals no longer minted. Unlike the other stores that make up the acebecheria --the street off the Cathedral where the sellers of jet pieces have their stores-- Amparo knows and loves the pieces, and is happy to spend time sharing her knowledge with others.

She wants to know something about me, too, which leads to her asking about what life is like in the United States. When I say I think on average, Americans work more than Spaniards, she nods her head in vigorous agreement.

"Yes, it's true! And don't apologize for saying it: it's a big problem here. The Museum can't open because our employee called in sick on account of a cold. She has been out seven days, because she knows she has the days according to the law, so even if she is not really sick any more, she does not come in, so she can use up the days."

I have another encounter that tells something of the state of things in my next stop, Bar Rosalia at 10 rua do Franco, where I ate tapas last night. The man behind the bar who serves me my lunch, Fernando Javier Lopez, is respectful, but quickly discerns that I am American. He confides that he worked in New Jersey with the company that owns Red Lobster and the Olive Garden chains, but returned to Galicia four years ago.

"Now I want to go back. I have another job --I am a physical education teacher at the university, coaching soccer, basketball --you name it. But I want to go back. There a mentality here --everyone is a king. One thing I learned in America is the importance of teamwork. If you don't work a a team, nothing gets done. Here nothing gets done."

After explaining this, he asks whether if I have an e-mail address, could he contact me for information as he prepares his return. I am glad to do so, and wish him well.

Lunch ended, I go back to the hotel. I am leaving my suitcase with all I am bringing back to New York at the Altair, where I will return in eight days. I ask whether I can call my hotel in Dublin, the Roxford Lodge, to confirm my reservation, which they do for me. I am leaving for Esteiro with the knapsack I purchased from the Chinese in Melide, the large knapsack that has accompanied me through Europe, and the caddy I bought in Cimiez, Nice. I will be giving the large knapsack, the rain poncho, some of the outdoor gear and the leftover sample size toiletries to Socorro's daughter Rosa, who wants to walk all the Camino this year. I will give the trolley to Socorro, who will be returning to Esteiro for the summer.

So, I divest myself of the artifacts of my almost three months of backpacking, returning to Santiago with only my new knapsack, along with the old knapsack --which I saved to carry back from Esteiro whatever little I bring back. It may not be sturdy, but it can carry what clothes I bring back.

I walk to the bus from the Altair, carrying the large knapsack on my back, pulling the trolley with one hand, carrying the smaller in my other. It is not too difficult. I make my way to the bus station and buy a ticket, then go to the bus platforms. There is a bus earlier than the one I purchased for, and the bus driver lets me on, so I am gladly on my way by 2:45 p.m.

The buses are run by a company, Castro Mil, that has served the area for as long as I can remember. One of the buses killed Socorro's son, a twelve year old boy, who was playing near the road. I do not find this difficult to believe: I have been on three, and each time I become nauseated by the speed at which the vehicles take the winding curves.

I have been told that I need to get off at the stop opposite the Bar Carmina in Esteiro de Muros, and that Socorro's apartment is across the street in the back. I am to find Placidino or his wife Maruja, who will turn on the gas and show me how to work the appliances and the heating mechanism. I have the keys Socorro gave me in my zipper pocket when I leave the bus.

It takes a while for me to find the right doorway, because the building has three entrances, each with separate keys. Placidino and Maruja live around the corner from Socorro's apartment on the first floor. However, I do not know in which building or which apartment. I try the first building and reach Maruja, who buzzes me in.

She is an energetic, plump woman in her seventies whose warmth immediately makes me feel at home.

"We are here for whatever you need. I tried to get Socorro twice --I know she was concerned about you, because she had not heard--"

I explain that I called Socorro from the Castro Mil and that all is well. She takes me to the building the apartment is in and accompanies me in to get the gas on, so that the hot water heater and the stove can work. She is short and little, so she gets up on a chair to look into the hot water heater pilot to try to see why it is not working --Gallegas are sturdy, even when elderly. After several tries, she says we have to wait until Placidino arrives, about 6:30 p.m. She leaves and I tell her I will call her then, to see if he has arrived.


After settling in, and putting away the items for my cousins, I go outside for a walk. Esteiro is quite beautiful: the forested hillsides are a green background for, on one side the fishing boat harbor; on the other, the beach, still as unspoiled as it was in 1965.

Esteiro has little to offer other than its natural beauty, though, as I discover when I go to the supermarket to buy milk. There is no fresh milk to be had, only preserved, good until the middle of July. Not believing it is not offered, I ask, only to be told there is nowhere in Esteiro where fresh milk is available. The supermarket offers a bit of fresh fruit --I grab the only packet of spinach-- and a great many canned foods: sardines and belly of tuna in olive oil, saltine crackers (whole grain), pimientos de piquillo from a jar (roasted and marinated red peppers). There are yogurts and chocolate puddings and caramel custards and butter and Philadelphia Cream Cheese, and chorizo and green olives stuffed with anchovies and fresh chicken. The item with the greatest selection on hand is liquor: several Spanish brandies, scotches, gins, vodkas, screw-top Spanish wines. I am almost sorry I don't drink them.

I brought with me dried figs, green apples, almond tarts, two bananas, some French bread, prunes d'Agen, peanuts, and even my Corsican charcuterie. It added to the weight, but it doesn't seem so dumb now. Tomorrow is another holiday: the feast of Saint Rita, so the supermarket will be closed.

***

I get to talk with Maruja about a burning issue in Esteriro: the Mayor's plan to demolish the top two floors of the building Socorro, Maruja and Placidino live in.

I had heard about this from Socorro, as well as her daughters, before I left for Europe in March. The planned demolition was reported in the Voz de Galicia, a local newspaper, at the time. When I ask Maruja about it, she tells me that it is all true: the residents of the building all received notices from the Mayoralty, along with a document they were to sign and return, which would have amounted to giving their consent.

The genesis of the controversy goes back to the 1990s, when the building was first built. The developers of the property built a building with four stories, when all that was allowed under the building code were two. Last year, the woman across the street, the owner of the newsstand and smoke shop, filed a denuncia, a formal complaint, against the owners of the apartments. At the time a new mayor, a woman, was elected: Previous mayors were aware of the building code violation, but took no action. The Mayor's plan is to shear off the top two floors, with no compensation to the third and fourth floor owners for the loss of their apartments, or to those on the first and second, for damages incident to their demolition.

The Mayor wants to make an example of the building, in other words.


I need to buy more minutes for my cellphone, so I have to go to the smoke shop that is the source of the denuncia. It is a cluttered, charmless space, and the woman who runs it with her son, not particularly friendly. I load up with minutes and leave, thinking about the denuncia. The word has a special resonance for me, because it was a denuncia that almost cost my grandfather his life in the first weeks of the Spanish Civil War. Civil wars are often opportunities for personal animosities to become vendettas when a charge can be manufactured and upheld without impartial investigation. I can't help wondering what the owner of the smoke shop has against those who live in the building across the street that would make her want to provoke such turmoil.