day 16: the 'meseta'

greetings from day 16 of el camino de santiago, where our heroes have just paused at the half-way mark of the camino francès, high fived, and continued on their journey. that half-way point was ensconced in the no-nonsense mini-metropolis of Sahagún, where we visited the Iglesia de San Lorenzo, but were kicked out after a small horde of women finished taking down the decorations from sunday's wedding. we weren't supposed to be there at all, but that's how we roll here in spain - sneaking into every house of the Lord we come across, getting off a few stolen prayers, reading a few illicit psalms, jotting down notes in our journals while looking about mischieviously for spiritual authority figures, or, in yesterday's case, women with brooms.

but my real purpose here is to tell you about la meseta - this utterly flat region of northern spain that does not seem to participate in the space/time continuum with the same strictness as other geographies. to clarify, we get up at 5:30, eat a loaf of bread with jam, then walk 6-8 hours in a straight line through shadeless wheatfields, hunting the horizon. we dream of mountains, of anything at all to break up the endless expanse.

the meseta has presented us with a unique challenge, and i use the past tense because when we reach león tomorrow we will be preparing for mountains again. the meseta, as far as i can tell, is teaching us that there are times when one must become intensely involved in the location of stones scattered across the path in the 2 meters preceding one's forward foot, when the pile of rocks ahead must be a goal whose acheivement can inspire just another 50 meters to the next, when you've got to find a rhythm in your footsteps and your breaths that become a familiar and consoling song. perhaps this is the root of ancient hymns. i find myself humming tunes i thought i had forgotten.

the meseta does not fear us, as we may imagine foolishly that mountains do. the meseta will not be conquered by our strength or youthful brashness: it holds us in its grasp, not merciless for spite, but only because we are weak, and we must face it. the meseta is teaching us what the camino is at the bare bones: a road whose true length is impossible to measure, whose half-way markers have little to give us. the surest stride will never make it across the meseta without a stumble, a look around, a fall of the brow. we have yet to make it to the horizon for all our leaps and scurries. yet it also seems that the span of our journey is never so broad that we cannot cross it with a heavy breath of resignation, a clap on the shoulder, and a single stride that feels beneath it the earth's subtle, dusty curve.