October 7
We breakfast at the Bar España, where we have arranged for the taxi to pick
us up, since it is the only place within walking distance open this early on a
Sunday. Inside are two men, one somewhere in his twenties, I would guess. The
younger one is talking loudly, singing, and chatting up anyone who comes in. We
guess he's been partying all night, but when he approaches me, there is not a
hint of alcohol on him.
He jabbers a lot in Spanish, even though I tell him I only understand a
little. Still, he establishes that Jerri and I are Americans, our names, and
that we're doing the Camino. He produces 50€, talks at me some more, and keeps
kissing the bill and gesturing it flying away. Somehow he gets me to understand
that he's telling me his name and that he's paying for our breakfast. When I
ask him why, he says because he wants to. I thank him but decide not to count
it. I'm not about to make the mistake of leaving without paying. While we eat,
he continues to goof around--trying some English (which his friend corrects),
telling us he's going to be famous in American movies, pretending to be a
matador and Jackie Chan. He tells anyone who comes in that we are his amigas
americanas. Can you blame me for not quite believing his offer to pay? Can you
blame Jerri and me for hoping neither one of them is our taxi driver?
(Someone later tells us that the sisters do have a wake-up time, but they
rouse you with Gregorian chants playing in the background. They may have strict
rules, but the sisters somehow manage to soften what they can. Unfortunately, we are
already gone by that time. It would certainly have been a different start to our
morning.)
Before we leave Bar España, the barkeep assures me that our breakfast has indeed been paid
for.
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