In Arzua we ran into El Trampo again. We called him this because one of the Spaniards we had met used the words ‘tramp’ and ‘vagabond’ to describe some of the pilgrims. Vagabond is a great word. This was a man who scared the crap out of me by laughing to himself and pretending to only speak Spanish. He would then quiz me about my life, in English, whenever Gill left the room.
The Albergue was closed so we went to a private one that charged 8 Euros. For dinner, we went out to a restaurant because there was no kitchen. There I was introduced to the Cheese Meal of Death. I got a lasagna. It was a few mushrooms and a bit of spinach with a layer of pasta, drowned in cheese. And I mean it was pretty much a bowl of cheese. Gill got a pizza. That was also just covered in cheese. It was painful walking back, we were full of dairy and it was freezing cold. Not to mention the fact that I was only wearing my skins and a jumper. Everything else had been given to the woman who ran the hostel for washing.
Still, this albergue was great. The bathrooms were beautiful. Hot water without the stupid press buttons, DOORS, and I was the only girl there. Privacy is wonderful.
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