Some general observations about today:

People are good. Consider the evidence: When we left our hotel today, I left behind a ring. (In fairness, it was early and I’d only had one cup of coffee. Btw, why do the Spanish serve their coffee in such tiny little cups?) It wasn’t a fancy ring, but since it had been given to me by a dear friend, it had a large sentimental price tag. To make matters worse, I didn’t even know I’d left it behind until we’d checked into our next hotel, where our luggage was waiting for us in the lobby. Taped to one suitcase was an envelope with our name on it. Inside was my ring, along with the business card from our last hotel. They didn’t have to send it. They could’ve kept it, and chances are I never would’ve figured out where I lost it. But they didn’t. Gracious, Pazo de Berbetoros in Portomarin!

We can do so much more than we think we can. Both Kent and I were absolutely spent yesterday. Worn down and tuckered out. Whipped. Physically and emotionally whacked. He was asleep by 8:30, and I followed closely behind. Apparently, fifteen miles of walking in one day can do that to a person. Or two. But this morning, even after only one cup (tiny, see above) of coffee each, we were not only excited to get on with our walk, we were actually, physically raring to go. Who’d a thought?

Northwestern Spain is gorgeous, laidback, and very, very real. As neighbors, you’d think Spain and France would be very similar in a lot of ways. And they are. Both have incredibly beautiful, rural countrysides, with jaw-dropping vistas, stunning flora and fauna, and charming historical stone villages with cobblestone streets featuring cute little shops, bars and restaurants. The two countries, alike in these and other ways, remind me of that group of good girlfriends who enjoy hanging out together. But somehow, France seems more like the girlfriend group you have in your twenties. You know–you like spending time with them, but if you all went away together on an overnight trip, you’d buy new pajamas so no one would see you in your usual tattered PJs. And you’d wait until everyone was asleep before taking off your makeup so they wouldn’t be horrified to see your large pores or the dark circles under your eyes. Whereas Spain is more like the girlfriend group you have as you grow older, women you’ve known for years, friends who aren’t at all concerned about seeing you barefaced in the morning (wrinkles, age spots and all). They not only know that you wear your husband’s old work-out shorts and t-shirts to bed, but they also agree with you that comfort is far more important than style. I like France, don’t get me wrong. But France works hard to impress. Its outfits are always tasteful and manicures perfectly done. But Spain…well, Spain’s outfits are pretty, but a little wrinkled. And if you look close, its manicures are often a bit chipped. But like the honeybadger, Spain doesn’t care. Spain is too busy living its big, beautiful and natural life to worry about such things. As a result, Spain is easier to be around and enjoy, because it seems more easy, relaxed and real. Case in point:

Today, we had lunch in a tiny, cute and clean but kind of shabby little bar/restaurant, one of only two bar/restaurants in a tiny, cute and clean but kind of shabby little town. As we ate our plain but delicious tortilla queso (cheese omelete) and bocadillo con jamón (ham sandwich), two stubble-chinned public workers walked in, both of them wearing bright yellow matching vests adorned with the town seal. They’d been spreading gravel near a park down the street, a job that looked like it could have been completed in less than an hour and all by themselves, and yet, they had been working alongside two other co-workers. And a supervisor. The two of them chatted for quite some time with the pretty young woman behind the counter, then popped open two beers to wash down their lunches as they smiled and laughed, seemingly without a care in the world or a good reason to check their watches. About an hour later, in another small town down the road, we were held up by a dozen cows (las vacas) being herded down the narrow, manure-slicked main street by a rather relaxed border collie, a very chill German shepherd and a completely disinterested (in the cows, anyway, although their manure seemed to capture his attention) but cute little white and ginger-haired mutt. The collie strolled back and forth between one confused cow and a halted taxi, until the cow figured things out and rejoined the herd. The collie sniffed the front tires of the taxi for a bit before returning to his cows and the taxi went on its way. And so did we.

Just another Monday afternoon in the very beautiful and very real Spanish countryside.

Watch Las Vacas en El Camino here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KzIxNUmvqcI