Refrescante

While I was on the Camino last year, one of the unexpected joys I had was the smell of fresh, dry laundry.

After two weeks, it became clear that I was really only going to wear one set of clothes daily.  I had tried rotating in another set however a pair of pants with wicking fabric that could dry more quickly after rain was more important than warm calves, and a shirt that would not get me chastised by nuns due to showy shoulders was more important that being cool.

The daily wear transpires into daily hand-washing with a lye soap and if one was lucky, a spot in the sun to dry.  If I was late to an alburque, I got a shady spot and that meant the odds went considerably down that the clothes would be dry by sunset.  This in turn would lead to an internal debate:  re-wear dirty, dry clothes or wear clean, damp clothes?  There was really no great answer but the good news is that most of your peers would smell like you did.

During the last two weeks, there were magical days when a laundry would be available to the guests.  Occasionally, there would also be a magical man or woman that would launder, dry, and fold your clothes.  (This hit a peak at both the Parador in León and at Hostal Santa Maria in Cacabelos.  The low of lows would occur in Melide where after a day of walking in pouring rain, nothing would be anything less than wet a day later.)

Fast forward a year.

My unexpected joys appear in other ways, including Monday's gift:  the sound of English spoken softly nearby.  After a long run and a splurge for a hamburger, I was reviewing the week's workout when I could hear it.  A couple at a nearby table were talking and there was a lilt of English from a native-speaker.  It was like music.  I tried not to eavesdrop but I did so enjoy the melodic tones of the British* accent and the avoidance of the occasional direct, hard tones that permeate castellano here.

Don't get me wrong, there are a number of things I do adore about the language in my new surroundings, but there is something about "home" that's tied up in hearing your native tongue.  The day prior, I had a Spanish conversation with a German woman in which we connected over the idea that sometimes our heart's native language cannot be expressed in our current home's words.

So like clean laundry, it is just enough to keep me going for the next section of the journey.

* This experience also generated a follow-up conversation and my generation of an impromptu decision tree of "How you can tell if someone is North-American or British"