“asked the old woman who served us our breakfast. We were in Azofra, a village of small houses, each with a medieval shield embossed on its facade. We had filled our canteens at the village foun- tain a few moments earlier. I said that we were, and the womans eyes glowed with respect and pride. When I was a girl, at least one pilgrim passed through here every day, bound for Compostela. After the war and after Franco, I dont know what happened, but the pilgrimages stopped. Someone must ha...ve built a highway. Nowadays, people only want to travel by car. Petrus said nothing. He had awakened in a bad mood. I nodded in agreement with the old woman and pictured a new, paved expressway, climbing the mountains and running across the valleys, automo- biles with scallop shells painted on their hoods, and souvenir shops at the gates of the monasteries. I fin- ished my coffee and bread dipped in olive oil. Looking at Aymeric Picauds guide, I estimated that we should arrive that afternoon in Santo Domingo de la Calzada, and I was planning to sleep at the Parador Nacional.* I was spending much less money than I had planned, even eating three meals a day.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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