A Pair of Pears, Neither Pared

One at home in Alexandria, the other in Galicia

It’s the third snow day of the school year, a gift announced via text from a grad school friend as I land at Dulles. My elation knows no bounds, especially as the hour is late and the likelihood of a graceful turnaround from two weeks overseas to an early morning wakeup ebbing.

A shock of cold air welcomes me as I roll the luggage cart out into the quiet Virginia night. Another friend is on her way to pick me up, driving far out of her way to bring me home.

Chesapeake hands me a container of black-eyed peas, another of 11-bean stew, two slices of bread, and a small Christmas gift before I climb the stairs to my front door.

The kindness and generosity of friends astound me.

The next day I wake up to a winter wonderland. As the morning progresses and the snow continues to fall, I don the gators purchased for the rain in Spain. They serve me ably in Alexandria, where snow has accumulated to 10 inches. I know, because I clear and dig out two cars, shovel a path to the front door of my building, and attempt to clear nearby tree branches of their burden, and that’s just in the morning.

Late that first afternoon, I buy raisins for my oatmeal and maple syrup for future pancakes. Ever since walking in Spain, I crave food even more than usual. The coffee that eluded me for hours during several mornings there, now fills me with an unearthly delight.

I often think: This first cup is surely the best thing that will happen today.

This morning I bite into a Bosc pear. I remember my mother introducing me to this variety and others. She was an enthusiast when it came to pears; I am a reluctant convert. Ever delicate, they lose their magic once overly ripe.

Today’s pear is up to the task.

Preparing for Spain, I packed for anticipated weather. A peregrino, or pilgrim, who was about a week ahead of me on the French Route of the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, experienced days of soaking rain. A friend in Madrid told me how cold that city can be in winter.

As luck would have it, I arrived to predominantly dry and mild weather. Only the distances were as promised. On my third day of walking, 30 kilometers stretched out in front of me. I set out at 5:45 a.m. from Palas de Rei, a seemingly grimy town on that initially wet first day of winter.

The December sun in Galicia does not rise until 9 a.m.. Trying to locate the Camino signposts out of town in the dark drizzle, I got briefly turned around at the beginning of that day’s walk. After a wrong turn that eventually turned out to be in the right direction, I doubled back to the church, figuring there would be a yellow arrow to guide me, which there was.

For hours, the concrete kilometer posts steered me through darkness illuminated only by headlamp. Eventually the light rain ended. The dawn appeared, as did fields, and eventually, a road with an open cafe. Nearly 11 a.m., that first coffee of the day was welcome, accompanied by quite possibly the largest slice of almond cake ever served.

Both stood me well through gnarled oak forests to Melide, as bustling a place as any I saw in Galicia. I managed to keep the signposts within sight and eventually wound through narrow lanes filled with shops, restaurants, and bars. I had jugo de naranja, fresh squeezed orange juice, on the brain, so spotting what I suspected might be one of the last bars in town, I peeled off my pack, finding a spot to park it and my walking sticks. I ordered as local men stood drinking coffee and groups of couples enjoyed the same at small tables.

From there I walked downhill out of Melide and up and down more kilometers in the sunshine until mid afternoon, where in another town, Boente, I sought out a place for lunch around 3 p.m.. I had crossed the main thoroughfare where the camino turned right, out of town. The few cafes that stayed open this time of year were often on roads with regular vehicular traffic, so I looked back and scanned the scene. Sure enough, there was a bar, seemingly open, not because of any patronage, but because of all the tables assembled outside. I walked back across the road.

The man inside was older, with his back to me, wearing a woolly sweater, standing in front of crates, peeling chestnuts. I ordered a coffee and asked if I could get food. I had in mind what quickly had become my staple order, a bocadillo de tortilla francesa con queso, a cheese omelette on a baguette, which a Brazilian peregrina had ordered two days earlier.

The man asked if I wanted potatoes with my eggs. At this point, I was saying no to nothing. That would come later. Two sunny side up eggs with enough potatoes to launch an armada arrived, along with bread. My host offered wine, which I declined. He later insisted that it would get me up the hills to Arzua, my distant destination. I acquiesced.

I am not sure if I have ever had a better-tasting red.

The man’s wife cooked, and he tried to ply me with more of everything. At age nearly 62, I suddenly felt in possession of an adoptive Galician grandfather, were that statistically possible. Perhaps, he, an extrovert, was starved for company. As it was, my feet were starved for rest and release from my boots. Seeing as he had become my surrogate grandpa, I immediately removed my stinking boots, while my damp, inflamed feet sought the cold comfort of the stone floor.

If he noticed me making myself completely at home, my host never said so.

He wanted to serve me dessert, but even I had to draw the line. Eventually, we compromised, and he brought out two sorry looking apples, the sort I had seen rotting on the trees throughout the days’ walks. He made motions to wash them. They were in truth, decrepit, and Miguel (I learned his name by looking at the receipt the next day) must have sensed my hesitancy, for he offered to swap one out for a pear, which I gladly accepted.

The apple was slightly mushy but good enough. I had managed to stomach the runny bright orange egg yolks, so the apple was less of a challenge. (My motions to indicate that the eggs be ‘scrambled’ had been lost in translation), so I finished the small apple and then sliced into the most sublime pear imaginable. Many people peel their pears, but despite risk of pesticide, I could not possibly skip the tastiest part, the papery skin wrapping the crisp, juicy fruit.

Miguel fueled for me the many kilometers I had yet to travel. His charm, rare in Galicia toward a peregrina, whose swarms overrun their land, made a deep impression. I told him I would send my vegetarian friends to the cafe the next day. Old enough to be their mother, I had adopted them and they me the day before, but they had split up the 30 kilometer walk into two shorter ones.

To my knowledge, they never stopped at Miguel’s, but truly a piece of me will always remain there. I hope he knows that.