Inga slept in, as promised. Eva and I went to get coffee and make breakfast around the time we usually thought about lunch, woke Inga the one way everyone likes to be woken up: with breakfast in bed, peeled ourselves out of the same when room cleaning came knocking the third time, and went to see the cathedral.
At the plaza across the cathedral we ran into the Rabé Couple, still together. She waved at Inga and me, we explained the circumstances to Eva, and she smirked.
Later, leaving an exhibit on pilgrimages throughout the ages, we remet the Chuckle Brothers who admitted to having taken a cab across most of the Meseta. With them two peregrinas from the Philippines, two nuns, who told us about two pilgrims, somewhere out there in the dusty heat between Burgos and Leon, who had healed the sick and even carried a woman to the next church after she’d broken her ankle. “One of them is called Doc,” they said, the other one, a beautiful woman physician, had the healing hands.
We returned to our room for dinner, when our lighthearted banter turned serious. “There is O Cebreiro coming up, and the Cruz de Ferro. If Eva wants to be healthy by then, we have to take it slow a few days,” Inga suggested. I agreed. Eva, however, seemed to feel bad for holding us back. “I don’t want that,” she explained. We discussed our options and found a midpoint: Eva would continue to send her backpacks ahead, we’d stay below 30km, and if anyone had the feeling it went too slow, they could charge ahead and we’d meet up later.
We spent the rest of the evening playing a game loosely based on Scattegories, watching a documentary about cannibals, and Eva showing off her skills in Origami, teaching us how to make a swan.
We ate the last of my Haribo Colorado stash, broke into the cookies, and then, stretching out on the bed, Eva proclaimed to be too full to move. “There’s only one thing that can heal me, Doc,” she begged in a faux whiny voice, “come and heal me.”
We went to sleep way too late again.