The trees are disappearing. The landscape is flattening, and I am on the cusp of the meseta, at least a week's walking across tableland for which I'm struggling to muster enthusiasm. Luckily, a couple French friends and a streak of good communal dinners are spurring me on.
After two weeks, I'm seasoned enough to identify an inverse relationship between meal price and taste: the cheapest places have the best food. The two-euro egg sandwich is always better than one that costs three. A couple nights ago I dined with tablecloth and multiple courses, and it was fine. Far better was the "innkeeper" lady who insisted we eat first and then donate as we thought appropriate (she made a soul-pleasing paella). Even the beer was handed out to passersby with a brief mention of the donativo box. At another place, seven euros got me more salad and excellent bacon-y spaghetti carbonara than I could eat. At yet another, a sort of self-appointed priest served deliciously garlicky lentil-chorizo stew in inch-thick hand-carved bowls.
Some hostels are old homes converted to the purpose. 300-year-old staircases constructed with stone or plaster and thick wooden beams, crooked doors, sloping floors, walls built thick to protect against the blazing sun and retain warmth at night. Our charging cell phones and high-tech rain gear contrast oddly with the aesthetic. But drenching bread in olive oil and drinking wine with friendly strangers is timeless.
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