100 bottles of beer on the wall. 89 clicks to go.

Each province has its way of hosting the Camino. For instance, Castilla y Leon had rest areas (which were largely useless as they generally signified that a bar would be coming soon and they also lacked water or bathrooms) and big signs with maps showing how many clicks until the next town.

We entered Galicia a few days ago. They place stone markers every half km, counting down to Santiago. They´re lovely except that I don´t want to count down because I don´t want the Camino to end, though today I did start to get a little excited planning our arrival which mass to attend (I know, I know.)

We passed number 100 today. Down to double digits.

My Spanish is not valid here in Galicia. The dialect of Spanish spoken here makes rural West Virginia accents sound like the Queen´s English. I can barely even read the written tourist signs because they´re so littered with bonus Xes and Ñ. It´s some sort of mixture of Portuguese and Spanish that sounds like Italian and has an odd dash of Celtic. I´ve given up trying to understand. Now I just act like the French and speak my own damned language. If they don´t understand it, I just speak English louder. Okay, I don´t really, but I want to.

Tonight´s albergue here in Portamarin is like pilgrim Disneyworld. There are loads of shiny surfaces and clean bathrooms with warm showers and well-stocked toilet paper and soap. They had A WASHING MACHINE AND A DRYER so now I don´t have to do laundry until July.

Walking on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. And then the big day. Keep your fingers crossed that I won´t have any injuries between now and then. It´s never too late, I´ve learned.