Santo Domingo y Denemarca

I broke down last night in Najara y tomer un Tylenol PM so I could sleep.

My brain is biking towards bilingual more each day and I´ve no mind to try and reign it in. For this, you all have my acknowledgement that yes, I do in fact realize that you may be understanding less than 100% of what I am writing.

Ulrik cut off all the heads and tails of the tiny sardines on our ensaladas kiens last night. I am up to four beers now that he owes me for pronouncing certain Danish words correctly. He is more generous than I am capable with all those fascinating inner vowel sounds. My tongue gets tied up in knots like an errant puppy, but he says that sometimes, my Danish is quite sweet and old, like from the 1930´s. This always makes me pleased.

There is no barro on el camino hoy, pero hay mucho viento que blows and blows and blows until we are all tired and wild and completely out of our heads. The Danish man Nilhs is 62 and is carrying all of his medical equipment with him so he can use his inhaler for cystic fibrosis that he has had his whole life. He is walking 500 miles with 30 pounds of medicine on his back with a disease that kills most people by the time they are 35.

In Santo Domingo, they revere chickens because of a local legend about a young man being seducded by an innkeepers daughter on his way to Santiago with his parents. He refused her advances, she planted silver on his person, he was convicted and hung and his parents continued on. Tragedy. And then, MILAGRO!!!

They return to find him still alive. How. Who cares! He´s still swinging though, so they run to the sheriff and say, ´Hey, cut down our boy´. The sheriff, eating his chicken dinner says, ´No dice people. The only way your son is alive is if these dead chickens get up off my plate and cock a doodle do!´

Imagine what happens next.
This is why, in Santo Domingo, they have chickens at the iglesia and actually, right here in the albergue courtyard.

Viva the highly unlikely and glorious!