Partially to keep the memories fresh, partially to better understand the experience, and partially for sheer self-gratification, both Christina and I have been keeping journals of our experience here in Spain.

Each night, we´ll spend a little time "reflecting" on the day´s events. Sometimes the entries are totally perfunctory. "Today I did ______. I saw many pretty things ________. _______ is really nice." Other times they are dashingly poignant insights into some deep region of one of our souls that is off limits to our daily conciousness, but to which the Camino has provided a path.

(Okay okay, I´m a little caustic about the moment about the mystical new-age soul-searching spirituality aspect that some seek to find in the Way to St. James, but only because I read about 50 pages of Shirley Maclaine´s Camino: A Pilgrimage of Courage last night. One of my favorite sections was when she "became the flower" she was looking at, just after a stick told her it wanted to come along. Surely not all new age spirituality is this ridiculous, but that doesn´t mean it doesn´t warrant a few good jabs here and there. But as they say on the Camino, Ultreya (onward) with the story.)

A few nights ago, we stayed in the beautiful old city of Puente la Reina. We had had a hard day walking, and as the sun went down over the horizon, we limped towards the 900 year old bridge that leads out of town and on towards the rest of the trail. It seemed like the perfect place to sit and write.

The air was alive with little bugs, and the water glistened a golden yellow. I had decided that that night, I would write about the churches that we had seen.

It was a good subject. I was excited to talk about the strange duality I felt whenever I walked into one of the ancient stone monuments. Christianity and I don´t really agree on too much at the moment, but I still get a strange comfort from sitting quietly in the pews as some one preaches or a choir sings. Already on this trip, I´ve been in seven or eight of these great medieval religious castles. Shirley Maclaine would probably say that my metaphysical faultlines ran along the alignment of the church constelation in the stars, or something.

My pen had just touched the notebook when the sinister laughing of nine year old soldiers grabbed my attention.

We had found a great little spot below and off to the left of the famous bridge. Just up and over, though, about ten kids, all between seven and eleven, leaned over smiling in a way that made you wonder what was up. Chrisina noticed it too. We shook it off and began writing.

INNER MONOLOGUE:
"The first church I stepped in was the ancient Chapel of Santiago at St. Jean Pied de Port. Situated at the bottom of the hill that.... WHAT THE F..¨

Water splashed to the left of us but didn´t hit. The kids were still there on the bridge, still smiling.

"Situated at the bottom of the hill that leads up to the Acqueil de St. James and the... OH YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!"

It was like the slow motion action sequence in a movie. Time itself seems to come to a standstill as the valient but doomed hero (and heroine) watch the speeding bullet that signals their impending exit from the stage.

One of the kids screamed and we both looked up to see a Doritos bag, filled with water, spraying everywhere, heading right for us.

We were paralyzed with disbelief, and sat in stunned awe as our journals, t-shirts, and shorts were soaked in the barrage.

Anger: How could they do that, these journals are important, we´re sitting so quietly!

Revenge: Oh you´re dead! How can you stand up to me?

Defeat: Retreat!!!

Doing the only thing we could think to do, we scurried under the bridge, hoping that the trick would work and the kids would think we´d left.

I couldn´t believe it. So far, I´d been humbled by blisters, forced off the road by sheep, and now totally emasculated by a bunch of punkshit little Puente la Reinan nine year olds. So much for American Superiority. And they weren´t even done yet.

When the children moved slightly to the side, our rouse was discovered. They smiled and waved and a new barage of bombas de agua (this time in real water baloon form) sailed our way.

Seizing my only chance to hit back, I grabbed a juice bottle they had thrown, filled it with water from the river and hurled it back.

"HA!" I thought, "have a taste of your own medicine!"

Still, I had nothing. They loved it, and their terror assault became a legitimate battle. The Brigadere General of the Company whooped and hollared as I fought back. "MUY BIEN!" He screamed.

Left close to defeated, and without more ammunition, Christina and I gave up our ideas of writing, and tried desperately to think of a plan that would allow us to escape and still come out (more or less) on top. We decided that the next time a round came our way, we would run at them screaming, like fairy tail trolls coming out from beneath the bridge.

Everything worked: They threw, we ran at them, they screamed.

Then they realized we were all talk. Our ammo was gone, we had no water. More than that, we weren´t going to try to beat them up with that nice elderly couple watching (the grandma and grandpa sat contentendly by the fountain where the kids concieved their devious assault). Soon it was us running.

They chased us down the street, launching baloons as we went. Were it not for our longer legs, things could have been much, much worse. Tired, and defeated, we retreated to the Albergue for a long night of healing our wounded pride.

The Spanish may have left Iraq, but trust me...

they still know war.

Love From the Camino.