Five Years

I glanced at the date at the bottom of my screen, but the glance turned into deeper vision as I fell into that place. May 17 will always be the darkest day for my family, the most unnatural of places, where a father watches his son depart; where an entire family is changed, in an instant, numb and wandering, looking for whys.

Perhaps it’s that point, when we actually realize that we’re numb, that we look around and find ourselves embracing, not clinging to stay afloat, but rather holding each other up.  These are intensely personal thoughts and emotions, but shared as evangelism, as we each hold a piece of puzzle and struggle with how it fits into our own journey.

We place one foot in front of another and choose our paths alone.  At times of insight, we realize that we have chosen to walk with others by no accident.  We are, in fact, “here for a reason,” although sometimes it’s a struggle to know why.  Not in the context of, “everything happens for a reason.”  I stopped believing that a lifetime ago.  But rather, in response this sometimes tragic life, how do I respond?  Where do I go, both literally and figuratively?  Which direction do I look for guidance, to make sense out of any of it?  And whom do I find myself walking with, as I look around, when I finally emerge from the anaerobic depths.

I stopped being numb only when I finally realized that although sometimes those who I walk with are holding me up, and are “here for a reason,” this is my journey, and only I can choose to feel again, to breathe again, to live again.

Four years ago today, after hiking, falling, and crawling 540 miles from France, across the north of Spain on my first Camino de Santiago, I held my wife Sharon’s hand and entered the Cathedral of St. James.  The pilgrimage to the tomb of the Apostle is life changing for everyone who completes or even attempts it, in very unique and individual ways.  It was here that I began to look around and notice where I was, and those around me.  Somewhere during the month, I began to look at myself from a different lens and realize how my words and emotions were changing.  I don’t think these were my own eyes, this was someone else’s vision of me.

My story was one of great pain and loss, and I wanted to make everyone else know the pain, and cry with me.  I hated this journey, I hated my life, and I hated everyone I encountered because they didn’t feel my pain.  But, as I walked the Camino de Santiago, I began to feel again, to stop hating, to love again.

Somewhere along the path I had stopped enjoying the tears of others.  Clearly it had been a struggle, but I saw myself and my swollen knees, black and blue and bloody from so many falls, struggling up and down the trails, continue to carry me forward one step at a time.  And I saw myself embracing others, from Belgium, France, Germany, China, Morocco, Canada, Japan, Spain, and so many other places.  They carried their own crosses of pain – their own unique struggles and grief.  Others were there for a reason also, and my walking with them was no coincidence. My story began to change from one of death and loss to one of life and salvation.  And the words and stories and memories I found myself sharing were those of love and happiness and support for others who were also hurting and struggling to find some sense in their own lives.

   

Working through grief is hard work, and it very different for each of us.  There is no recovery, no return to the previous path, no “new normal.”  Loss is not something to get past, to recover from, so we can “get on with life.”

In the movie foreshadowing so much of my life, The Way, when “Jack from Ireland” discovers that Dr. Tom (Martin Sheen) has lost his son and is carrying and spreading his ashes along the way, he exclaims, “That’s brilliant! Tragic of course, but brilliant!”

And so it is.  Life is, in fact brilliant and beautiful.  Of course there is tragedy and great loss.  But it’s tragic because of its beauty, and we only see the brilliance of salvation because of the loss.

I don’t love my life in spite of my losses.  Like my son I have things I struggle with.  But struggles and losses don’t mean his life wasn’t beautiful, and meaningful, and love filled for everyone he encountered.  His having lived for 19 years made the world a much better place.  I have chosen to embrace my loves and losses, because they make me, me.  Cullen was here for a reason, and so am I.

    

Each year since that accident have found me remembering the date in remarkable, meaningful places.  Santiago twice, Morocco, Lourdes, and today, on the fifth year reflecting on his beautiful life, I’m at the Trappist Monastery where Thomas Merton wrote his classic Seven Story Mountain.

Today doesn’t have to be about loss.  Many celebrate wedding anniversaries, birthdays, and other joyful celebrations. Please join me in thanksgiving for a beautiful life.

His, mine, and yours.

Much Love.

Cullen’s favorite pose

14 May 2022, Ukraine – “Where Was God?”

When my new friend Meg (Margaret Syvachenko) pulled into the grocery market, I assumed we’d be getting a bite to eat, but my day (and my world) was about to get much bigger. As we walked through the mainly empty parking lot towards the front door, she brimmed with excitement, explaining that this store had been closed for weeks and was re-opened only today. We were halfway to Borodyanka (about 15 miles from Bucha), arguably even harder hit than Bucha, and there had been nothing for miles but smoking rubble, bloody sidewalks, and the stench of death.

Meg explained that she needed to pick up a few items for her friend, and that I needed to meet him. She proceeded to literally fill the shopping cart (half of her car trunk), with meat, eggs, vegetables, milk and other things you and I might grab for the week. Just like us. But there the comparison ends.

I would soon discover that my new friend Margaret, out of her own pocket, was shopping for a local veterinarian who owned what used to be an animal hospital in Borodyanka, before he slipped away from the office to go stay with his mother as the russians rapidly approached.

As we carried the groceries in, I met Roman’s mother and hugged her, then turned to the frail man, soon-to-be larger than life to me, and Meg introduced us. I could have sat and shared with Dr. Roman Biloshytskyy for hours, but the twenty minutes we spent together honestly nutshell my entire two weeks away.

The “orcs” broke through the front door and soon Roman would find himself kneeling as a captive with eight others, on some gravel road with hoods on. It’s not my place to share the details of this atrocity here; I wouldn’t embarrass my new hero for anything.

But I will share this, because it was perhaps the highlight of my entire mission. The month-old bruises and gash in his head from the rifle butt to his skull begged me to ask, “Please don’t feel any pressure to discuss this or answer any of my questions. But I must ask you. As you were beaten and bashed, what were you thinking? Tell me, ‘Where was God?'”

He had shared with me earlier that, like me, he had been a man of faith, and had tried to live the life he felt he had been called to. He hadn’t evacuated because his calling was here. He felt the people and families he served through their animals needed him here. We were from two different worlds, but are forever united by our own respective horrific chapters, and I needed to ask this. I’m not sure why, I just needed to know Roman’s answer to what C. S. Lewis called “the age old question,” why a loving God would allow such suffering; “Why do bad things happen to good people,” in The Problem Of Pain.

Dr. Biloshytskyy paused and drifted to the place I’m quite sure he visits often but wishes he never had to go again. “As I was kneeling there, I was afraid for the future. I was afraid that the events of this day would cause me to lose my faith going forward. But in the moment, ‘Where was my God? Did I feel abandoned?’ No, as I lay bruised, battered and bleeding, I saw glimpses of light through my hood and I knew.”

My bottom lip began to quiver with his next words, “Christ was laying beside me, crying with me between blows, and lifting me with the strength I no longer had, as the orcs shouted demands that i get up again.”

I dislike books and movies with sad endings, where the bad guy wins, or even a story line where it’s hard to know who the good guy is. It’s not that horror and devastation don’t belong in a beautiful story, but I need a just ending. And so I was so relieved to hear these words from my colleague.

“And so now, how is your faith? As you knelt there you were afaid it would be lost, and you’d be without a compass. Have you lost your faith?” No, he gently explained, my faith is stronger than ever. As a matter of fact I have found my life is refocused and grounded on those things that are really important. I used to look forward to my holiday time, and was feeling the slow burn of a long career; but no longer. I wake with enthusiasm and look forward to each day as another chance to make a difference with the people I meet and the patients I see.

I survived because I’m supposed to keep going.” “Here for a reason,” I agreed.

Heroes don’t have to be famous or be given huge stages. Heroes are much like saints – ordinary people who do extraordinary things when challenged with tragedy and loss. And these are not exceptional stories. These are wartime stories of helping each other and being “my brother’s keeper.” My two weeks walked me through story after story of such heroism. I’m humbled to have been in the presence of such greatness – the doctors, soldiers, first responders, and volunteers who run towards the fire, and help each other. Because it’s the right thing to do.

Click below for Go Fund Me link:

https://www.gofundme.com/f/dogtorbill-helping-ukraine?utm_campaign=p_cp+share-sheet&utm_medium=copy_link_all&utm_source=customer

13 May 2022 – Kyiv, Ukraine

On a few occasions I was asked to stay in Kyiv and actually see appointments and walk-in patients for an Ukranian colleague at her veterinary hospital. At first I thought this curious – “I should be places without veterinary care!” Soon I realized why I served a role here … I would soon become good friends with and will forever be in awe of Dr. Galyna Chernichko. She is one of the thousands of unsung heroes of Ukraine. During the early days of the war she would be driving back and forth between Poland for donations, food, supplies and hundreds of pounds of pet food each trip to distribute into the small villages surrounding Kyiv.

As one of the hundreds of “James Herriotts” across this war-torn nation, Gaylyna has spent hours of each day for months at her own expense and at great peril to distribute food and supplies for pets and often their owners. These small villages weren’t hillbilly backwoods either – they were thriving small towns, with city halls, shopping centers, churches, butchers, bakers, grocery stores, and thousands of people exactly like you and me until February 24 would end life figuratively, and literally. Places like Bucha, Borodyanka Kyjevo, Svyatoshyns’kyi rayon, etc. I realize from a distance, these are just hard to pronounce words, the names of places on the other side of the world. Its really hard to imagine – Bucha had 37,000 people and Borodyanka 13,000. In the wink of an eye they now look like this:

Anyway, today was one of the days I saw patients at her wonderful office, allowing her to make another humanitarian run. I’d be working with her incredible staff and my new friend, time planner and translator, the local Elanco Animal Health representative Marharyta (Meg). All my patients of these days were memorable for their stories of survival. One of the last patients of the day will alway be most memorable to me because of the incredible odds.

On that day when the tanks were rolling in and the missiles were exploding everywhere and literally destroying everyone and everything in sight, Yana was doing her best to protect her furry family, the most beautiful Bernese Mountain Dogs I’ve ever seen. They should be – they’re double championed, literally Westminster quality, and they wouldn’t have a thing to eat for the next four days. Through the rubble and enemy soldiers someone was able to get some meat to her for them, then the next day they got to some kibble. Whether the meat was bad, they ate too much at once, or the kibble too rapidly expanded, her beautiful boy was soon in excruciating pain and trying desperately to vomit. His abdomen was rapidly expanding with trapped gasses forming in the flipped stomach and he would soon die of gastric dilitation/volvulus, or “bloat.” Imagine the stomach as a swinging hammock which, in this instance flips over, twisting each end, flipping the spleen with it, with nowhere now for the forming gases to go. Somehow they managed to sneak him through enemy lines to the nearest vet, who had “hunkered down” in his basement. The odds are horrible for any bloat in the best of circumstances, but here they were without electricity, a sterile surgical suite, or any instruments. By now her dog was in excruciating pain and they had to act fast – believe it or not using a nail that they found in the rubble to pierce through the abdominal wall and into the stomach – “Whoosh!” out would rush the noxious putrid pressure; the hole had to be retained open, but what could they use for an indwelling catheter to keep the gas from immediately building back up? The insulation surrounding the broken window was a hollow strip, or tubular. A strip was cut and placed into the hole, replacing the nail. Massive doses of antibiotics were given and prayerful days would follow.

Long story made short, the fantastic story of the day, one of the most incredible survival stories of my career would see that this dog had, in fact, lived. The stomach had unflipped after it deflated, and here the dog was, six weeks later, standing right in front of me. In the interim, he’d seen another vet who treated both of these dogs for their horrible chronic dehydrating diarrhea caused by a parasite from infected water, called Giardia with a different antibiotic. At first they were better, but now, a month later the diarhea was back. I checked with a giardia antibody instant test that they had, and discovered no evidence of giardia, and yet the diarrhea had persisted. I suspected that the two antibiotics had not only killed all of the bad bacteria, but also all of the good guys – the normal flora. And so I prescribed a course of probiotic for two weeks, with strict instructions to return immediately if it didn’t improve, for further diagnostics. Later communication informed that they are now fine and thriving.

Dr. Gaylyna would join us before Yana left and teary hugs between the two could only be appreciated from afar. These two had survived a hell I can’t even imagine and returned with life. I’m here and seeing the aftermath, but enduring and surviving through the first, bloodiest battles of this senseless war is something I have no real sense of. These are the heroic survivors.

12 May 2022 – Bucha and Borodyanka

I couldn’t say it would be easy, but I will say I could go on and on this entire post about the sheer destruction of these two areas in Ukraine. Homes, businesses, recreation complex, shopping center, apartments, and the horrific stories of vehicles filled with families – moms desperately trying to flee with the children and if they had a few seconds, a few pictures, clothes, toys. Once I write this post, I don’t think I’ll ever revisit these scenes with my eyes. Liked the scorched earth, the horror is etched on my heart and in my mind forever. Driving down the still blood stained infamous road of Bucha brings my stomach up as I recall the blurred out images of bound civilians, elderly and children distorted in puddles of scarlet shown on news channels all over the world (except <lower case>: russia). Under other circumstances, the entire fields of livestock – cattle, pigs, goats, horses laying there on the ground, shot (for fun/sport/orders so locals would starve?) and left to bloat and stench the air would by itself be unspeakable. One hog remained, a reminder like historic statues, to remind all of what this place would forever be remembered for.

I spoke for quite a while with the owner of this house. He saw the tanks coming and firing at everything that moved, or was standing. He desperately tried to find “Udi,” but clearly the poor dog was scared out of his mind. With the tanks less than 100 yards away and actively firing, the man gathered his family and left with literally nothing but his hysterical family. Across the street lived a priest who stood in his front yard as the tanks rolled by, and fired upon this family’s home, bursting it into flames. Apparently because the tank crew “didn’t want to upset God,” they drove past the priest and his home. (Interesting wartime theology!) Shortly after they left, the priest scooped up the terrified, bloody and schrapnel injured “Udi,” and cared for him as best he could, until the owner returned, weeks later. I found a badly fractured pelvis and dislocated hip. An easy FHO surgery would help this poor creature immensely, but certainly not something I could do in wartime conditions. He’ll be just fine – If only his family had a house to live in.

“Udi”

Couldn’t figure how to flip this image to show dislocated hip.

• 

  Apartment where families like us lived
  

11 May 2022 “Zoopatrol”

When I was told we’d participating with “Zoo-patrol” today, I thought pretty much what you’re thinking right now. Wow, that will be fun – giraffes, elephants, tigers, etc. When I was in South Florida I vetted a “roadside” zoo (mainly gators, but Florida Panthers, Bears, Otters, rhinos, and a few others) owned by the Seminole Indian Tribe. It’s been 20 years, but in a pinch I could pull it off, if I had experienced helpers. We’d seen on the news the horrors of war including the keepers running for their lives and actually fleeing, as well as the bombs going off, destroying fences —> resulting in zoo animals on the lam. Sounds like a fun day.

Let’s just put this in the category of cultural/language differences. In this context zoo = pertaining to animals, (eg. zoonotic disease can spread from animals) <chinese bats? to humans>. So in this context, “Zoo patrol” actually means volunteers who go out on a regular basis and gather up the animals left behind by those who left in an (understandable) panic. Perhaps a bomb scared the crap out of everyone and the dog/cat/etc simply ran off, when they were trying to evacuate, or through a now gaping open, burning house. Or perhaps they hiked for miles carrying the children and the cat, only to find the bus or train absolutely would not allow animals, only mom and her children- there simply wasn’t room. There were so many refugees, and so the pets would be left on, or tied to the bus bench, etc, etc.

The zoo patrol knows the bus and train schedules and so would go gather up the abandoned pets on a regular basis. Sometimes even assuring the refugees that they’d see “Boris” or “Anton” at a pre-arranged place in Poland, or where-ever. However there have also been even more heartwrenching stories – a dog left with a bucket of water and an open 50# bag of food, with a promise to be back … someday. Or maybe the cat just ran off and they couldn’t collect them. And the enemy tanks were (literally) 100 meters away, blasting away.

It’d be easy to criticize, but until you wear someone else’s shoes…

Anyway “zoo patrol” responds to Facebook pleas to check on “Boris” or a phone call about “Nikki,” or the military personnelle hearing nonstop barking from a partially destroyed house. These animal rescuers are almost considered “paramilitary” with their traffic jam evading abilities, given a secret daily code word allowing them to pass an otherwise 2 hour wait barricade – a TSA pre-approval, if you will.

And so on “zoo-patrol” we’d have these duties and take the rescued pets to a “sanctuary,” or shelter to gather/treat/comfort terrified, confused and often hurting animals.

Clearly I missed the first, most important wave, because I’m here 2 months after the war started, and the massive amount of work was in that initial couple of weeks. I got here for the stragglers, and to treat the ones that survived but weren’t quite right yet.

This is a boxer with an indolent corneal (eye) ulcer in dire need of a “burr keratectomy.” However, triage/field medicine dictated a bit more crude approach; not having the thousand dollar diamond burr with me, I opted for the standard “grid keratectomy.” Easy enough, although typically requires anesthesia – no gas, so we used a propofol continual drip with pre-med of dexdomidor. Nothing fancy, but should work fine, as long as they are able to heep the collar on him and use the medications I left for them.

Little smash face bully dog needed an entropion (eyelid) correction, and some kitties almost definitely had a bad case of Calicivirus, probaby secondary to the stress of the times, and full of parasites. I left medicines which will help immensely, and off we went.

This is a good time to give credit where it’s due. I am eternally indebted to Marharyta (Meg) Syvachenko the local Elanco Animal Health Rep, who drove me around and was an infinite help to me. Her boss Elena Moskalenko, and her boss Antoni Hulas, regional head of Elanco Animal Health for this part of Europe not only allows her to spend her time as a humanitarian, he personally saw to it that arrangements for me were intact, and that I was actually an asset, instead of “volunteer” baggage in the way. She and local vet Gaylyna Chernichko kept me busy every day. They are the true heroes – they ran towards the fire as everyone else fled. I am in awe of them and proud to call then collegues and new friends. Gaylyna left her position as owner of her practice and immediately drove back and forth from Poland on almost a daily basis to gather donated provisions from the blessed Polish people and delivered it to folks in the villages who simply had nothing to eat, much less feed their pets. She still does this several times a week. Two of the days, I saw some of her patients so she could be the incredible humanitarian that she is, and be gone to distribute food to people/pets who won’t have a market in walking distance for months.

As local pharmaceutical rep for Elanco Animal Health Meg (who also has veterinarian credentials) performed similar humanitarian gestures. For instance, she paid out of her own pocket for food and supplies for a local veterinarian who had been beaten brutally and taken hostage. His office destroyed and looted. An entire blog post will be devoted to him. And my loyalty to Elanco products has become profound.

Again, these are the true heroes. They say there’s a special place in Heaven for people like them, and there may be. But working with them has once again exemplified that Heaven is also in fact here, and we are happiest when we serve others. Through the tears they smile, knowing they’ve made a difference.

“He answered them and said, ‘The kingdom of God is not coming with signs to be observed; nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or, ‘There it is!’ For behold, the kingdom of God is in your midst.”

Luke 12:20-21

10 May 2022 – Crossing the border

A 14-hr bus ride turned into 16 with border delays and required pit-stops (the advertised Wifi and on-board toilets were “temporarily” not working). Certainly understandable during wartime. You’d think someone would eventually get tired enough to sleep in any position, but apparently not me.

An a lighter note it was interesting to have the bus pulled over (about an hour AFTER 2 hour wait crossing the border and getting passport checked on both sides and stamped in Ukraine) by the (Ukranian military) police who boarded the bus after we dodged the wartime road barricades and pulled over. The fun military TSA or soldier or whatever his position asked (only) me for my passport, which he took for them to check again, then returned it and nodded acknowledging all was ok. Certainly raised some eyebrows as the (clearly) only yank on the bus had had so much fun.

Shortly after that we stopped for a much needed prostate stop and it occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Remembering that the bus driver was emphatic with me holding up 10 fingers how long we would be stopping there, I rushed to convert some currency in the rest stop, bought some chips and water, and got in line for the girl making the panini looking things. I had no idea what they were, but I really needed something to eat, so I watched the person in front of me order and tried to remember the words she used so I could order the same 3 things. She belly laughed at me when I attempted this, since I had possibly said something inappropriate instead, so I tapped the girl on the shoulder and asked her to order for me what she had ordered for herself. She giggled, but understood.

They were the best thing I’d eaten all day! One was chicken and cucumbers and maybe cabbage, one was cheese of some kind, and one was some kind of apple pastry thingy. Enough for the next 9 hours.

9 May 2022 – Warsaw, Poland

As a perigrino who likes to see himself as he wishes to be – running towards the flames, I was pulled towards Auschwitz like a magnet draws bits of iron filings. But it was not to be. Yes I had an entire day in Poland to explore and wander, but frighteningly close train and bus schedules, and only a very small fraction of those I had encountered today were able to speak English. And so navigating in another language through train and bus transfers (both directions), some with less than a ten minute transfer time left me uncharacteristically afraid to chance the unknown. Maybe I’m finally acting my age and displaying atypical common sense. They call it Xenophobia, the fear of the unknown or uncertain.

Regardless, as the only train that could have begun this version of today pulled away, I felt so disappointed in myself, almost embarrassed at my lack of courage.

But what was the draw there anyway? I’m not Polish, German or Jewish. Why the overreaction? Well you aren’t required to be black to get meaning from the horrors of slavery recalled by museums and statues. But more than that; my father and an entire generation, the greatest generation, risked and gave all in WWII. It wasn’t only about genocide, but to these folks it was.

And to three million who have fled Cherson and Marioepol, Bucha and Melitopol, and probably Odessa next week, it also feels a lot like genocide.

Maybe I “tapped the brakes” because of the horrors that might lay before me later this week in Ukraine. I didn’t need a prologue.

Tomorrow will mainly be 14 hours spent on a bus to the border; passports, currency and more language issues, and explaining to the border police that nine boxes of surgical supplies and medicines are not threatening: neither weapons nor narcotics.

Will be interesting.

8 May 2022 Ukraine

Why am I layingover in Copenhagen, ready for my next leg to Warsaw, Poland? Other than the obvious (if you know how ridiculously impulsive I am), it’s actually kind of difficult to explain. It’s been impossible (for me) to watch the news without my knees buckling and often tearing up. Admittedly it doesn’t take much to draw me in to the emotions of suffering after so many of life’s highs and lows over 62 years. But what is it about the horror and atrocities halfway around the world that make them so addictive?

I think mainly because these people look like us: not in culture, color or language, but two months ago these were people with lives pretty much like us, and at the flip of the switch someone else changed all that. We like to say its one man, one crazy man named Putin, but I don’t t think he pulled any triggers -it’s taken hundreds of thousands of people to effect this destruction.

The whole concept of bullying is so very strange. Why do human beings need to have people beneath them? Even enjoy their suffering… You’d think we’ve evolved past canine and feline urinating on each other’s things. Apparantly not.

death

From A Headstone In Ireland:  “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.”

Hilary Stanton Zunin:  “The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief – But the pain of grief is only a shadow when compared with the pain of never risking love.”

Unknown:  “When death overtakes us; all that we have is left to others; all that we are we take with us.”

Walter Scott:  “Death— the last sleep? No the final awakening.”

Leonardo da Vinci:  “As a well spent day brings happy sleep, so a life well spent brings happy death.”

Theodore Roosevelt:  “Death is always, under all circumstances, a tragedy, for if it is not then it means that life has become one.”

Bertolt Brecht:  “Do not fear death so much, but rather the inadequate life.”

Benjamin Franklin:  “A man is not completely born until he is dead.”

 

Mark Twain:  “All say, ‘How hard it is that we have to die’–a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.”

Rabindranath Tagore:  “Death is not extinguishing the light; it is putting out the lamp because dawn has come.”

Camino Primitivo with Dad, “Striking it Rich in Lugo,” 4th Night, 12 May 2016

My “cheater bus” didn’t have a stop in Cadavo, so I’m actually skipping 2 segments tonight – in about an hour I’d be in Lugo.  This actually put me a day ahead, and I’ll now arrive in Santiago on the 16th. My previous time in Santiago was emotional and, although not rushed, certainly not leisurely. I’d not had a day just to wander aimlessly, and people watch. Or instead, I could go on to Finisterre.  Tempting?  Of course not – this journey has always been about embracing the tomb of St. James on the 17th of May, not some pagan clothes-burning ritual at the end of the world.

I slide off the bus with 18 Euro now, and am beginning to  squirm a bit because if I don’t get my stupid ATM card to work soon, I’m going to run out of money. As my GPS guides me to my albergue, I walk by still another ATM; I spin around to try for probably the 10th time. I’d texted Sharon with Capital One’s phone number and was emphatic that she read them the riot act. Actually she’d undoubtedly been much sweeter than I had been the four times I’d called.  Maybe honey attracts success better than vinegar.

And so on my 11th attempt, out comes 200 Euro!!!

Wooo Hooo!  My wife is amazing!

I truly felt like I won the 500 million powerball.

Here’s a picture.  Me, stinking to high heaven from hiking in the rain and sweating up a stench in the afternoon bake for 7 hours, hauling 28# on my back, walking like my blisters had blisters.

But now I gots a “swagga.” Like I had gold chains on my neck, walking in the club, wit’ abou’ a bilyawn dolla in my pockets.

I know it all sounds a bit ridiculous. But that’s how I felt.

I still stayed in the 8 Euro hostel, but nodded without hesitation when asked if I wanted to eat a communal dinner with everyone. No problem, I can afford it!

And besides, I really like Paella!

Paella at Albergue Lugo

Paella at Albergue Lugo

 

Toasting the Chef at Albergue Lugo