Siesta

From about 1pm until 5pm everyday, something magical occurs in the villages of Spain. Siesta. Siesta is that special time of day where every living soul in town (other than the stream of tired pilgrims searching for albergues) seems to disappear into thin air. Without a trace. No laughter. No locals taking afternoon strolls. No machinery in motion. No delicious smells from the bakery. No 'Abierto' signs. Every shop window is boarded up tight, as if it had never held canned goods or ibuprofen or deli meat at all. As if its life as a bustling store was merely a dream.

This ghost town effect is chilling at times. Especially once the pilgrims are squirreled away in their albergues, busy washing clothes or taking naps. Once the Camino zombies no longer roam the streets, these villages begin to feel totally deserted. Forlorn. Even more isolated than they already are. And if you are one of the few pilgrims left walking through them, the emptiness can feel overwhelming. Not sad, per se. But very very surreal. Normally I hibernate indoors during siesta, but on two recent occasions I decided to fill these hours with a life of their own.

The first instance was before dinner with friends in Fromista. I took some time to myself, walking around the village, documenting the life of a city that exists outside its people. I wanted to capture the details that get overlooked in the busy hours of the day but that seem to suddenly spring forth and greet you as you walk through the siesta ghost town.






























The second instance occurred today in Calzadilla de la Cueza. In a sunny square nestled between our hostal, the municipal albergue and the village church, an international group of pilgrim friends gathered to write postcards, snack, toast beers and wine (you have to love a bar that lets you take wine glasses across the street), chat, laugh and turn the quiet hours of siesta into simple, yet fond, memories.








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Location:Calzadilla de la Cueza, Spain