DOCTOR LONG JOHN

I am sure you are all familiar with the Bette Midler concert classic DOCTOR LONG JOHN. It was brought to my mind this morning. Not when I was searching for a song to sing on the camino.

No I am having a rest day in Burgos. I was out late last night (11PM, unheard of up to now. The alburgues close at 10 not so my hotel). I had had some peanuts earlier in a bar. I felt a piece stuck in my teeth. Of course it turned out to be a filling not something as innocuous as a nut.

I wasn´t going to worry about it but I ran into a Tasmanian pilgrim acquaintance who had some tooth pain and had extensive very up to date dental work done for free here last week. She did pay 100 euros for a taxi to the big town. I was not so taken by the offer of free pilgrim dental care (I had already been burned by the supposedly cheap French cell phone tales.) But it got me to thinking that I had better get this taken care of before I ended up in pain in a small village in the middle of nowhere. So off I went today to the dentist.

Alas I did not get Dr. Long John ( or free care, though the bill was less than the pair of shorts will cost that I am looking for). I got a very sweet dental technician who could not have been older than 24 who shot my jaw full of novocaine (unlike Better who "didn't need no Novocaine."). But like the Divine Miss M I did not feel ANY pain even with all the drilling. And I no longer have an annoying hole in my tooth. But I can´t drink anything until the anesthetic wears off. Or I will look like Kramer in one of the old Seinfield where he was taken for a "special" person after similar work.

Here is another photo of me at the free pilgrim wine fountain at Irache a few days back. (My belly is actually quite decreased--the waist and chest straps of the backpack just push up what is there, drat.) It has a webcam. Had I known that I would have alerted you so you could have watched me and my Belgian buddy Jean Francoise imbibing in the middle of a hot day.

He is a young pilgrim who sports a wild beard and unkempt hair. I originally met him in France then lost him. I walked with him for a day here in Spain when we met again. I had nicknamed him St Jerome in the Desert when I first met him in France. Then I realized if anyone looked like St. Jerome it was me.

So I had my hair done a few weeks back in a small village in France. THAT was a trip. I perused the hair model books and was determined that was my chance to end up looking like a Dolce & Gabbina Eurotrash model--part Olympic skier, part drug addict. [Surely, if anyone could work a miracle, it would be a French stylist, eh? I didn't know which saint to pray to. And my track record already with the saints was not so good.] My French only speaking hairdresser had more in mind a mid-80s Montgomery Ward slacks model. I kept pointing to one or another of the former and she to the latter. Both of us were shaking our heads. Then when on a lark, I pointed to a long curly haired blonde surfer type with pecs to die for, she took the book out of hands, swung my chair around and gave me the best cut I have ever had in my life. I may have to build up my frequent flier miles so I can visit her on a regular basis. She could not understand my instructions for my beard and so just gave me the clippers and I now sport this billy goat chin chinny thing that has gotten quite luxurious.

Well, off to the cathedral again.