Hostal Acacia, Burgos

Might you have been in a parallel universe in 2014?

The place is called Hotel / Hostel Acacia, Bernabé Perez Ortiz, 1, 09004 Burgos, Spain.

https://hotel-acacia-burgos.vivehotels.com/en/

Various hotels appear to be located at this address, and none of them has rooms free on the dates that I tried on various booking sites.

This had me thinking for a while.






conclusion:


I second the idea of a parallel universe, in 2014 and up to date.

I have good news for you. You can go back in time on google maps and walk through the area. I have seen pictures from 2016 and even from 2014. Perhaps you recognize something?

Bert 45, I saw the title of your post: “Hostal Acacia, Burgos” and memories came flooding back.

May 2012, limping into San Juan de Ortega, unable to walk properly. The medieval monastery there. Cold dormitory rooms, grubby unmade beds, an unfriendly hospitalero. Black pudding and salad for lunch in the only place to eat next door. People talking about taking the bus into Burgos. Feeling pretty bad with a cold coming on, aches and pains and my leg problem. I go to bed early and am up with indigestion in the night.

Standing at the crossroads the next day I eventually decide to turn left and walk to the bus stop on the main road. I walk slowly and steadily along the black tarmac that looks newly laid and arrive at a littered, broken-down bus shelter. I wait there a while, and presently, the young American girls who had been at lunch yesterday join me. Suddenly, a bus comes hurtling along. I stand out on the road with my arm raised and it stops just ahead of us. As we put our packs in the baggage compartment, a woman with long black and grey hair watches us from a window and makes me feel guilty.

The bus journey only takes a few minutes, passing billboards, petrol stations and suburban sprawl that could be anywhere. The city centre is just a few streets away. I walk across the Santa Maria bridge, pausing to gaze down at the river Arlanzón. Then, looking up, I marvel at the medieval entrance to the old town with its castle-like turrets gleaming white in the sunshine. I turn right into the Paseo del Espolon, an avenue lined with beautifully manicured trees and make my way to the Hostel Acacia, which is away from the centre of town, near the river.

The hostel is on the 3rd floor of a block of flats. I press the buzzer, go up the stairs, and meet Fernando, a Roger Daltry look-alike, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans who has both the looks of a rock star and also the energy. He bounces around the room, from cabinet to desk to drawer. Informs me that they have reduced rates for perigrinos. Arranges the signing in, first night’s payment and handing over of keys, punctuating the whole performance with frequent exclamations of, ‘Peregrino!’ He provides a map of the city and circles with a pen all the places I should see. 'The centre is beautiful', he says, "not like the suburbs which you have just walked through."

Later that morning, I sit outside a cafe and watch the pilgrims coming in through the medieval arch of San Juan. A large, blonde-haired man stops for a moment, blows out a pair of red cheeks and exhales, then continues on, stick in hand, shouldering a heavy-looking rucksack. Others follow, the good the bad and the ugly. People of different sizes, ages and nationalities, a never-ending stream of humanity. The locals don't give them a second glance. This pilgrim-friendly city welcomes thousands of them every year, but I watch them closely and view them with a mixture of emotions: embarrassment, respect, pity, guilt, envy. It was only yesterday that I walked among them and was a member of their tribe now, already, I am a detached observer. I finish my coffee and limp back in my plastic sandals, through the arch and across the bridge, to my hostel.