Hostal Acacia, Burgos

[Bert45]

According to the sello in my credencial, I stayed at the Hostal Acacia, Burgos, in September 2014. I have no actual memory of the place, though my diary tells me I left the accommodation in the early evening and had forgotten where the entrance was when I got back. The sello is headed 'ACACIA * ABEDUL', then 'GRUPO SAN JUAN'. Below that is a webite 'www.hostalacacia.com', then a telephone number 947205134 - BURGOS.
I wanted to find out where it was. The web address does not work. The phone number leads to the Hostal Monjes Peregrinos, Burgos. So the Hostal Acacia must have changed its name. But the address is 'Calle Bernabé Pérez Ortiz', which Google Maps tells me is a street in a little village 44 km from Burgos, not on the Camino Francés. GM cannot find that street in Burgos itself. But the phone number also leads to Hostal riMboMbin. Calle Sombrereria, 6, Burgos. GM can find that street, but it is not where I stayed in 2014.
I wondered what 'Abedul' meant. Google provided the answer: birch tree. The Spanish word for 'acacia' is 'acacia', surprisingly enough. Did somebody think that the Spanish for 'acacia' was 'abedul'?
I then searched for the Hostal Monjes Peregrinos in Burgos. I found an address: Calle Doctor Aurelio Aleman, 1. I found that on GM. It looked familiar. This was the place! But I looked again at the list of places with the same phone number: Hotel Monjes Magnos, Calle Cardenal Benlloch. Could that be the one? Perhaps. It is just round the corner from Calle Doctor Aurelio Aleman,1.
Perhaps that is why I could not find my way back to the entrance in 2014.
If you've read this far, you may be wondering why I've posted this. I started having spent some time yesterday trying to find where I stayed in 2014. I was going to ask the forum for help, but having tried a few new leads from the phone number today, I believe I've found the place. I thought that you might enjoy following my journey. I hope so.

 

[chinacat]

Might you have been in a parallel universe in 2014?

 

[MinaKamina]

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.

 

[Bert45]

Yes, it's confusing, isn't it? Vivehotels.com tells us that "The Acacia Hostel is located in front of the Museum of Human Evolution and also of the Burgos Library." That's in Burgos, right? It also says that the address is "Bernabé Perez Ortiz, 1, 09004 Burgos, Spain". So why can't Google Maps find that street in 09004 Burgos? The only C. Bernabé Pérez Ortiz that GM can find is in Pineda de la Sierra (09199 Burgos). If you look for 09004, Burgos, you will get a block of four or five streets, north to south and about six or seven streets east to west. None of these streets is labelled Bernabé Perez Ortiz. The map on vivehotels.com takes us to a marker on Calle Vitoria, quite close to Calle Doctor Aurelio Aleman and Calle Cardenal Benlloch. Could it be that the marker is a few metres out?
Could it be that C. Bernabé Pérez Ortiz, 1 is now Calle Doctor Aurelio Aleman, 1? Yes! In May 2018 the street was renamed. It seems that Calle Barnabé Perez Ortiz was guilty of violating the Law of Historical Memory! Who knew?
Is it odd that so many places have the same telephone number?

 

[MinaKamina]

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?

 

[Venado]

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.