MI CAMINO
I have never caught a big plane by myself before. I felt like I was hanging by my
fingertips…during the turbulence.
Then I grabbed the man’s hand next to mine. It was instinct.
For an instant, his hand was clammy with soft hairs. Then he squeezed mine as we dropped
8,000 feet. We didn’t even look at
each other. I think he wore
glasses with a bandaid holding the two lenses together.
After a cervaza, we shared a taxi. I had never taken a strange man’s hand, nor travelled with
one so willingly. But I was in a
strange land and being with a strange man – suited.
I had resolved to be open to anything on this trip. Whom was I? Whom could I become? Do I like who I am now?
I remembered that last beer as I sipped a Rioja wine, four
days into my pilgrimage. I am a
convert. Not in the religious
sense, though I do worship the way that red stuff teases me on the path during
the day. My reward. "El Camino de Santiago" is taking a lot out of me. Thank God.
The street of my hotel in the bullfighting town, smell of
burnt chickpeas and new cement. My
sticky fingers pressed primera on the
cracked mission brown door frame.
A small woman with the face of a dried fig smiled and shuffled across
the cream and white tiled floor.
Her brawny fingers brushed against mine as she beckoned me inside. I had perfected my greeting as I am a
good mimic. Her thin eyebrow
raised and she powered into a barrage of words, peppered with hand waving with
there was an invisible fly. Then
she stopped abruptly as I raised my other eyebrow.
Ewe – oss-tral-ee?
Si.
Bueno.
That was it.
She turned on her heels and my backpack straps scuttled across the
pebbled foyer in time. In Spain,
not everything is spelled out to you.
You have to wait for answers to come.
Pamplona. I
even loved the sound of the name of this town.
Pampa. Pamper. Lona. Loner. Pamper
the loner.
My room had a breeze (but do I have the energy for hand
washing?) and three pillows (two for under my sore blistered feet). The bath braced for my gentle sinking
and shallow breathing as my feet singed and toes burnt. Both back heals had fresh deep wounds
and each jutting angle from every edge of my feet looked like a blow torch had
swept through.
The pain was nothing!
I was in Spain. I walked 28
kilometres today. I ordered
breakfast in Spanish. I said hello
in Spanish. I avoided every
English speaking conversationalist.
I gave the right money in Spanish.
I made a joke in Spanish.
Without the mime.
Once dry, with fresh socks and compeed dressings, my elation
floated me into the street as I traced the “path of the bulls.” They were resting for a few months, so
I didn’t need to look behind.
Before the prearranged three course pilgrim’s meal, (included mum’s new milk),
I limped lovingly round the course.
So many older people. All
dressed up. They seemed to know each other. Do they eat and drink café con leche every evening at
10.30pm? The toddlers play close
by. Why aren’t they in bed?
Later that night when I am sure I should be in bed, I swan
into the lavish green café in which Hemingway wrote.
Grand. A Fairyland. The waiters are
older men and it seems they do this all their lives with dignity. This is their career. Their duty.
Perched on a wooden stool, I am the only one alone. But the loneliness was left in that taxi. I am free and I am
me.
