Morning:
Almost overnight the architecture in these border mountain villages has changed from that of the plateaus and valleys of Castilla y Leon. The warped, undulating roofs that used to be made of rusty Spanish tiles covered in bright green moss are now warped undulating roofs made of gray shale shingles shaped like fish scales and covered in blue-gray lichens. The buildings in this valley called Bierzo are made of grey stacked stone with pronounced second story balconies made out of black and gnarled timbers. They are not the sierra colored mud and straw homes that I have seen for so long.
Roberto can´t believe I started the camino in France and have come this far by myself. In fact, I have been told many times that I am ¨muy valiente,¨ very brave, for traveling on my own. And you would be surprised how difficult it is for me to accept this compliment about myself. Jamie Tarabay, who is my age and is Baghdad bureau chief for NPR, is brave. Not me. And yet I want so very much to be brave. Courage is a character trait that I ache to embody, even more than humor or generosity or patience. I am not sure why this is so, but perhaps if I am brave, I know I will endure. Endure this camino, endure my divorce, endure the uncertainty that is my life looking forward. Perhaps if I am told enough I am brave, at some moment I'll have the courage to believe it.
So I remember my mom telling me that when you refuse to accept a compliment from someone it is the same thing as saying they are stupid and don´t know what they are talking about, and I don´t want to be rude and insult Roberto, my new friend, so I have no choice but to agree with him that I am brave. And I am doing my best to believe it.
And apparently St. Francis of Assisi did the camino in 1212. So I am bravely walking in illustrious bald-pated footsteps too.
In the morning I breakfasted with Roberto and Elainie and then walked with them for much of the day. Roberto has worked for an American electronics company for 18 years and wants to chuck the bullshit and be a tennis program manager for a resort. It is a story I hear over and over again on the Camino, that the people who come here are searching for something more, or needing to change something about their lives, or simply needing time to think.
It only took four weeks, but I am finally used to the weight of my pack and can sling the fucker on with pretty impressive agility now. And it is about time, but I am beginning to appreciate the athleticism of the trail and take delight in its challenges rather than just look dully at an uphill climb and say ¨fuck.¨ My body has finally recovered its ability to adapt to exertion. For a year I was so exhausted that the thought of exercise made me want to go to bed and sleep for an hour, but now, I look forward to a day of kicking ass on the trail. It feels good to have a functioning (if slightly worse for wear), body again.
In the afternoon I left Roberto and Elainie behind and continued on alone. I waited for the ruminating to start, but miraculously, it didn´t. Adrenalized by the lovely Beirzo valley I was trekking through I found myself, unintentionally and spontaneously making vows of fealty to myself, each growing in boldness and commitment. ¨Never again will I allow myself to be told that I am selfish and believe it. Never again will I allow myself to be told that I don´t know what is best for ME. Never again will I allow myself to apologize for my feelings, my wants, my needs, my very existence. Never again will I hang my head in shame or guilt before someone else´s judgement. Never again will I allow someone else to define my reality or my experience or me. Never again will I allow someone else´s labels or categories or diagnoses of my feelings or behavior or choices invade my consciousness and become my own. Never again will I deny my own fear or doubt. Never again will I ignore my own instincts, my gut, my gut God, which is the truest form of guidance our bodies possess.¨ And on and on I went with my vows, until I could think of no more at the moment, but left the door open for more vows to come.
I was surprised at myself, my knightly, chivalrous self. I have decided to become my own defender, my own protector. And I marveled at the ease with which these far pleasanter ruminations came upon me today, and I realized they were the result of something my friend Marcie had said to me once: ¨You have to get really still within yourself.¨ To know what you are missing, to know what you want, you have to get still. And this litany of promises was born out of just that: stillness. I could hear myself instructing myself in exactly what I needed to do, to be, for myself.
Afternoon:
I am in an outpost. An absolute, Wild West, outhouse across the frozen fucking courtyard, outpost. Any minute now the fur traders should be arriving from Saskatchewan. My guidebook described this place as ¨a haven of hospitality and healing,¨ which is why I chose to come here instead of kip at the more institutionally austere municipal albergue. The guidebook also said this place was legendary. Hmmmm, is that because the dormitory is practically a treehouse? or because the shower water, which the hospitalero described as ¨caliente¨ is actually barely tepid? Or because the toilet is outside across a freezing stone courtyard? Oh, I can see this place is legendary all right.
This was by far the shortest shower I have taken, which is probably some kind of cosmic retribution for the fact that admittedly my hot water consumption on this trip can be described as nothing less than colossally inconsiderate. I can´t help it. I have had an addiction to obnoxiously long, fatally hot showers ever since I was old enough to take them and get yelled at by my parents for wasting hot water. And it is true that hot water in the albergues is sometimes scarce and you are supposed to leave some for everybody else. Once when I was camping out in a hot shower Pablo walked by my stall and shouted ¨Don´t esleep!¨ I am evil and selfish and I don´t care. But today the universe took its revenge and I froze in the shower room. And when you are that fucking cold there is nothing to do but take a nap in self defense. It is not that you are tired, really, just that you need to get your shivering ass under the covers before you turn five shades of blue.
And the German guys in their junk sling underwear are back and visually polluting the place again. Ugh.
And there is no washer and dryer here. I am getting desperate. My clothes are about to walk themselves to Santiago.
But this place does have high speed Internet. This is fucked up. How do you have high speed internet and no hot water? and no indoor toilet? and no heat in the dining room?
I was still a frozen block of ice after my siesta, so I figured I´d better get my body thawed and moving. I took a tour of the town where I had another (there have been about three) Under the Tuscan Sun moment and drooled over a gorgeous crumbling townhouse for sale in the medieval Calle Agua (Water Street). It was charming and in want of affection (and rehab) and I had to stop myself from wildly dialling the realtor´s number.
And I am glad to report that not all accommodations at the outpost were abysmal. Dinner was a lovely home cooked presentation of Bierzo stew (chorizo and cabbage soup) and huevos con fritas (eggs fried in paprika and olive oil and slapped on top of hot, salty french fries), and a dessert of apples straight from the local orchard.
After dinner, one of the volunteers at the albergue, a Brazilian named Adriano, asked me to read the lyrics for some of the songs he had written in English. At first I thought he just wanted me to correct his grammar and usage, but really I think he was compliment fishing. He could certainly play the guitar and sing, but his lyrics were on the generic side. But then, I can´t write song lyrics in my own language, let alone a second one, so props to him. I definitely do not have the courage to do that.
No comments:
Post a Comment