Archives for posts with tag: men

(This story is part of a continuing series based on my adventures walking 500 miles across Northern Spain on the ancient pilgrimage route El Camino de Santiago. The first part begins here.)

March 9, 2005
Day 10: Belorado to Ages, 30.2 km/18.8 m

Martin woke me in the morning. Somehow I had slept through the sound of the entire refuge clearing out for the day. Martin hovered above me nervously and touched my shoulder. Everyone else had left already, he told me, and he wanted to catch up with them. I stared at him for a long, cold moment. “That’s youth talking,” I said, and I wasn’t nice about it.

On the one hand, I adored the idea that he and Simon wanted to travel with me; on the other hand I thought, Whose time schedule are we on?

I crammed my swollen feet into my shoes, and when I stood up they didn’t feel any better than they had the night before. I threw my things into my bag as the boys waited, eyeing me. I moved toward the door as if I was trudging through wet cement. Everything was an effort.

Outside, the sun was blinding but at least it was sun. As we walked away from the refuge, I thought I might be in real trouble. My muscles felt like they would snap at any moment. My legs were as useful as stumps. Every step felt like I consciously had to tell my brain how to lift my foot and thrust it forward. Perhaps the boys shouldn’t have waited for me, I thought, but I kept throwing myself onward and, miraculously, a half hour into the day, I was fine.

In fact, I was more than fine; I was spectacular. The walk was simply gorgeous, and nearly all of it uphill—in the snow. But oddly, it was probably the warmest day yet. The sun sparkled gloriously from every facet of the melting landscape, and I walked on the edge of ecstasy knowing my boys were so close by.


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(This story is part of a continuing series based on my adventures walking 500 miles across Northern Spain on the ancient pilgrimage route El Camino de Santiago. The first part begins here.)

March 11, 2005
Day 12: Burgos to Hontanas, 30.3 km/18.8 m

I’d had diarrhea for a couple days. I suspected it was due to the lard the Spanish use for cooking, which liquefied into a horrible orange oil. It seemed that everything arrived in a pool of horrible orange oil. I could live with the diarrhea, it hadn’t been terrible, but when I awakened, to be frank, the inside of one of my butt cheeks was raw and inflamed. That’s when I discovered that it’s impossible to walk without moving the inside of your butt cheeks. I pulled the roll of sports tape from my bag and did the best I could knowing the tape probably wouldn’t stick for very long. I was grateful to be walking solo, that’s for sure.

Jaime came down from his quarters upstairs and offered a warm, easy smile. I told him I’d need another hug from him before I left. As he embraced me, he said that his hugs heal people. I didn’t doubt it.

I asked him if anyone served breakfast at that hour, 8:30, and he said the café next door was open. “Wanna join me?” I inquired boldly.

The Spanish aren’t as keen on breakfast as we are. They tend to like a thimble of espresso to wash down their bland, lifeless pastries. I, on the other hand, like a pot of strong coffee and a plate of something that’s sizzling—eggs are nice. For the Spanish, a fried egg and a plate of French fries is a dinner order. But Jaime hooked me up. He knew the café staff, of course, and he had them make me a vat of Americano coffee to accompany two eggs and toast.

And then we settled into the task at hand—to exchange as much of ourselves as we could over eggs and coffee.
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