Monte del Goza to Santiago - part 8
Thursday, August 20, 2009 at 02:33PM I suppose I am only repeating what I said before but I want to hear the words again. —Journal Excerpt, June 12, 2006.
It felt strange not needing to unpack the sleeping bag that night. My things lay on the floor, on the table, on the bed, on the chair, on the nightstand. My hand washed clothes were hanging on the door handle of the french doors and on the door handle of the closet. It was a chaos I would never have permitted myself in any of the albergues. I took out my toothbrush and toothpaste, took the fat, white terrycloth robe the hotel had provided and walked up one floor to the bathroom. I showered, brushed my teeth, and returned to my room. I put my toothbrush and paste on the table next to the chairs seeing no reason to pack it away. I realized I had no pajamas, and couldn't think of any reason to put clothes on to sleep. I took off the robe, laid it on the end of my bed, pulled back the cover, the white sheet, and got into bed. I lay there with a kind of inner stillness, my thoughts not moving as much as they normally do, my body feeling somewhat immobilized. It was quiet. Even the hallway of the hotel was quiet. At very long last, sleep had come easily.
My happy condition didn't go unnoticed by the Camino gods, however. I woke up. It was dark. There had been a sound. I sat up in bed unsure if I had heard what I thought I had heard. I looked to the door listening for sounds of people in the hallway, but all was still. I sat and waited in the darkness, my ears straining to hear anything. Then the rumble came again. The storm was coming or passing by from a long way off. It wasn't raining. I lay back down on the bed and relaxed. From time to time soft flashes of light lit up the outline of the window behind the curtains. I listened for some minutes wondering what time it was, but reassured that it was only the Camino gods having one last laugh, I closed my eyes. I was permitted to fade away into sleep again. When I woke again, it was to the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs in the hotel hallway. I realized it was daylight. I didn't worry so much about the time any more. I calmly got up, put back on the robe, went back to the shower, enjoyed the pleasure of copious hot water, got dressed and returned to my room. I would wait until it was time to go to the train station, and not knowing when that would be, I simply waited.
I went through my things, mostly the things in the two boxes that I had sent ahead by post. Together I had sent 3.1 kilos from my pack. It was amusing to see my things again, especially the compass the Pants had lent me. He had had it since the days when he was a Boy Scout. He had taught me how to use it before I left, testing me with the maps in my guidebook. I made him test me two nights in a row to be sure I had comprehended it and retained it. It was a reminder of how afraid and anxious about my trip I was then, and completely laughable to think of needing a compass on the Camino Francés at all. I held and leafed through the extra books I had brought. They were proof that it was nearly impossible for me to travel without some form of the National Library of Deb along. It's taken me a long time to figure it out, but my attachment to books are, in part, metaphorical for the parenting I never had, and even though I am in possession of a heightened intuitive sense and other keen observational and emotional skills, without my books and their information I don't always trust myself. On the Camino I had learned to let them go out of necessity and, more importantly, out of choice, and because of that much Deb-ness was able to resurface. That has been so very good, so very sweet, and so very long overdue. As for my shoes, it had been a pity that the street shoes I had brought had hurt my feet after a long day of hiking. I would have preferred not to flip flop my way through restaurants and cathedrals, but my feet thanked me for doing so. The foldable cutlery set I had never used felt like a ton of bricks in my hand. I had blissfully replaced its weight with bars of chocolate along the way and had been better for it. And last but not least, the tripod for my camera —a completely useful but Camino-useless gadget that should have never been considered at all. At least I had had the sense of humor to take one picture with it to justify its presence. I laughed at all my stuff thinking that what I needed now most was a donation box like those metal bins with the trap door you put clothes in, but designated for the Swiss Family Robinson. In the end, I had needed so little, most of all the fear that made me bring all those things to begin with.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, the time had arrived to go. I took a deep breath and tried to keep a neutral but brave face on when I faced Marc and received his last telegram: "Deb, we go?" Was it really a question? I wondered. We both avoided our eyes and in contrast to all the other days there was little discussion between Marc and I as we walked towards the train station slightly behind the others. We made only little comments here and there. Marc was in manager or father mode, and that meant he was giving me advice now and then: "You go back to the hotel after the train and rest, okay? If you have time, maybe you could buy the triptych I saw in the store and send it to me. You rest, then you see the city, maybe the cathedral again, then you find something to eat. Okay Deb? What time is your plane?" Then, finally what he really wanted to say would come out: "I don't like leaving you here alone." I listened and answered mostly with one word responses of "Uh-huh," "Okay," and "Yes, Marc." We wouldn't be getting lost that morning, and we wouldn't be having any life discussions or philosophical meanderings. We were both doing a good job of keeping ourselves together and marching towards the train station as if we were only going to buy a foreign newspaper, but internally it was a different story, and our lack of discussion said it all.
The weather threatened to rain. The thunder storm from the night had brought a foreshadowing change. Spain's infinitely blue sky was somewhere behind a thick blanket of grey clouds. I was cold. I had left my green, frog cosmonaut jacket in the hotel room, thinking I surely wouldn't need it. I had come to expect that every day there would be a domed, infinitely blue sky and that wherever we walked we would be under it. Marc saw me holding myself and slightly shivering. He stopped and pulled his rain jacket out of his bag to give to me to wear. "Take care of your sick," he said. I remembered he had bought it the day we arrived in Burgos, in the sporting goods store. Ah yes—Burgos. The cathedral, Burgos. Hotel Don Quixote, Burgos. Crying Anne-Marie, Burgos. The first Paella-Time, Burgos. The first anise liquor drink, Burgos. Eating lunch and laughing in my hotel room with the boys, Burgos. The unforgettable faces of those women in native dress in the store, Burgos. The terrible dinner and the waiter, Burgos. I remembered it all while I put on his jacket. We walked on through the city of Santiago, me in a blur of thoughts and quite honestly, not really present. I stayed attentive enough not to get hit by traffic, but I secretly wished the earth would suddenly open up and swallow the train station whole in one big gulp so as to make it go away, like a giant muscle shell in Xavier's beloved paella, and then neatly sew itself back up again without a burp or trace of an apology. A few tumbleweeds, some dust, and some whistling wind would have been nice.
To my great disappointment the train station appeared before us unscathed. There was a disappearance, but only of Marc and the others to go buy their tickets. I went alone into the café and waited. I didn't know if there would be time to drink a coffee together or not so I found a table and tried to keep myself from crying. When everyone returned Marc told me there was about a half hour to kill, so we ordered a last café con leche and yet another highly processed yellow cake thing wrapped in plastic. When we went to sit down, the others didn't follow. For some strange reason Xavier, Robert, and Claudette sat at a table away from us. I couldn't understand it. I asked Marc if something had happened or had been said. He said that they hadn't and that he didn't know what was going on. It was hurtful to me, but after a few moments of thinking about it I figured it must have had something to do with Xavier and his childish ways. Perhaps he was mad at me for not giving him all my attention or perhaps it was his way of telling me the Camino was over for him and therefore I was not a part of the group anymore. Then again, maybe he was dealing with his own feelings of displacement and hurt about the journey coming to an end. I'll never know. We sat in silence with our coffee and cake, forcing it down because we had bought it.
The others were finished up before us and began arranging their things. Claudette came over to me and gave me her head scarf as a memento. I gave her mine in return. It was difficult not to start crying at that point. I felt each of these small acts and gestures as cumulative goodbyes and they twisted the knot of hurt in my stomach more. I watched them all heave their packs up onto their shoulders. We moved to the platform in anticipation of the train. I found a bench and sat down and found myself doing what I often do: observing. I watched as Marc and the others stood in a circle discussing something. Xavier was doing most of the talking. I figured the agenda for the day was being revealed. My entire body began to feel tight, my heart and chest the most. I sat in silence, watching and bracing myself. When their discussion had finished Marc came and sat next to me. He began talking to me and I knew it was his way of saying goodbye and so I let him talk, but internally I wanted him to shut up more than anything else in the world. He was trying to encapsulate the last two weeks into words and it wasn't possible, but he was trying anyway, as if I needed some kind of explanation, or as if I was some kind of third person who hadn't experienced it for myself. I continued to let him talk, and when I couldn't take much more of it because time was wasting away, I finally had the courage to look at him directly, and then he was quiet because he saw how much I was hurting. I promised to call him to let him know I was safe back at home, and he promised to do the same for me. Then there was silence. Less than five minutes later the train came. We got up from the bench and I went over to the others. I hugged Robert and Claudette and said goodbye. I hugged Xavier, kissed him on the cheek and said thank you and goodbye. He remained distant in response, but it didn't matter to me. I knew somewhere underneath he wasn't as tough as he thought he was. There was a sea of people disembarking from the train as Marc and I put our arms around each other. He commanded me to "be strong." I silently commanded him to shut up. With that, he picked up his pack and got on the train. I watched them as they entered the car and placed their packs on the chairs. Marc walked back from his seat and stood there looking out the window at me. He mouthed the word "strong" to me and held up two clenched fists to emphasize it. I silently told him to shut up again. I kept my gaze, not able to stop myself from crying. When the train jerked forward, his body went off balance for a second and he grabbed the seat next to him. I held one hand up from my waist, my palm and fingers stretched open. For a brief second a small smile came across my lips, but feeling that small happiness and all it meant broke my heart into a flood of tears. I walked along side the train as long as I could, fixated on Marc's face while the train steadily gathered speed. He stretched out his arm and hand in goodbye in the last seconds, trying to retain visual contact. His face, hand, and body blurred into the rhythmic reflections glinting across the train windows.
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Reader Comments (14)
Thanks. Yes, very difficult.
~Deb.
I know that the camino doesn't end just because one arrives in Santiago. It seems that there was unfinished business between you and Marc; things left unsaid. As always, I stay tuned. Thank you for your unfolding story to date which has inspired and touched me in so many ways.
best, Barbara
Thank you for commenting and your very nice compliment. You are right, the camino doesn't end just because one arrives in Santiago. Exactly. The story continues soon.
My best to you,
~Deb
Ahem. We're still here.
Thanks for the nudging. Always nice.
~Deb
You sure cry a lot. Lousy way to feel the love, unless you didn't tell it all.
Adios
~Deb.
I'm off to do yet another part of the Camino in a matter of days. Will I see at least one more instalment before I go?
Thank you for the support and comment. Here's the way I see it: I've been very blessed to have extremely generous and positive comments throughout this more than three year experience of allowing myself to write, to experiment, to tell my story, to just try to cobble words together without knowing what I am doing. What a great experience and what a surprise to have had on the whole such positive and devoted readers! I never expected it, never could have predicted it! Fantastic!
And, in the meantime I will continue to write my story, warts and beauty and all. I fully accept that not everyone will like or enjoy my story. That's okay. In that sense, Peregrino's comment was fine. It gave me a moment to pause and think and that was good. Not everything is beautiful on the Camino, and certainly also not about my story or my writing. In that sense, I take the comment in a positive way, as a moment to touch base with a view that took the chance to tell me that not everything resonates with them about my experience. As long as things stay peaceful, meaning not offensive or inflammatory, then it's completely okay.
Thank you for your continued support. I appreciate it. The fact that you feel so strongly in contrast is also a positive and meaningful statement. Thank you.
Since my browser and hard drive and general very vexing and annoying technological problems seemed to have stabilized, I will do my very best to get the next entry out before you go. I wish you a great Camino! Always glad to hear where the pilgrims are walking and how it was for them. I envy those who have made the North route...that would be my next Camino wish, but beginning from a distance of about 3,000 kilometers...
Buen Camino and Peace to all,
~Deb
I realy, realy like your story and the way you write -sincerely and with an opened heart! Many times I wanted to comment your posts to give you words of support but ,for me,it's hard to express myself in english.
Anyway, I feel you are an delicate person,and I am glad that there are people like you living on this Earth who are brave enough to share their story so honestly!! Thank you!
And for the peregrino and his comment.... I feel sorry for people like him-cynical and with innuendos...
best wishes Deb,
Tajana
You express yourself in English wonderfully! Thank you very much for the comment and for staying with me. I appreciate your support and know, because you have commented before, that you are a long time reader. That's incredible to me considering my long absences.
But...although delay after delay keeps happening for reasons expected and unexpected, I will be back.
Thanks again for your kind words.
~Deb
People do the Camino for their own reasons and yours became a very personal journey. I feel privileged that you have shared it with us.
Take your time, don't rush for it impatient people.
Kia kaha (Stand strong).
Rick
Thanks for the comment and the calming reminder to take my time. I appreciate it.
~Deb