Monte del Goza to Santiago - part 6
Monday, August 3, 2009 at 10:12AM ...we all walked away...Journal Excerpt, June 12, 2006.
After a few more visits to restaurants that were pronounced not good enough and the sense that we were beginning to walk in circles, there was a meltdown of sorts by Claudette who stopped the group and let out her frustrations verbally. I listened carefully and caught key phrases: "this is not how we should celebrate arriving in Santiago," "I would like to eat well together...maybe go dancing," "we are only walking around and around the city," "it's not good for you here, it's not good for you there," "some end to our Camino! Thank you very much!" She was very angry with Xavier, who the entire time she spoke, calmly stood there with the faintest hint of a smirk on the corner of one side of his mouth that said he could care less, that he knew exactly what effect he was having, and that he only needed to wait out the histrionics of a woman. When she finished I turned to Marc and said, "She is right! Tell her she is right!" But before he could, Mr. XXL Patootie Pants had already taken the podium and began trying to rationalize his behavior, which only made Claudette more exasperated and furious, but to my great disbelief, also curiously and amazingly silent. Handicapped by my inability to speak in French, especially when angry, I was forced to stand there trying to understand everything, nodding my head emphatically in agreement when I understood Claudette to try and give her some support, and absolutely mystified as to why Marc and especially Robert didn't tell Xavier to go fly a kite, preferably back on the hills where we had seen them dancing against the blue sky the day before at Monte del Goza. A sudden and vacuous lull in the conversation punctuated what seemed to be Xavier's statement of conclusion. I looked from face to face of the others hoping for some reaction. None came. Sensing he had no challengers, Xavier walked out of the circle of the group and the whole restaurant nonsense proceeded again.
He finally found some place he could approve of. It was an unpleasantly noisy place, full of people and harshly bright. For some strange reason I remember the colors yellow and green. We went in and most of us sat down at a table too small for the 5 of us, much less the 7 of us. Robert and Claudette went over to the bar to have a drink, and I watched as Robert tried to calm Claudette down by talking to her quietly. It felt awful not being able to say or help more. When she and Robert came over, we squeezed ourselves closer together into the two narrow benches on either side of our shiny brown table, so thickly lacquered you could have ice-skated on top of it. It was June, 2006 and the World Cup soccer tournament was going on and that night there was some game being played. We sat at a table that was not far from the giant screen TV because it was the only one available; no one else had wanted to sit that close to the screen, which also meant we were closer to the sound system and couldn't hear each other talking. In retrospect, it may have been a good thing since we were all so pissed off, with the exception of Xavier, who maintained his attitude of innocence throughout. Had we been able to hear ourselves talk at all, we probably would have started a bar brawl given the slightest provocation. Instead, I watched in silence as the next incredulous infantile action took place, which came with the ordering of the food, whereby Xavier simply spoke French to the Spanish waitress as if she could and must understand him. He had asked if they served Paella, of course. When she said she couldn't understand, he made no effort to change and she stood there shrugging her shoulders. It was beyond embarrassing, more like infuriating, especially since he spoke Italian and although clearly not the same language as Spanish, it is clearly closer than French, which he, we, and last year's wad of gum stuck to the underside of the table knew, of course. I could hardly think what he thought he was accomplishing. Paulo stepped in and began speaking in Italian, which the waitress could understand, at which point Xavier began speaking in Italian too. This was not missed by the waitress who looked over at him for a moment with cold eyes, but then hurriedly took our orders only from Paulo, and rightfully disappeared.
We sat in zombie-like stares. When our food arrived, the passing of plates and drinks broke our stares temporarily, only to be refocused on the circumference of our plates. We ate in a heavy and forced silence, more cramped than before by the table full of plates and glasses. We bumped into each other's elbows, occasionally gave and received unintentional tocks in the shins from below, and used our cutlery in cramped, lilliputian-like motions so as to avoid touching each other. Because I am left-handed, it was particularly amusing for me and Paulo, who was the victim of an arm collision nearly every forkfull I ate. I kept saying I was sorry when we would collide, but he never heard me. Thankfully a smile sufficed. All of this made Claudette visibly irritated again, and it was clear that the only thing anyone wanted to do was to get out of there as quickly as possible. And thank God there was no Paella-Time to be had, although had it been available it might have spurred on a well deserved mutiny. I have a vague memory of deep fried Calamari rings.
When it was finally over and we escaped out the door into the quiet cool night air, Claudette announced that she was leaving with Robert to go back to the albergue. It felt terrible knowing that she felt her Camino had been ruined, or at least forever marked by this last typical, yet crowning manipulation by Xavier. I didn't know how to help and I didn't understand why they had tolerated so much for so long. At the time I could only think it must be some cultural difference, as if it were impolite in France not to tolerate that behavior or something. On the other hand, and maybe it's the American rebel in me, they did, after all, have that day on the 14th of July in 1789 to draw inspiration from.
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Reader Comments (5)
Please? The emotional suspense is getting to me. Is it a happy ending? And, as someone else said not so l.ong ago - what happened to Marc, to you? Did Xavier get his come uppance?
Whatever, thanks for one of he best narratives on he camino I have read.
I've been letting it take its time for a variety of reasons, some of which will be much clearer when I reach a point in the story that I feel marks its end. It's not so easy to know where the end should be, but I'm trusting in my gut on that one.
So I'll do my best to get out more entries, I really will. I need to get it done, and I think it may be safe to say that within two months it will be finished. The story will explain why.
But please also take heart Jacobus. Know that I often look at your comment about Murias with the "damn it" in it because it pleases me immeasurably. Makes me smile every time. Yours and many of the comments from readers are pinned to a cork board in my room where I write. They have kept me from losing faith at times. In that sense, readers participate in this process, and I have been extremely fortunate to have a small, yet very nice collection of fine and valuable comments that have pushed me on when I thought maybe all I was writing was the equivalent of blah, blah, blah.
I thank you and all others who may be reading. It's humbling and the feeling is enormous gratitude from my side.
I'm so very glad to know you're still reading. I wish you a great upcoming Camino. I'll do my best to keep the entries coming.
~Deb.
Thank you very much for the comments.
~Deb.