Go

Day 3 of the Camino and I knew nothing. I had yet to learn that I carried too much water and not enough food, that the revered Brierley–the guidebook everyone used–could be full of shit, that the trail would be kinder and crueler than I ever imagined, that, among those I randomly encountered, I would meet una amiga de mi alma. Also: I didn’t know if I could do this thing. I didn’t know if I wanted to do this thing.

On day 3 I found myself in Larrasoaña, a small village, at an albergue chosen without the thought I’d later learn to devote to decisions about where I would sleep. The host directed me to a room on the second floor with 4 sets of metal bunkbeds that would eventually be inhabited by 8 people, all women. I thought same-sex rooms was the usual thing. I didn’t know that this would never happen again. We women shared a bathroom, which was clean and had new bar of soap and a tiled shower with abundant hot water. I thought this was the usual thing. I didn’t know this would never happen again.

Clean, clueless and concerned, I tucked myself into the bottom bunk below Michele from Quebec who was busy writing in her journal (which it occurred to me I should be doing, but I hadn’t brought a notebook in a wrong-headed attempt to save backpack weight) and across from Margit from Sweden who was bandaging her already blistered toes. In this room full of women—not one of whom snored–I fell asleep easily. This would not again happen.

That night I had a dream so real, so palpable, that when I awoke I was convinced it had actually  happened. In the dream Tom knelt beside the bunkbed, reached in and touched my shoulder. I felt that touch. I got out of bed. I stood up. And we embraced, the kind of full-body embrace that lasts long enough for you to feel the other person’s body heat. I felt that embrace. I felt that heat. Then we stood apart. “Go,” he said.

When you dream, your subconscious is trying to tell you something. When you dream of people who have died, you pay close attention. My dreams are often embarrassingly obvious. Once I dreamt I hit my father over the head with a frying pan. Like that.

“Go,” said Tom, who was for three decades my husband. And I did.