Invulnerability and cheap wine

Day 3 of the Camino was supposed to be easy. I had walked 25 kilometers over the Pyrenees on my first day, starting at dawn, fueled by anxiety and wonder. On the second day, I walked 27.4—6 kilometers longer than the recommended stop—because I wanted to avoid replicating the prescribed “sections” in Camino guidebook everyone was using. I walked past Zubiri into Larrasoña, to the albergue where, that night, Tom appeared in my dream. And now day 3.

Piece of cake, I thought. Only 16.5 kilometers to Pamplona. And I would be meeting up with a new friend there, the “Kiki” you have read about in past essays. We had (kis)met in the afternoon of day 1, found each other unexpectedly on the path in the morning of day 2 (one of those “camino magic” moments), then separated as I walked on, but not before making a plan to meet up in Pamplona.

A short day. A stress-free day. I knew where I was going and where I was staying. A friendly face would be waiting.

Alas.

That was the day my oh-so-carefully enlightened (speaking of weight not spirituality) backpack began to dig into my unusually bony clavicle, the start of a painful bone bruise. That was the day I discovered my “international plan” from Verizon did not work in Spain (thus, map-less). That was the day I realized, upon entering Pamplona, that it was a feast day, that the Spaniards took their feast days mighty seriously, that the winding streets would be impassable, that I would spend three hours ass-to-elbow, backpack feeling like I was carrying rocks, lost and wandering, interrupting various raucous revelers to ask in broken Spanish if they knew the way to this little hotel, the name of which I had misremembered. That was the day I thought: Maybe I’m not as invincible as I thought I was. (Happily, that thought passed, as it is impossible to continue this journey without the shield of invulnerability)

When I finally found the hotel—okay I didn’t really find it…an extraordinarily kindly, gnarled, cane-wielding old lady walked me there—I discovered that the reservation I thought I had made I had not made. The place was full up. But the woman behind the desk took pity on me–I did, in fact, present as pitiful—and found me a windowless room the size of a prison cell, with a twin bed wedged against the wall. But the bed had two pillows. Two! And sheets. Real sheets made of fabric not paper. And a telephone-booth-sized private bathroom. With towels. It felt like a palace.

I dropped my backpack, unlaced my walking shoes, flopped on the bed, and vowed never to take the luxury and comfort of my life for granted ever again, a vow I kept for maybe 4 days after I returned to the luxury and comfort of my life.

Later I climbed the stairs to Kiki’s room where we got drunk on cheap wine sloshed into plastic cups.

(Out and about, mixing it up with Papa, post-wine)