the grace of begonias
three graces
to illuminate my mind
to burn my words into a sword
to break our hearts
with the beauty of it all
The cab driver was confused. After shaking his head and trying to dissuade me from hiking the coastal route of the Camino (“montañas”), I gave him 40 euros for a 28 euro ride. “For luck,” I told him: for being kind, and helpful, and forgiving my useless Spanish. For this odyssey upon which I was embarking. He let me shake his hand, offering me, “Buen Camino.” I smiled, not realizing it was the first of a thousand such blessings I would receive, then walked toward the wrong hotel door. He honked and pointed, and once more steered me right.
Up the narrow stairs, at the front desk I was greeted by Begoña; she said most women in Bilbao have this name, which makes it easy to address people on the street – “Try it! You’ll see!” – and we both laughed. My room at the end of the hall looked exactly like the online photos, meaning aging, rundown, and absolutely charming, with a view out the long floor-to-ceiling windows of the Teatro Arriaga across the street. Cool air flowed through the long unscreened windows and gently fluttered the gauzy curtains. I stood my backpack next to the writing table in the corner, and hauled off my hiking boots and socks. Several pots exploding with flowers filled the balcony to the left of my window, including begonias. I could see the river past the plaza de teatro.
I ran a hot bath, knowing I would not have another for months. As I soaked in the steaming water, I thought about the many begonias in Bilbao: the cathedral, the flowers growing around lampposts and on balconies, the women like exuberant flowers gracing the city. I found out the Basilica de Begoña is the cathedral of the patron saint of Bizkaia/Biscay, named Nuestra Senora Begoña. Our Lady of Begoña. I had arrived in the Basque region, fiercely independent people with a long tradition as sailors and navigators. Sailors who were immensely grateful for returning from the fierce Atlantic Ocean into the Cantabrian Sea, known in the west as the Bay of Biscay; they navigated up the Nervión river and offered thanks to Our Lady as soon as they could see the high steeple on the hill. I later learned the begonia flower symbolizes many communications, including this gratitude, giving thanks for a favor or assistance. It can also mean a warning of upcoming misfortunes or challenges, including those dark thoughts that can distract you from your joy.
For now, nothing could distract me from it. I set out into the neighborhood and found a small cafe with an excellent soup: sopa pescada con mar. In the delicious, rich, rusty-brown broth floated scallops and mussels in the shell, and an entire, enormous prawn, the giant shrimp found here. Who knew shrimp legs are delicious? I still couldn’t bring myself to eat the head of another being, however. The waitress, mixing Spanish with a few English words for my benefit, asked if I wanted wine, and I said no, water please. I thought she asked “single, or cold glass,” and was regretting that I’d answered “cold glass,” thinking I had foolishly asked for local tap water. Instead, I received a sweating bottle of sparkling water with my soup – “con gas” means carbonated. It was the perfect drink. I sat at my outdoor table with its white tablecloth in the wide, lively alley behind the hotel, where several restaurants’ late night customers held court over bottles of wine, or laughed softly and intimately, as neighbors walked through on their way home. I could feel the moisture in the breeze, and would have dozed in my chair, looking up at more flowers, geraniums on balconies, soft lamps glowing behind flowing drapes in apartments above, the restaurant lights warm and inviting. In Bilbao, I felt like I’d stepped into a romantic fairytale. Every scene was richly textured. The very air wove itself through the story, as I smelled the sea, faintly, now and then.
I wished Begoña buenos noches and fell asleep in my bed to the sounds of laughter and footsteps, trains and motorbikes, and one lone saxophone playing Spanish melodies somewhere, all below me in the street.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the morning, I set off to find coffee and a bus to Irun. As I wandered the streets of last night, here marched Begoña, who called, “Hola!” like a hug and asked what I was looking for. When I said coffee, she took me back to the bar next to the hotel even as I protested that it was closed. Her answer: “Oh, he’s nice, you’ll see,” and she knocked on the door. Raul opened the door to her rapidfire explanation that I was una peregrina searching for the holy café con leche and he let me in, making a lovely thick latte. Lovely as in I am in love with the Spanish idea of a cup of coffee; it is a deep and intense moment of desire, a lingering kiss each morning, and I felt spoiled all day because of it.
I walked across Bilbao afterward to find the bus station. The river curves through the history, the theater district, the churches and government buildings, and I cross over all on cobblestone plazas rising onto bridges and streets leading into the hills. Once, lost in map study on a corner, a very dear older man with musical English explained the route and wished me “good way” offered with his cheery smile. I waved goodbye, and thought about what it would be like to live in Bilbao. The entire city was fitted onto the foothills of mountains, so people walked up or down to get where they were going, and always with a view of the mountains between the buildings, a framed landscape wherever I looked. Bilbao was like no mountain town I had ever known, a mountain city near the coast, gone European and self-confident. The old city by the river was especially energetic, edgy and delicious. Posters offered museums and art exhibits large and small, and always a street musician played with an open case sprinkled with coins.
I waited only 20 minutes at the station for the air-conditioned bus in the July heat. There I met the Three Musketeers, who were actually the Three Graces in disguise – Charm, Joy, and Beauty, better known as Vicki, Pat, and Bernie, respectively. These three women were all teachers from Britain, two retired, one on summer holiday. “You Australian?” they had asked. Americana. They immediately absorbed me into their group as we tried to figure out why this bus to Irun was in fact not now the bus to Irun…it all worked out, and we found our way to Irun and so to the start of our journey.
I feasted on irony, pinxchos, and beer with the Graces at a pub next to the albergue, the word for pilgrim hostels along the Camino de Santiago. Vicki was annoyed by the bar owner who didn’t seem too anxious to take the order of four women backpackers, and she kept up a steady stream of abuses about his pace and the quality of the service. Bernie offered witty asides and quips and was so helpful with her fluent Spanish they called her The Linguist, and it was easy to agree. Pat was the experienced through-hiker, and a runner, fit and easy to like – and 69 years old. Her pack was small and tight, her step solid and balanced. While Bernie was exploring the possibility of a new love, and Vicki was impatiently waiting for a paycheck to hit her account, Pat was the glue holding the trio together.
As we waited for the albergue to open, we walked a path through a nearby natural area park, and as we imagined walking the Camino, talk came to the subject of past health issues. Pat’s husband had malignant melanoma, but was going on five years “clear,” approaching that mark where he might breathe again after such a long fight. She talked about going to college again after her children had grown, and not being identified as their mother or Jim’s wife, but just as herself, and she reveled in it. I told her I was following the dream from when I was 17, so I decided to bring that girl along – just me, and me. She nodded approvingly.
What I didn’t elaborate on was my own brush with cancer several years back. More than five. But my cancer could return whenever it wanted: I had a nasty and, in my case, particularly persistent virus that could cause cancer cells to develop at any time. It had already cost me two surgeries and three organs, an ugly tally. I had taken it as a warning shot fired across my bow, that life can end at any time. My life, ready or not.
What I also didn’t share was my supplication to any angel that could hear me, that this trip would heal something more lethal than cancer for me. I was making an entreaty for wholeness. My body was strong enough to make this long hike, at least for now. But I had other issues weighing me down. What I wanted to let go of was my fear of giving up on my life. Of drowning in dissatisfaction before I was finally the poet, writer, singer, artist I had always wanted to be. The “me” I had been, but hadn’t seen through to completion. I needed to go on this pilgrimage and arrive to see a steeple on a high hill, and thank Our Lady for my safe journey, and safe return…to myself.
At the albergue, I received my credencial, and its first sello – the first stamp on my passport for the Camino. I tied a white scallop shell to my backpack, the sign of Santiago, Saint James, and the mark of the spiritual traveler. I had found the starting signpost, been given blessings by strangers, guidance by Santa Begoña, and nourishment by the Three Graces. In the morning, I would set off for Santiago de Compostela, over 800km away. And beyond.
