fingerprints
sending an arrow
to each of you
they mark the way
but always we
must do the walking
The day started nice and early – breakfast with Jon, the interpreter from Barcelona whom everyone originally thought was a staff person at Guemes, having been asked to interpret for Father Ernesto. It was easy to see why he was chosen. Lively and engaging, Jon asked interesting questions that were fun to answer, demonstrating a talent for inclusion that I saw again and again.
Once on the road, Wolfgang and Svend caught up with us, and we all walked together as I had hoped, because this was their last day on the Camino – tomorrow they would start for home. Jon as well, I found out. Europeans often used their weeks of holiday time to walk a segment of the Camino; the next year, they started where they left off. A wonderful use of vacation…but I would miss them as I continued on my way.
We stopped earlier yesterday, when Wolfgang and Svend found a small albergue, only 12 beds, that still had space, so we checked in for the usual municipal rate of six euros each. Checked in at the bar, across the street – not unheard of, but typically not a promising sign of caring touches or attention for the needs of the weary pilgrim. Indeed, we got what we paid for – bunks, a microwave, and cold communal showers, startlingly refreshing but a bit beyond our modesty. We stood guard for each other at the open doorway. I later asked Jon as we walked: “Was I overly modest to feel uncomfortable about showering with friends? I mean, they’re married. Or would that be okay with European wives? Or…?”
“Nooo, that would not be okay with their wives,” he said with comically raised eyebrows as he shook his head. It was delightfully reassuring.
So now we marched into Santillanes del Mar together, like Dorothy and her friends arriving at a medieval Spanish Emerald City, walking up a cobblestone road into a town of narrow winding lanes, all roads leading to the church before traveling on.
We stopped for coffee and food, and here came Saulomon and Karolin, the girl he had been traveling with when I saw him in Santander. So many hugs, as she was a loving, sweet person, too, and I laughed at the sing-song of Saulomon’s cheeky, “You keep getting youn-ger – sex-ier!” Sexy I knew was not really true, and yet, I’d begun to notice male attention again, after a long time of intentional avoidance. Like the good, cheap wine here, I planned to go sparingly. A wink was as good as a kiss.
As soon as Svend found out we were only 2 km from Altamira Cave, he and I were able to convince Wolfgang to go, and Jon immediately joined in to see this UNESCO World Heritage site. They have closed the actual cave due to visitor impact on its integrity, but using computer-aided engineering, the Spanish government and Museo de Altamira created an exact replica, capturing each bump and divot in every wall surface, to recreate an experience that was truly moving.
To see the bulls, and deer, and horses drawn on the ceiling; an ibex in just a few beautiful, perfect strokes; the hand print of the artist-shaman – the feeling of connection was deep, intense. We were all energized by the museum, not exhausted, and so we headed back to town for more food and drink. Svend and I so enjoyed walking without our heavy backpacks left at the albergue, we kicked up our heels and skipped a few steps in our hiking boots. He and I had begged some private time for “scribbles” as he called them, he for drawing, me for writing, and so, refreshed, we each ran off for a shower (private, and warm) and time to ourselves, agreeing to all meet back together at 9pm, the beginning of the Spanish dinner hour.
Jon’s taste in Spanish food was excellent, his charm absolutely diplomatic, and his attention as a travel companion, impeccable. While Pablo gave me excellent direction to take photos of my stories as backup should I lose my notebook, Jon celebrated the stories of my real life, as I told them to him. He noticed my comfort in being abroad and complimented it, sweetly adding, “Here, you have to taste this,” or simply guiding me through lines with a hand at my back, chatting with a hand on my elbow. I found I loved all this touch, all this closeness, and inside, I silently thanked him each and every time. Human touch felt so good. I hadn’t noticed I’d been missing it.
Thank you for hugs, Karolin; thank you for holding me near you, Jon; thank you for a happy wink, Svend; thank you for a mischievous grin, Saulomon; thank you for making me blush just by walking near, Wolfgang.
Thank you for your hand print, Altamira shaman artist. In the cave, I reached up to place my hand on yours. Thank you for touching my life.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I sat at a table in the small backyard of the private albergue outside Cóbreces. I could have stayed in town, in the crowded abbey with the other peregrinos, no problem. Cheaper. But I sought solitude this day, reflection. Svend would have called it a day to remember all the pictures of yesterday. He and Wolfgang were off to find the train to San Sebastian, first stop on their way home. Jon was going off to meet friends in Gernika tonight, his Camino over as well. Tomas and Ingrid of Austria said they would see me along the way, and I hoped so, but she had an injury to her knee, so they lingered in Santillanes del Mar, where we all stayed together last night, planning one extra day for her to rest.
Our dinner last night was as elegant an evening as I would find on the Camino. We all cleaned up a bit; I dressed up by wearing a clean tank top and hiking shirt, one of my scarves as a summer skirt, and my shower flip-flops to complete the fetching ensemble. We had the six of us with Tomas and Ingrid, sharing bottles of wine and mineral water, pulpa ensalada with vinaigrette, veal with bleu cheese sauce, and flan for dessert, though Tomas endeared himself by his boyish excitement for churros dipped in hot chocolate instead. We talked politics, relationships, made jokes and told stories of quirky characters we had met on the Camino.
This morning, Jon was already gone. The rest of us had one last breakfast together, coffee and toast with jam, and then…I got my pack, and got my hugs. I thanked Wolfgang for letting me tag along, but he surprised me: “Thank you, for walking with us,” he said sincerely, adding, “Don’t forget me.”
Since he was the leader of “Wolfgang’s Gang,” as the funny German girl once called us, I answered, “I’m not allowed to – or you’ll come after me.”
Svend said, “Yes, once in the gang, always in the gang,” then hugged me hard, pulling back to smile, close and encouraging, wishing me well. I didn’t want to leave them. We were the quirky characters we had met on the Camino, sketches come to life, unique and precious individuals.
So here I sat, only 13 km farther down the road, doing my scribbles. I looked out over the albergue’s old stone wall, past the immaculate vegetable garden, across softly rolling hills and directly to the sea.
This was why I had stopped here: the long view. Perspective. I had walked in light rain for hours, within the quiet cave of my jacket hood, reviewing all the pictures of yesterday beautifully etched across my mind, tracing them as if with softest fingertips.