walking man
moving in silent desperation
keeping an eye on the Holy Land
a hypothetical destination
say, who is this walking man?— James Taylor, “Walking Man”
Walking Man passed me again, suddenly strolling by out of nowhere with his long legs, easy stride, browned chest, and pale blue turban to keep what I suspected was a bald head covered from the sun. Long and lean, his sinewy arms and legs were built for trekking. Walking Man never said a word except “Hello,” each time he passed, or I passed him as he sat drinking coffee at a cafe, or he passed me again within an hour.
A Northern European by appearance, he carried an altogether different air than any of the peregrinos I had met. So when I came upon him sitting on a rock in a shady patch of trail, I said “Hello” – and this time, I stopped. Walking Man was taking a break, and offered me pistachios.
His name was Jan. He was Dutch, but told me he lived in the Caribbean, where he grew up. At age 4, his parents put him in a baby seat and biked all over Europe with him. So he had truly been traveling the world his entire life. I looked forward to talking more, hearing how all this travel had shaped his life, who he had become now. But the day was heating up, so I left him in the shade, confident he would pass me again later.
The heat was stifling, the humid air crackling like electricity on my upper lip and burning at my nostrils. Inspired by Jan, I wrapped my long cotton scarf over my head, not like a turban, but like a hood. Feeling very Lawrence of Arabia as I pulled it forward to shade my forehead, I continued on. It was so much cooler, I smiled. Air flowed under my scarf and around my head like a shimmering mirage of an oasis ahead, and my neck and shoulders instantly relaxed. The afternoon heat continued, relentlessly.
well the leaves have come to turning
and the goose has gone to fly
and bridges are for burning
so don’t you let that yearning pass you by
walking man
walking man walks
any other man stops and talks
but the walking man walks— James Taylor, “Walking Man”
Around 2:30pm, I walked past the fenced courtyard of a home. Within, a large family was gathered for lunch at outdoor tables under tall trees. I was hailed to come in by the gate. As the mother opened it, she asked, “Agua? Agua?” and so, giving her my water bottles, she filled them with water – and ice.
Meanwhile, I was invited to the tables with aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings, where the father offered, “Sidra?” And so, turning himself nearly horizontal, he poured the regional apple cider from as high as his hand could reach, down into a cider glass in his lower hand, a waterfall of crisp, delicious bubbles. I sat and asked how old the chubby, dark-haired babies were, tickling them under their fat chins until they giggled, drank my sidra, and, completely refreshed, bid them all muchas gracias and adios as they called buen camino and buen viaje.
well the frost is on the pumpkin
and the hay is in the barn
pappy’s come to rambling on
stumbling around drunk down on the farm
and the walking man walks
doesn’t know nothing at all— James Taylor, “Walking Man”
Soon after, Jan caught up to me. I told him how the family had invited me in for cider, had given me ice water. He smiled indulgently, and I felt like the novice I was, just getting my feet wet in the wide world. “Buen Camino,” he said kindly, and strode away. I never saw him again.
any other man stops and talks
but the walking man walks on by
walk on by— James Taylor, “Walking Man”
Before Pola, two white-haired grannies walking together on the road let me take their photo. They scolded me that Oviedo was too far to walk in this heat, and I should stop in Pola. But Pola was a rundown, depressing industrial town, and not a soul smiled as I walked through. I pushed on.
most everybody got seed to sow
it ain’t always easy for a weed to grow, oh no
so he don’t hoe the row for no one— James Taylor, “Walking Man”
By 5pm, I reached Oviedo. It had its rundown areas, too, some so sketchy I was glad it was still daylight as I was walking through. Up, up, up a hill, arriba alto, to the catedral, the locals told me. My legs slowly climbed the paved sidewalks, still radiating heat. My water was nearly gone; I drank twice my normal two liters to make my hike under the intense Asturian sun.
At a busy intersection, I stopped for a traffic light, looking for Camino arrows or scallop shells to point me toward the albergue. Three peregrinos stood beside me, talking in accented English about the same thing. I asked if they knew where it was, and they said yes, I could follow them.
We walked up narrow, steep streets into the old city, and around a corner, I found myself on the plaza in front of the cathedral. Their photo op accomplished, one young man said he would show me the way. As we climbed more streets, we both became somewhat confused as to where we were. We stopped at a bar and he asked the barman for directions.
“Just down that street, you can’t miss it,” the man said in English, pointing slightly downhill. We thanked him and set off again. Within a minute, we knew we had been given Spanish Directions: it is apparently socially awkward to be caught unable to direct someone to where they need to go, so Spaniards have a tendency to bluff, giving very clear but completely wrong directions. We turned around.
“Don’t believe when you’re told the next stop is 2 km, either,” I told the young man. “It’s miraculously, always, exactly 2 km.” We laughed as we huffed up another steep street.
for sure he’s always missing
and something ain’t never quite right
ah but who would want to listen to him
kissin’ his existence good night— James Taylor, “Walking Man”
By the time we recognized the street names near the albergue, my legs were exhausted from the long day’s extreme heat and hills. The young man offered me his walking stick, as well, when I struggled to climb a long series of steps to our destination. Grateful, I thanked him and accepted. That was smart; I immediately found my feet again, and we located the gate to the albergue within minutes.
I gave him back his stick, and he wished me “Buen Camino,” turning to leave.
“Aren’t you coming in?” I asked.
“No, we have a hotel room,” he smiled.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry! I thought you were trying to find the albergue, too,” I apologized.
“Buen Camino, peregrina,” he smiled again. And away he went, disappearing down the hills.
walking man
walk on by my door
any other man stops and talks
but not the walking man— James Taylor, “Walking Man”
As I checked in at the albergue, I was given a second credencial for sellos, as my first one was full. An Oviedo stamp ended my first booklet, and another started my second. I looked back at all the places I had already been, stamps with shells and crosses, images of saints and pilgrims interchangeable across the folds.
The Norte was now officially done. I thought of all the people I probably would never see again, people I had met and walked with, talked for hours and laughed with, made decisions with, eaten with, slept side by side. Some had already passed on ahead of me, some had gone home; many would continue on the Norte to the end.
We were all just walking allegories of our lives, each finding our way. I was learning to stop and meet people, in gratitude and in wonder; yet I wished I had asked them more, about their lives, about their ideas about life in general. Too soon, they walked away, without my realizing the crossing of our paths was over.
I was hoping one day to be a white-haired granny walking arm-in-arm with a friend, indulgently scolding younger people for their hurry through these, our only days.
Or I might just say, “Buen Camino, peregrina.” Each her own Camino, wherever she may be bound.
he’s the walking man, born to walk
walk on, walking man
well now, would he have wings to fly
would he be free?
golden wings against the sky, walking man
walk on by
so long, walking man— James Taylor, “Walking Man”