September 16, 2017
It’s day 15. Have I really been on the road for 15 days? I feel beyond time and space. I spent the night at a lovely albergue, but…I had to sleep on the top bunk bed. The creator of this particular bunk bed must have had an enviable sense of humour, as if it wasn’t enough the bed was very narrow, it also had no rails, like at all. I have no sense of balance; I don’t sleep well so I have a really good chance to find myself flying towards the floor with a massive bang and a loud scream in the middle of the night.
After a filling dinner I somehow manage to climb to my eagles nest, I lay down, but my sleep notifies me that these conditions can be harmful to its health, and disappears. To allure it, I put on some mantras, I grip onto the mattress and try falling asleep. As the bed is near a WC door (there are only two of those for 34 people), men and women, having indulged in beer and wine, keep coming and going up until 2am – the beauty of the albergue.
By 2am it’s pretty clear there won’t be any sleeping so I maneuver myself down fro the top bunk, it doesn’t work out too well, so I sit with my feet down the side of the bed and wait for another wc user to pass by so they can help me down. As if to spite no one comes, they’re all sleeping. Oh well, I take a deep breath and start my descent, the bed shakes a bit, but the maneuver is successful. I take my pillow, sleeping bag and go the lobby where there’s a nice sofa. I make myself comfy; fresh air, no snoring, no other noises, I give myself a gift of almost three hours of healthy sleep. The morning comes too soon, there’s a deficit of sleep yet again. It’s drizzling and cold. I tend to my children in need – my feet, wrap myself in the shawl and cardigan, the road awaits me.
The first kilometer of adaptation is hard, the feet and ankles each are singing a song of their own, I’m shivering. Then the sun comes out from behind a cloud, and my mood gets better. The autumn has also arrived to Spain, in the morning silence one can hear chestnuts and acorns falling, sometimes it rains for real. I am walking and singing songs, and saying words of gratitude to those with whom I share the walks of life. My inner murmur is interrupted by loud ‘hey, candy girl! Buen camino!’ Ah, it’s that talkative Canadian, this time also I manage to slip away from chatting.
A small village capella is open and I walk in. The man responsible for it is blind, I have to place his hand where the stamp should go, and he presses energetically. ‘Buen camino!’ comes a lively reply.
The road is somewhat odd today, I am walking as if under a dome – the oaktrees, slim and tall, covered in creeper, create a peculiar alley for kilometres ahead through which the sun rays have made their way and are playing with light and shadow. It’s quiet. I am the only one who is interrupting jays’ race for acorns – there are so many of them that the road reminds me of a dotted carpet.
When I come out of the alley, the sun is shining bright into my face, I even have to squint. A young couple overtakes me, based on the look in their eyes and the rings on their fingers I figure it’s their honeymoon. Sometimes the girl leans towards his shoulder, he kisses her hand. Great! May it be happy and for a long time! A couple that can walk the whole walk, experience the full spectrum of emotions what it has to offer, has a chance to nurse their grandchildren. The road shows your whole inner essence, even those facets that one would like to hide.
I am staying overnight in a tiny village called ‘Casanova’, can’t miss it.
In the evening I am taking care of my feet in the lounge. The blisters appear like mushrooms after rain, now I have nine on the left foot and four on the right. Right in front of me there suddenly appears a real giant, and asks me in really broken English ‘why you sit here?’
I reply that there are too many people upstairs; I need some peace and quiet. Out of politeness I ask him why he doesn’t go upstairs, he says in a thunder-like voice that all the beds are too short and narrow for him. Oh how I understand him. I tell him I’d be done in a minute and the lounge will be his. At that very moment his eagle-like look notices my feet, gesticulating and mixing words in French, Spanish and English he demands I show him my feet and all the medication I have with me. I don’t know why but I obey and display my whole arsenal. In a blink of an eye he takes my foot and presses there where on a merely healed injury a new beautiful blister has appeared. A tear bursts out and scream akin to alarm ‘oh, oh, it hurts!’ That’s it! I’ve had enough! I dedicate to him a look that encompasses the whole cocktail of emotions, and I hiss to him in plain Latvian ‘take your hands off of me, you dork!’ I know that, if he touches me again, I will kick and bite.
‘Ola la! What a temper!’ the giant laughs and gives me some ointment, bandages and some unfamiliar soft material. I am terribly tempter to tell him to go somewhere very far, but …what if his medication works?
So I listen to his instructions and I apply the ointment to all the hurting spots. The soft material is to be put in my socks tomorrow, under the hurting fingers, as a damping cushion. Groaning quietly, I go upstairs, make myself comfy and try to disregard a very loud German family whose progenitor has an opinion just about everything. A couple of minutes later I can feel my feet burning as if I am walking on hot coal. It’s all giant’s fault! Crying in pain, I am remembering him in all conjugations, declinations and characters! Foggy, I remember him telling me something about 5% and grrrrr….about being patient! Whatever, I take a double dose of painkillers and try sleeping. The feet are with me in the morning, the swelling has diminished, I can even bend them. Thank you, dear giant! I take my words back.
