Caroline's Journal

When I crave a second coffee in the morning, I look to Bill. He says, “I’ll follow you.”

He pulls out a milk-chocolate bar and breaks off a piece for me. We put each square in the basin of our spoon and melt the chocolate into our coffee. Good things take time. We finally head out on the trail by 9:30 in the morning with caffeine in our blood and sugar in our gut.

I’ve walked the Camino de Santiago with my professor. We’ve spent nearly 6 weeks together. Now, had someone told me three months ago that Bill Arney would become my closest Camino companion, I don’t know if I would’ve believed them. But God am I grateful. With his blue sun hat and mining-axe for a walking stick, we blazed through the cow pastors and eroded cliffs with conversation to keep us warm and enough laughs to fill the ocean of our time. I took every opportunity to listen to the cow bells in the wind and feed the donkeys with the sweetest grass. Bill waited for me.

Our paths only diverged for three days. On the third day, I awoke with a mission: Find Bill Arney. I spent three aimless hours lost on the winding streets of Santiago searching for Bill. When I finally found him, he has just finished what I imagined to be his second cup of coffee of the morning. He stood up from his chair and gave me a hug. Before we departed for the albergue together, he gave me another one. Breaking up is hard to do but coming back is easy. We enjoyed a glass of wine and an ice cream cone that afternoon. I recommended that he try pistachio and cream with fig. Fig with cream turned out to be the shining star of his four-flavor-leaning-tower of Italian decadence. We strolled through the park and watched the sun set behind the cathedral where we had attended mass a couple hours prior. As he took the sacrament of Christ, tears fell from my eyes. “How lucky am I?” I thought. I bowed my head and asked God if he had a moment to talk. I prayed for Bill. I prayed for his years left on earth, for his family, for his learning and the fire in his heart.

Bill is my friend.

The Artist is Brave

Her name was Jennifer. She was the first person to scribble a prescription on a piece of paper to let me know that I was crazy. The eyes on her face didn’t look like eyes, but empty pools of water. “Crazy?” I asked. “What do you mean, I’m crazy?” She acted like it was a silly question. “I think you need something to calm the voices in your head,” she went on, “the medication will help you.” She tears the chart from her notebook and presents it to me. I’m not impressed. “I’ll send this into the pharmacy. You can pick up the prescription in a couple of hours. Come back to see me next month. We can up the dose if it’s not working or if things get worse.” She mumbles. I took her piss-poor-hardly-legible diagnosis and stormed out of the office. The door slams behind me.

“I mean, seriously lady? We’ve known each other for five minutes and you’ve already got your “She’s-Crazy-Alright” label drawn up to stamp on my forehead? “Fuck that,” I said, and I decided to take a walk.

The paper crumples inside my fist. “You can take my dose and shove it up your ass.” And I threw her prescription in the garbage can.

I followed a crack in the sidewalk to an empty park bench. The flowers on either side of the armrests were dying. Their wilting petals and draught-induced-dryness made my heart sink. “So you’re telling me that people get away with letting flowers die and I’m the crazy one?” I twisted the cap off of my water-bottle and offered them a drink. “This ones on the house,” I told them, and I poured the water into the soil at their roots.

I spread myself on the park bench and use my backpack as a pillow. Folded knees point towards the kaleidoscope of sun-stained leaves dancing between the breeze. The artist dreams of paint.

I wondered why Jennifer never asked me, “Why don’t you try asking Your Crazy to paint a picture with you?”

On that park bench, I asked My Crazy to become my friend. I held out my trembling hand with my eyes closed and it gave me a tube of paint. It said, “I was wondering when you’d ask me if I knew a thing or two about painting. Lucky for you, I’ve been giving this whole “patience” thing a shot. Now, what I’m about to tell you will change the very nature of your creative thinking..” It paused for dramatic effect before continuing, “every color has a sound.” It told me. And I watched the blank canvas scream.

My Crazy led me into the forest one afternoon. It told me to seek advices from the trees. “What you don’t know,” it told me, “they will show you.” I sat with my legs crossed in the dirt, mixing paint with my fingertips under the shelter of their branches. I listened to them. I asked them if they liked my work and a leaf fell on the center of my forehead. I stood up from the bench and took a walk. The wandering continued.

The Fire Burns Slowly: This is What I’ve Learned

The front door opened with a creak. It smelled like wood inside the house. I am the first one to enter and my step through the door frame is a tentative one. I turn around to read the faces of my companions. I am looking for anything in their eyes that says something like, “Maybe we should turn back.” Nothing. They look as happy as a couple of clams. I shake my head disappointed. My foot quivers as it takes another step like I were getting ready to walk the plank and dive into the Norwegian Sea.

I feasted my eyes upon an empty bar with a countertop soiled in dust and cobwebbed liquor bottles sitting high up on the top shelf. The fingerprints of the last ghost that poured himself a stiff one looked more like the markings of some kind of animal with claws than a human hand. All of the labels had been weathered by what must’ve been about fifty years of sobriety. Maybe the ghost doesn’t live here anymore, I thought. There were anchovy stuffed olives on sale at the counter and not much else. I ran my finger in the dust. It made a race track down the entire length of the bar. And I’d like to think I was doing the police a favor by leaving my fingerprint so that they would know I had been there. Why? Because I thought the man who brought us to that house was going to kill us.

The creaking of the staircase tangoed with that of the front door. I asked Will to go first. The man showed us to our room and left faster than you could say, “Something smells fishy in here.” I knew where he was going. He scurried down to the kitchen with a big ole’ smile on his face to sharpen the carving knife and start boiling the pot of water for “Caroline, Will and Bill Homemade Beef Stew” and would gayly cut up a few slices of bread to go with it. “Will, come with me,” I said. “We’re going to investigate.”

There we were, Will and I, sneaking around the kitchen. I saw a bucket of bleach on the floor and mop with fresh soap and water in the tub. Will stood outside the kitchen door to keep watch for the man. He carried a knife in his back pocket. We had a signal if he came. It was supposed to go like this: kick the door open, run inside like a chicken with its head cut off then grab me just above the elbow and make damn sure we get the hell out of dodge. So far, we were wading in the clear. I notice a pale of red paint on the prepping table next to a pair of rubber gloves. “Strange,” I thought. I open the trash can just to be sure there were no body parts. It’s only full of vegetables. The next thing I do is pick the lock on the walk-in freezer. Again, it’s full of vegetables and what I presumed to be a freshly chopped pig leg.

The investigation was over, I told Will. “It looks like we won’t know for sure until dinner time,” I said.

—

We gathered around a wooden table in front of a dying fire. The dimming flame heats the dining room. Black and white family portraits with wandering eyes watch us devour our meal. They dream of slurping leftover soup in the steaming metal pot. When it comes time for the main corse, the fading figures wince at the peregrino conducted orchestra of clattering forks and knives.

The folks sitting at the table are a mixed bunch, but the one thing we have in common in that we are cold. I mistake my breath for the ghosts who used to sit at the bar stools drinking whiskey sours in the room next door.

At the head of the dining table is a German woman with round spectacles whom I’ve only met in passing. God forgive me, I can never remember her name. Every time I meet her on the trail she begs the same question, “And your feet, are they okay?” And every time I suppose she expects me to say, “Heavens no, I am in such great pain.” But every time, I say the opposite. Bless her. The woman has kind eyes but that damn question never ceases to make my blood boil. She clutches her yellow guide book like it were the Holy Bible as she moves food around on her plate.

There are two young Spanish girls from Madrid on the other length of the table. They always ask if I want more tortilla before serving themselves another helping. I’ve never said no to more tortilla in my life.

The following conversation takes place in Spanish:

“Why are you walking the Camino?” They ask me.

“Well, I’m a student. I’m walking the Camino with my professor. He’s sitting right next to me. And this is my friend, Will.” I reply.

“You’re in school? On the Camino? What are you studying?” They are interested now.

I tell them that my classmates and myself are studying the philosophy of walking. Each of us have different goals. Our independent studies vary, but our studies before the Camino were done together.

“And what is your independent study?” They ask.

“I study art. I’m walking the Camino to take inspiration for my work. I decided to walk the Catmino while I was attending art classes in Italy.” I told them that my best work comes from nature.

“Tell them about the Spanish poems you’ve been writing,” Bill interjects.

“Okay,” I tell him.

I turn to the girls. “I’ve also written some Spanish poems.”

They asked me to read something for them. I told them, “Of course.” Though as the night carried on, we were too busy sharing stories that I never got around to it.

—

The German woman drops her guide book on the table and asks me, “Have I heard you correctly? You mean to tell me that you’re in class? Walking the Camino? What kind of school do you go?” She sounded worried. I had a feeling that she didn’t like when things got out of order.

The entire conversation was repeated in English. Bill helped me this time. And the more I spoke about my project, the more I started to believe in it. I made a decision the next morning. I decided that I wasn’t going to drop of school.

I went to sleep to that night with hardly any memory of the ghosts at the bar or the man who disappeared in the afternoon. I was safe and sound.

The first thing I do when get in the kitchen is crack open a bottle of wine. And I give myself a generous pour. I’m cookin’ dinner tonight. Will is coming over for spaghetti. He invited himself. I didn’t say no.

Now, I’m a good ole’ fashioned southern woman. The first woman to pour you a glass of iced tea and lemonade. But my momma taught me how to whip up a proper bowl of spaghetti. The onions are diced with great consideration and the zucchinis from the garden are made into identical half-moons.

Will comes whistling into the door and takes a seat on the wooden chair that our neighbor Billy made for my father. He brought his guitar. Never goes anywhere without her, he told me. I watch him rub her neck up and down before warming up a tune. He said he’s too cheap to repair the sixth string but oh man does that five-string box still sound like an angel.

He starts plucking “So Doggone Lonesome,” when he asks me, “Now little wild flower, what’s the secret to a good life do you think?”

I don’t know if it’s the onions I’ve been chopping or the nature of the question which brings tears to my eyes, but one slips down my face. I can’t catch it.

I wait for a moment, studying the kitchen. Seems like I’ve got everything I need right here to me. I tell him, “A bottle of wine and a cigarette.” His eyes roll back while he’s laughing.

“Alright lady, take one of my smokes then. I just bought a pack from the shop today. Go on and live yourself a good life,” he says.

I strike a match and light one of the burners. My cigarette glows amber.

Will starts to sing. He made it up on the spot. It goes like this,

“I know a good-looking lady,
She drinks wine instead of water,
And lord knows she’s tough as nails,
I hope I never meet her father.

The way she sautés onions will make a grown man cry,
And she holds the spatula like she wants to poke out your eye,

God bless her,
My woman’s saucy,
And she knows how to use a knife,
I reckon she’d rather skin a deer instead of giving it the gift of life.

This little flower fills my heart and soul with sunshine and home-made spaghetti,
And if I don’t tell her soon,
I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.

Honey, take me dancing,
Take me to the moon,
Keep on cookin’ baby and I’ll sing you another tune.”

We ate spaghetti and made love that night after another cigarette.

He makes music,
A guitar with five strings,
Humming the words he doesn’t know,

The words he can’t remember.. they’re all lost somewhere,
If he doesn’t know where they are, how can I find them?

I wish I’d stop listening,
So I wouldn’t have to decide if it touches me,
If it touches me too soon,
Or if doesn’t touch me at all.

I ask him to sing me another song, “Your passions, you’ve misplaced them..
tell me a song about all of the words that you’ve lost in the wind,
Dance with them,” I tell him,
“Dance so you can remember where they’ve gone.”

He doesn’t like to dance,
Though he still grabs my hands to pull me on the tops of his feet, Spinning me around the living room while the tea in my cup gets cold.

I feel it in the tips of my toes,
The dance doesn’t stop.

All of the words that he’s lost,
I suppose they’ve never mattered,
Words mean nothing to the dance.

Dance happens without words,
They can go as the please,

“I still want to sing a song for you,” he sways,
“You should keep it,” I say,

And I will wait patiently as the passions bloom for themselves,

Until the waiting ends,
I told him where to find me,
“I’ll be lying in my bed,
With my head under the covers and my hands holding the pillow,”

I’ll be wondering, “When do I get my fill?”
He’s got his..
I envy his collection of lost words,
It means there is always something to look for.

Will he know it when he finds them?

When he does, I’ll ask him, “Where will they end, where did they begin?

When did you forget?

Will you keep dancing when the song is over, or will you stop before it’s finished?

When you can see the end, will you run towards it or move slowly?”

“The end keeps getting bigger,
And I keep wandering farther away,” he says to me.. making up a new song.

It fades in the passing days like his lost words,
Snatched up and warmed by the wind, again and again.

“Once the song is over, it gets on the boat,
And it won’t stop sailing until it reaches England,
I can’t help but wondering if there is any room on the boat for me.”

He gets on the boat,
He never finds the end.

“You know, maybe I should just stop wondering and keep searching,” I say after he’s gone.

He asked me to be at the bar at exactly quarter past 8 o’clock on Tuesday night. I didn’t ask why.

When I got there, he was sitting on the last bar stool pushed up against the back corner. Shaded from the spotlights.

“I saved you the second best seat in the place,” he greeted me. “Mine being the first.” A smile.

I looked around, the bar was empty. “You could have any seat you want.. why is this the best seat in the house?”

“I’m the first to see folks walk in and the only one who can see everybody already sitting down. I watch them come. I watch them go. But they always come back. I’m a lucky guy.. best view in the whole bar.”

“But we’re the only ones here,” I said.
“I know, we’re lucky,” says Will. He says nothing else for a moment.

“Well, alright darlin’, what do you want?”
“Whiskey on the rocks. More whisky, less rocks.” His eyes grow real wide.
He smirks, then he says to the bar man, “Alright then, you heard the lady. A whiskey on the rocks for her and a Lone Star for me.”

I watched the bar man pour my liquor. Three rocks. One more than I normally like but he had a sweet smile. The man moves to the other side of the oaker counter, he grabs a cold one out of the refrigerator and slides it down the entire length of the bar. It lands smack dab in the middle of Will’s open palm. He winks at the man.

He cracks it open and rinks it down in one breath.

“Honey,” he says, “don’t look at me like that. There are plenty of joys to savor in this life, but canned beer ain’t one of ’em.”

Once upon a time, nearly twenty minutes down the road from Don Ernesto’s casa para peregrinos acerca y lados, I declared that I would find myself a wooden companion. A stick to match my every stride. Seven minutes passed before I found her. Meet Maria, a freshly trimmed limb with an enthusiastic clap against the concrete. Hardly enough time to digest the generous offering of chocolate filled biscuits and cafe from earlier that morning.. sitting next to Aušra, the only person I’ve ever met from Lithuania, and across from a marijuana-loving, guitar-playing English guy named Jordan, Maria came into my life like a double-scoop ice cream cone on the hottest day of summer. Oh god had I been dreaming of her, longing for her to melt into my palm. A perfect fit. As soon as her slender figure slipped into my hands, I couldn’t help but fantasize about our life together over the coming weeks. What I couldn’t imagine though, was that our time might be cut short.

I saw the two of us in Santiago. She would stand over me while I’m down on my knees before the eyes of Saint James, tears falling from my cheeks to meet the cobblestone street below.

Maria and I spent two days together. With her body in rhythm with mine, I sang her songs that no one else has ever heard. I told her my secrets. She knows that I envy every robin singing in the trees. They fly on while I’m rooted here in the ground. Oh, how quickly is grow a pair of wings if I could. Wings to carry me to the mountain tops and sail the currents of the storm.

I stare off into the snowy peaks, giving them each a name. Crying out, “Isabella, how can I find a way to meet you?” And verses like, “How did you get so far away? What does the world look like from above?” But the song always ends with the same words, even though it starts on a different note. It ends like this, “Robin, take me with you. Why wont you come back for me?”

The end of the song was the end of Maria and I’s love affair. I snapped her in half between my legs. It was over. And to think that just three winding hills earlier, we kissed the rain and stormed the beach. Bracing each other tight as the waves tickled our feet. White caps breaking against the shore. Maria parted the sea with her wooden bones. I stood behind her. She made me feel brave staring out across the water. I thought of the tumbling mists that take ships to the ocean floors at night. She was a warm hand on my shoulder.

Will looks for his lost hat on the beach. He runs towards the water in hopes that it hasn’t been drowned.

I don’t just want to go sailing, you see,
I want the sea to swallow me whole,
Sinkin’ beneath the roaring waves, relentless, free,

My home is seagull-doves and misty mornings,
Oaker planks and barrels full of wine,
I dread the days we dock at port out of fear I’ll die upon the barren lands,

The pirate’s life is anything but dull, you see,
We’ve got everything in the hold that you need,
From rotten smokes to rum,

A pirate never cries for the life he’s left behind,
The sea wraps her hands around his chest,
And whispers to him, “My love, come back.”
Even if she don’t mean it, the pirate can’t resist her,

He only weeps when he’s kept at bay for more than one night’s stand,

A lassie in a little white gown does the best she possibly can,
But we never last more than 30 minutes before we dream of going home,

I love the sea like I love my women,
Mysterious and strong,

The pirate mourns for the deep blue waters,
God forbid he’s kept from her for too long,
Or someone on the shore might just lose an eye or their sawdust front tooth,

Until the laddies lower the sails,
I’m afraid that no man, woman or child is safe,
Hide the animals too,
Lord knows we grow hungry with insanity,

And once we break away from the shore,
Our taste for the sea grows forevermore,

For the chains we wear,
We’ve put on ourselves,
A pirate belongs to the sea and no one else.

I had been waiting in line for 45 minutes when he walked into the post-office. He came slowly through the door, mumbling about something and chewing on a piece of straw at the same time. His eyes locked on the cement tiles.

His silhouette is a tall and slender shape of a man. A walking bean stalk with a guitar strung over his shoulder. It’s more dense than his bones. His crooked stride balances the weight of his instrument, leaning from side to side.

He was wearing a leather-bound hat from Argentina. It lay crooked on his head. In fact, almost everything about him was a little crooked. The hat was decorated with a pheasant’s feather. I imagine that he caught it himself. A crooked hat to match the crooked grin peering underneath his shadowed face. I’m staring. He meets my gaze as he moves closer to the queue. The man straightens his hat. That was the first time I saw his face. Blue eyes dreaming of the sea.

He stops, still looking at me. He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out an envelope. He puts it in his mouth while he fumbles around in his guitar case for a pen. He scribbled an address on the envelope in black ink, sealing it with those same mumbling lips. He knew it by heart. I wonder who he’s writing to. Surely he’s sending kisses to a good-looking woman living too far away.. I wonder if he sings her songs.

He whistles a familiar tune as he passes me. “Delia’s gone. Another round. Delia’s gone.” He watches me out of the corner of his eye as he moves to the back of the line.

“Next,” mumbles the woman behind the counter. I look in front of me to find that the whole line has moved.

“Young lady, you’re next,” she lets out sigh. She looks exhausted. Poor woman. I send a letter to my mother and scurry out the door. “That’s the last time I’ll ever see that man,” I said.

The sun is hot. I look in my pack of cigarettes. Last one. “Shit.”

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, rummaging around in my purse for a box of matches. Once I find them, I find them empty.

I look up at the sky. “Shit.” Then I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Can I help you with that, little lady?” He lights my cigarette with the strike of his match.

“My name is Will.”
“Nice to meet you, Will.”