On the Camino, many new friendships are developed, and, as in normal life, there are many different levels of friendship. These levels vary from walking together, to snagging a bite of a friend’s croissant without asking, to sharing a room and so on. To many, fostering friendships may be one of the best parts of the Camino.
At this point I had spent a good chunk of time with my class and Camino friend Anne Dominguez. Sure, we’d had some fun throughout the Camino, but as we hurdled through the windy roads of rural Spain on a warm sunny morning, led by our ever so speedy bus driver, I would have never expected calm-cool-even-keeled-Anne’s next question.
She tapped my arm. I pulled out my headphones and looked at her.
“Do you have any alcohol?” She looked tired. Her body slumped forward in her chair, her eyes drooping. Considering her apparent state and the time of day, I was a little concerned with her question.
“Alcohol wipes,” she clarafied, “I think I’m going to pass out.” Ah, she only wanted to sniff them to wake her brain up.
So, of course, I started to dig down to the depths of my pack where my alcohol wipes laid at the bottom.
She tapped my arm a second time. Once again I looked at her, but now her tired glossy eyes seemed to look right through me.
“Do you have an empty plastic bag?” She asked. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
So of course, I rummaged through my pack in search of an appropriate puke bag. I found no such thing, only a tattered bag lined with precarious tears. I looked over to her and saw a plastic grocery bag by her feet, stuffed with food she had bought just that morning.
I grabbed the bag. An open chocolate bar laid on top of the groceries inside. The heat of the day had melted it, and it’s liquefied remains could be seen dripping throughout the bag. Anne’s neasea clock was ticking. I hurriedly shuffled through the groceries, pulling out chocolate covered cheese packets and chocolate covered oranges to provide my friend with an appropriate gag bag to yack in, while also saving her fresh food. But as I did so, putting each chocolate covered item into my own tattered grocery bag, Anne’s neasea clock was winding down to zero, and as she looked over once more in desperate search for an empty bag, she looked at my hands in a tired state of horror.
“Aidan, just give me the bag.”
“Okay, let me just get this last-”
“Aidan, I’ve already puked in it.”
I looked down at my busy hands. Melted chocolate clumped between my fingers, a sticky pool rested in my palm. As I stared down at the brown goo I realized; the chocolate had been melted by nothing more than Anne’s gut and stomach acids.
I stopped my work and handed her the bag as the bus driver slammed the gas pedal around yet another sharp corner.
“It’s okay, Anne,” I said, trying to keep my composure. “You know what they say. You’re not truly friends with someone until you’ve held their puke in your hands.”
I couldn’t see Anne’s face behind the screen of the chocolate covered bag, but I like to think that I would have caught a smile if I could.