Aiden's Journal

Every pilgrim I had met since Santander was there. Heina and his crew of Germans and Danes waved me over as I walked up the drive to La Naranja Peregrina. Rian and Julie lounged at a table. Jaquelyn, Matius, and Alicia smiled and looked up. The stench of cigarettes stretched for a kilometer down the road. Bottles already lined the sides of garden walls.

Rian stood up and we shook hands.

“Bro every time I see your mark on the road I know there’s hope.”

“Yeah?” He laughed. “Good to see you man, glad you all made it.”

I plopped down next to Aidan at the table in the back along with Anne Randall, Anne Domínguez, Annie, and Maddie. English, German, Spanish and universal cuss words filled the air.

Aidan turned to me.

“You gotta go sneak a peek at the paella man.”

I got up and made my way through the crowd around the corner to where a massive cast-iron skillet was being tended by a hospitalero. Yellow, green, golden-brown. Colors seemed to bloom from the hot pan and the aroma steamed out from the hutch where the paella was being made. Nuts, peppers, chicken, tomatoes, and rice, together in fellowship.

I rejoined the party. Julie the gypsy was banging on a metal pot accompanied by Thomas who wacked away at a green plastic bucket. Others banged on tables and Rian whistled over the din on his recorder. Aidan and I joined in on two ukeleles. 

I played G, D, Em, C and bobbed my head.

Julie danced wildly, banging on Rian’s scooter handles with sticks. The groove was sloppy, people went in and out of  rhythm and the crowd laughed. Not pro, not tight, but a lot of fun. 

I sat on the garden wall, sang, and strummed the uke. Julie and Anne R. sang along and Aidan solo’d away on his ukelele. 

“Well a-you done done me in your bed I felt it. I tried to beat you, but you’re so hot that I melted.”

I sang into the fading light. The hospitaleros grinned and took pictures, obviously excited that their week-old albergue had drawn such a crowd.

The stars came out in earnest and empty bottles began to spill out on to the sidewalk. The hospitaleros brought out homemade tortilla around midnight and the pilgrims all gathered for a slice. A German girl about my age named Ranyanah showed off Rian’s mark that she had had tattooed onto her calf two days before. Rian carries around a small tattoo gun just in case.

Rian, Maddie, Annie, and I set up a tent in the backyard. The albergue was full but the hospitaleros had loaned us a brand-new tent for the evening. Rian said that this was to be the tent’s maiden voyage. I think he had maidens on his mind when he said it but no one took him up on the offer.

My second time sleeping in a tent in Spain was better than the first mainly thanks to more clothing and three other people. As I fell asleep I could still hear the last of the pilgrims carrying on the party. The butterfly Julie had painted on my cheek smeared on to my hand as I slept. 

I woke up the next morning wearing Rian’s jacket. Everyone in the albergue was tired but smiling. Julie had fallen asleep on the couch and couldn’t remember getting into her bed. Some were so hungover they had to bus. Everyone agreed that it was the best pilgrim party so far.

Maddie, Aidan, and I showed up late to the albergue for the second day in a row. 

“We have one bed left.”

Not what I wanted to hear.

Aidan and I looked blankly at each other. There was no other room in town, not even a hotel. We knew that we would let Maddie have the bed but what would we do?

We nodded and turned to leave. 

Julie the gypsy popped her half-shaved head out from behind the doorway. “I have a tent!”

Aidan and I grinned at each other.

“We’ll take it!”

We made camp at dusk on a small bluff just off the beach. Cops were guaranteed not to bother us and rain was a 60-40 chance in our favor. Now we just had to actually set up the tent.

Aidan, being a man of the woods, went straight to work setting up the red and grey two-man MSR. I being a man of the couch went to the bar. 

Nightfall found me hobbling back across the dunes to our hiding spot behind the cow pasture. Aidan was drinking whisky watching the bats. The tent stood erect on the hill watching us.

After wading through the tall grass I joined Aidan on the hill.

“Great spot man, this is gonna be so cool!”

“Yeah, just watch out for ticks, there’s a ton of them in this field.”

After I had plucked the last of some twenty parasites from my legs we got changed leaving our packs outside the tent along with our shoes and sticks.

The tent roof was open. Aidan and Aiden lay in borrowed sleeping bags beneath a freezing, cloudless expanse. I wrapped myself in the gold-aluminum emergency blanket that my father had insisted would come in handy. I crackled like a bag of chips whenever I moved but at least I was warmer.

I shivered myself to sleep, back to back with Aidan Ripley. 

At 5:00 A.M. my eyes snapped open. The first rain drop had landed on my cheek.

“Aidan it’s raining!”

Aidan flew into action, scrambling over me to the door zipper. Helplessly I rolled around in my sleeping bag. Aidan’s backside wagged in my face as he fumbled with the tent opening. The covering flew on. We sighed and fell back to sleep.

At 6:00 we broke camp and headed back down the beach. Breakfast at the albergue was toast and coffee and cereal. Not much sleep. Sand in our clothes. Aidan and I laughed about our little misfortunes.

“It was worth it man.”

“SO worth it. But next time we keep the roof on.” 

I was thinking later that having no bed turned into an opportunity for a good story because Aidan and I remained calm and trusted that things would work out. When I go home I think most of my problems will pale in comparison to being homeless in a foreign country. Many problems may seem easier to handle by comparison. And perhaps I will never have another blessing quite like falling asleep on a beach in Spain.

Rian tied a frayed piece of bright blue rope in a knot around my wrist. 

“I found it on the street,” he said.

“Am I part of the clan now?”

“Yeah sure I guess.”

I met Rian outside the albergue this afternoon. Maddie and I were walking up the drive getting drenched by the rain. He was smoking a joint under a tree.

“Hey, you play ukelele?” We were on the bunks and he was plucking out a tune.

“Maybe.”

The uke flew between bunks.

‘Tocar’ is the verb used in Spanish when playing an instrument, it means “to touch.”

I touched the strings until my ears found Dm7, G7, and Cmaj7 – a jazz 2-5-1 progression.

“Hey man you’re really good!”

“Just figuring it out.”

Thank God for music school.

Rian is walking the perimeter of France, Spain, and Italy. No big deal. Someday he’ll return home to Ireland.

“Maybe.” He says.

“I’m a stone worker by trade. I have a mark and everything. Hold out your hand.”

Obediently I held out my hand.

Rian drew in black ink a symbol with three prongs, two crosses, and what looked to my uneducated sensibilities like male genitalia but was quite obviously sacred to him.

“That’s my symbol.” Said Rian capping the pen. “It’s black magic.”

“Well shit.” I thought to myself.

Later Rian and I were bonded in Celtic friendship by the bracelet made of trash he gave me. We now sit in a tavern together, he with his pint and me with my hot chocolate. He and Maddie take turns telling the day’s story in doodles cross-hatched out on notebook paper.

“Okay so ‘what’s the craic?’ In Ireland Is equivalent to ‘what’s up?’ In America?”

“Yeah” said Maddie smiling “and you respond with, ‘the craic is mighty.’”

“Perfect.” I laughed. “First thing in the morning then.”

“Oh, can we walk together?” Asked Rian looking surprised.

“Definitely.”

And just like that friendship is made on the Camino. Three mornings later my blue bracelet still rubs against my wrist even though Rian and I have parted ways. Maddie and I look for his black magic mark on stop signs wherever we go just to remind us that we’re on the same road.

In albergues you are one of the crowd. You check in, check out, get your stamp, never see the volunteers again. Occasionally however, you are recognized as a pilgrim in need.

I arrived sick and a little depressed. As I stumbled in the door and dropped my pack the lady next to the desk said “one moment please” in Spanish with a sweet smile on her face. When she returned that smile was still there.

I asked her if there was a bed for the night and she nodded enthusiastically, I mumbled a few words and then asked if she spoke English. She grinned beautifully and said in Spanish, “your Spanish is good, we don’t need to speak English” (or something close to that, because my Spanish isn’t that good).

that small compliment lifted my spirits straight up to good mood status and as she pressed the key into my hand with both of hers she smiled the beautiful smile again and told me that breakfast in the morning was free. Hallelujah. I went upstairs to find that she had given me my own room at no extra cost. When I called my father a few minutes later I almost cried telling him about the kindness the lady showed to me.

Just two days ago as I walked through Burgos I was blessed again.

I had been reading my Bible in the sun and presently I was walking back to the hostel trying to move slowly and letting my mind wander. I had been praying the last few days for an opportunity to play a piano. One of my favorite things to do at home is to sit in my living room and play my old wooden upright. I’m not particularly homesick here on El Camino but I’m used to playing everyday and I had begun to feel my fingers itching.

I passed by a perfume shop and did a double-take when I glanced in and saw a baby grand piano just sitting in the middle of the store. I walked in and couldn’t think of the words to communicate so I just pointed to the piano and asked, “Why?”

She smiled, shrugged and said something that I didn’t understand and then asked “do you play?”

“A bit.” I answered.

“Do you want to play?”

I nodded and the lady turned off the store music. We were alone in the store.

I began to play and the piano felt like a dream, it was tuned well and the action on the keys was just right. I played for about 15 minutes feeling a little self-conscious but I was determined to let out all the stress and weariness of the journey in that one moment. The wooden keys felt soft and the sunlight was coming in the open door.

when I was done I sat back and thanked the woman. She asked me where I was from and if I was a pilgrim to Santiago. I said yes I was and then she then she took me by the hand and led me to a perfume display. She took my hands gently and as she muttered something in Spanish she began to anoint my hands with perfume from the bottles, rubbing it all over my skin. This was so touching to me that I said nothing and just let her bless me and my journey.

I came back the next day and bought some perfume for my sister. The lady was pleased to see me and when I said coarsely “You bless me yesterday” she answered, “You blessed me.”

I met Flo at an old wooden table in Saint Jean Pied de Port France. We were both checking into the Belarus albergue and after we shyly shook hands and introduced ourselves we followed each other around the rest of the day. Flo isn’t from a small town in the southwest of Germany which most Germans don’t even recognize the name of. The name escapes me as well.

The next day Flo and I woke up, walked out into the street and wished each other good luck and a “buen Camino.” We then turned on our heels and walked out of town together at exactly the same pace.

Flo and I walked this way all the way over the Pyrenees mountains and into Roncesvalles. By the end we had talked so much about our lives that it felt like we had known each other for weeks. From Roncesvalles on we wordlessly assumed everyday that we were walking, sleeping, eating, and surviving together.

each day as we walked and the landscapes would blur together around us there would be a dull music that appeared in the common silence between us. When you walk for miles over rocks and hills and cobblestone roads in silence you begin to become aware of details around you that are normally insignificant. Flo’s carved staff strikes the dirt and rocks making a distinctive “click.” My scallop shell attached to my backpack clacks and chimes against my water bottle and I noticed that they make up the only sounds around us when we walk together other than the wind and the bird song; “clack, plink, clack, click” are the only sounds we hear for miles at a time. I notice also, in the times where I walk alone, how much I miss the click of Flo’s walking stick.

Flo taught me that Germans are polite. Flo said so himself and demonstrates it by never speaking over others and demonstrates it by never speaking over others and always paying attention to how I’m feeling; he’ll ask me if my legs hurt, when I’d like to eat, etc. The only German word I know is one that Flo taught me. It isn’t very useful because the word is “schmetterling” and means “butterfly” – not very handy but very entertaining when it is my only contribution to a German conversation.

Having someone to endure things besides turns hard tasks into bonding experiences. When you do squats for an hour or a similar exercise your legs normally feel warm for a day and then you wake up in the morning with growing pains. Flo and I walked for so long over the Pyrenees that my legs began to stop feeling warm and I began to feel my thighs and calves ripping and repairing themselves in real time. Flo and I panted up each hill and kept looking at each other in disbelief, realizing that each of us had actually signed up to do this. It was there that we coined what would become our signature catch-phrase from then on. Over the coming mikes through rain, exhaustion, hills, and valleys we would look at each other, grin, and say: “Could be worse.”