Lost Souls on the way to Burgos - Part 1
Welcome to the Camino...
It all had started with a 4am alarm clock and the brilliant idea of going to the bus station by communal shared bike, which I was trying to use for the first time. Running late after a hearty breakfast, ten long minutes of panic ensued when struggling to get the bike released from its lock… My dark past as a small-town burglar came to my rescue in the end… so there I was, riding full speed the heavy frame of an iron mule, a full backpack on my shoulders and all my clothes on…to avoid paying extra baggage fees on the plane (obviously). An ideal cocktail for transpiration, the hot and moist weather gave me the first sauna of the season, and I could be later seen producing myself into an awkward striptease at the bus’s door, to regain at least a flavor of “presentability”.
Such petty worries on fashion and odor were soon to be forgotten since the moment I would have started wearing the Pilgrim’s mask.
The evening of the same day, after a flight and 2 busses from the heart of Spain to the forsaken border village of Saint Jean de Pied Port, I was knocking the door of the Pilgrim office, where a more strict than welcoming lady provided me with was to become my official passport for the next weeks: “la credencial del peregrino”, a gothic-looking booklet which I signed with my blood, certifying that I was indeed a devoted soul, willing to face the elements and to collect stamps on the dark way to Santiago. But how firm was she when denying another credential I asked for my fellow travel companion, who was still struggling to make his way to such location forgotten by the gods. It was the first indication that this pilgrim stuff is tough business and that the Devil must be fiercely fent off when he’s still at a safe distance…
A business right now in peak season, according to the statistics, showing 9000 walkers for the month of May. Indeed the town was brimming with pilgrims, from the old continent and the new ones alike, warming up their thighs, sharpening their walking sticks, testing their brand new backpacks before the seminal day: the climb of the Pyrenees. Tomorrow is going to be a rat race towards the dungeons of Roncesvalles, at the other side of the mountain pass. As the curfew bell at the municipal pilgrim hostel tolls, only a few brave rebels dare to linger in the kitchen at 21.30, drinking a couple of small beers, burping, sharing food, and checking out the wifi network.
We were bad boys right from the start.
Arrogant and light-hearted, aware of our superior leg power (built during a life of adventures) and ready to plough thru the Pyrenees like goats, to take on other pilgrims and see them fall like skittles. But certainty is short lived, as we found out, and the plan to do a double march and leave the weak behind was soon discarded, as a charming Persian lady with a broken English approached us at the dinner table offering us a glimpse of paradise in the form of an apple. The world stopped spinning for a long instant and the next thing we knew was that we would stop in Roncesvalles the following day, if we were to be rewarded again with those fine fruits of life. Our plan was now dictated by higher powers.
Welcome to the Camino…
