Lost souls on the way to Burgos - Part 3
The rains of Roncesvalles
It does not take a university degree to realize that Roncesvalles is not Vegas. However there is an unexpected common trait between those two places of perdition: the triumph of capitalism. Hordes of wandering pilgrims are accommodated in industrial dormitories, packaged food dispensers are dehumanizing as slot machines, the municipal hostel has cranked up the prices, the only food options turns out to be the overcooked pasta of a Pilgrim menu. Even the weather turns out to be undemocratic by pouring down on us what was to be known under the name of “the rains of Roncesvalles”: an unstoppable series of cold water buckets coming down from the sky uninterruptedly for 24 hours. A contract was clearly place with the Devil to ensure a constant supply of dark skies above those dungeons. The only way for the lost pilgrim souls to get away from such a trap was to face the storm head-on the following morning and to refrain from the slightest comments about the weather.
Needless to say that our duo was at least partially unprepared to such an unnecessary display of showering capacity from god-knows-who. Our only umbrella failed at the first blow of wind, our patched jackets were getting heavier by the minute, our feet floating into our boots. Even Seyi’s ummissable plastic bag was more in tatters than usual.
Time to reflect on the sins of the past day and to recognize our powerlessness in front of the Maker. We were to become good boys, being nice to fellow humans in the same boat, lowering our walking range not to get in competition with whichever divinity…and in general pursuing virtue “to keep the devil down in the hole”. It was then logic and natural that our bodies were getting accustomed to the new humid conditions and our march started again to pick up pace.
But the Devil is not someone who will quietly sit into a cave and do nothing. A small bar appeared on the horizon and the next thing is that we were sitting comfortably indoors biting a fresh “bocadillo” and sipping orange juice on-the-rocks. The real breakfast bill was revealed to us only at the moment we stepped out of the café. Our bodies, softened by those glimpses of pure decadence, were now perceiving subzero temperatures. Cursing the moment we decided (or better “were decided”) to enter that bar was not possible, as our jaws were demoniacally vibrating out of our control. We had to take the blow and chicken out real fast, putting as much ground as possible between ourselves and that place which probably never existed outside of our minds.
