León to San Martín del Camino - part 3
Sunday, July 13, 2008 at 10:32AM I explained that he just didn't understand, but it was to no use. In (his) own world (he) can't possibly be in anyone else's. Journal Excerpt May 31, 2006.
I distracted myself by doing something I hadn't done with any seriousness up to that point on the Camino: I began to calculate how far I should go next. I began to think about how I could get ahead of Marc and Xavier so as to avoid running into them. I looked at my guidebook. I calculated. I came up with different sets of options for the next couple of days. I could either force myself to walk farther than my average distance, which worried me a bit since I wasn't exactly in a peak physical condition, or, I could do the opposite and walk shorter distances. That didn't sit well because it seemed somehow like wimping out. I calculated and recalculated, thought about the options, but liked none of them. I wrote a couple of the longer distance calculations into my journal.
I needed more food supplies and decided a better task would be to find a supermercado before the pilgrim dinner. I fetched my frog-green jacket because the wind had picked up quite a bit. I made my way down the road towards the more central part of the village. I saw the municipal albergue on the opposite side of the road as I walked by.
San Martin, municipal albergue. The end of the village could be seen from the main road. I found the small supermercado behind the main road with no problem. Inside was just one other pilgrim. I walked through the few aisles looking for food and necessities. My pen was going to run out soon, so I hoped to find a new one. While I was searching, the pilgrim was at the back of the store at the meat and cheese vitrine. He couldn't speak Spanish so he just spoke in his native language and pointed at a piece of sausage that he wanted. The store worker picked up what he thought the pilgrim wanted. The pilgrim immediately started telling him no in a rather terse way, and pointed again. The store worker picked up a different one, but it wasn't what the pilgrim wanted either. Now visibly nervous, and perhaps feeling embarrassed and vulnerable, the pilgrim kind of panicked and just said no more loudly and repeated his pointing while explaining in his native language with increasing volume. I saw that the store worker was annoyed. Since I could speak the pilgrim's native language, I walked over and tried to explain that the store worker couldn't understand what he was saying and that it didn't help to yell. It was of no use. He defended himself, blaming it on the store worker, and made the argument that since it was the Camino he couldn't be expected to speak Spanish and that without the pilgrims they would have no business. I felt embarrassed for him, and myself, even if I understood intimately the kind of fear of not being able to communicate what you want and need in a different language. I could also see that there was no point in trying to discuss it more. After he left, when I went to pay for my things, I saw that the pens were located 
Not everything is beautiful when walking on the Camino.behind the counter out of reach. I didn't know the word for pen, and I was a little nervous about pointing to them given what had just happened. I didn't know what else to do but to say, "per favor, uno?" and gesture writing with my hand followed by pointing carefully behind him. He understood what I wanted and although still unhappy from the previous interaction, his face began to soften a bit. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was for what had happened, and at the same time I wondered how many times it happened day after day after day. All I could do was to say gracias and leave the store with that uneasy feeling.
In addition to buying a pen which was not always an easy matter in the small villages (especially if you are a picky-puss like me and don't like to write with fudging ballpoints), and since on the Camino it is an unwritten rule that chocolate consumption is always allowable and unlimited in quantity, I felt no guilt whatsoever about eating my chocolate covered ice cream bar right then and there before dinner. Besides, by this point I was holding my pants up with either a length of string or safety pins. I walked back towards the main road and turned to go back up the road to the albergue. The wind was stronger now and I was walking against it. I had to stop to zip up my jacket while holding onto the stick of my ice cream to keep the metal zipper from violently and painfully flagellating me. After that, I had to put my free hand on the top of my head to hold onto my hat. I didn't mind once I got going again. I love the wind—conditionally of course. In San Martín it was a warm and powerful wind. I thought about how far the wind traveled to reach me and if it could speak, what it might be saying. It's that movement, that aliveness the wind brings that I think I love most. It continued to gust noisily against the flaps of the hood of my jacket and the fabric of my hat. Then, after I walked past the municipal albergue, I thought I heard someone calling my name. I wasn't sure, but I thought I even heard it three or four times with pauses in between: Deb!—Deb!—Deb!—Deb! The wind continued to rustle and shush in my ears. I honestly thought I must be hearing things, and without stopping or turning around, I walked on. I figured it was just my hurt feelings playing tricks on me, and that in turn made me feel sad.
Dinner that evening was difficult for me. My mind was in a hundred places, my body wasn't doing so great even with the medication, and to be honest, 
Near San Martin on the way to Astorga.eating in a room full of people just sort of reopened my wound more. Everyone who was there was walking with someone and had companions to easily talk with and laugh with. I did meet and talk to a man from Tasmania, which was a first for me, but after we exhausted the usual pilgrim exchanges of why we were on the Camino and where we lived, our conversation died out and I soon descended back to my thoughts. I spoke to Mr. Edelweiss about the next morning's departure, and I very firmly and explicitly said that they should not wait for me. There was a lot of Ja, ja, and words of understanding, but I was skeptical that he was hearing anything I said due to the amount of vino he had found that evening on the Camino. When dinner was finished, I didn't linger. I knew that getting into bed certainly wouldn't hurt my body even if my mind was still navigating a sea of emotions. I excused myself, collected my laundry, concentrated on the nightly rituals of reorganizing and repacking, and after brushing my teeth, got into the cocoon of my sleeping bag. At least it felt good to lie down again.
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Reader Comments (6)
I keep enjoying your posts. That was a very nice description of the wind in that one. And - your feelings of hurt about Marc and Xavier really come through in your writing. Can't wait to hear the rest of the story. It is a great pleasure to read your blovel.
Much love,
Iris
_Barbara
Thanks again for the very nice comment! The next installments are coming soon, some are already half-written. I'm a little torn myself with how to present the next very important entries best, so I've been rethinking and rewriting.
But your comment is dead on. Which is to say:
Will Xavier and Marc smarten up? Hmm...excellent question, very perceptive. Will Deb keep running into them? Also...a very good question. And one of my own burning questions (but only one because I have many): Since when did middle-aged men become such a pain in the patooty?
My apologies to all the non-patooties.
Back to writing! ~Deb
Before leaving for our Camino in April my boyfriend and I stumbled onto your blovel. Now that we are back I have started at the beginning, knowing now most of the places you write about (we skipped Burgos- to Astorga due to time constraints).
I can't wait for the next entry!
Best,
Kelly
Thanks for comment and I hoped you both had a great Camino. Next entry is practically on its way. ~Deb.