Camino Journal Day 19

April 20

The cold Cantabrian air entered through the now wide-open window to my hotel room, blown open by the midnight storm. It was just after 7. A little bit of rain was coming in with the wind and I jumped out from underneath the covers to close it. Dressing quickly to avoid a chill, I downed a 750ml bottle of Vichy Barcelona Sparkling water and headed over to the dining area below where the owner takes her afternoon coffee and I take my seat for the breakfast included with the room. No sign of the grass mowing robot yet. It was still overcast.

“You sleep well, my child?” she asks me as the other two guests sip their coffee at an adjacent table.

“Oh, yes. Perfect. I feel so refreshed and good today.” I respond.

“Well, you’re going to need it. It’s awful out there. Check out is 10am”

She served me hot coffee from a little home percolator, toast with tomato puree, a slice of Manchego, a slice of ham, a slice of semi-cured white cheese, a slice of chorizo, and a small baguette the size of my fist. I ate happily the pan tomate and stowed away the baguette with the cheeses and meats like a small bocadillo I could later eat on the trail.

I wasn’t looking forward to walking in the rain, but figured, I needed to get a move on. I’d been stagnant, but now my feet felt better than ever. My legs were solid and rested, my mind was pretty clear, and I felt like a new man over and over again. My guitar didn’t bother me, none of the weight in my pack bothered me. I was just so joyful and happy to be out there doing what I was doing.

After preparing my pack, wrapping it in the green synthetic protector and then putting on my $5 rain poncho, I started down the road with a spliff in hand. It wasn’t so bad, just a light drizzle at first. But after a few thousand yards, it began to pour down rain. The poncho I’d bought was shit. The length barely reached just below my knees and instead of shielding me from any water, only took all that it caught and deposited it directly down my leg and into my boot. After 30 minutes I was soaked all the way through. I worried about my music calendar in my pack, snuggled away in the furthest reaches, double wrapped in a plastic bag and then ziplocked. It was safe, but I was risking months of work and agreed upon dates being out here like this. Plus, it was freezing cold. About 3 degrees C, and I was risking the whole trip with catching cold.

I decided to turn around. I still had the number to the taxi I called while staying in the 4 stars in Gerra. I went directly to the cafe off the highway just across from the hotel where I’d stayed the night before saving me a few hundred yards. I jogged the last few steps to reach the covered patio and was greeted by a bald man wearing a mask with a Spanish flag emblazoned on it.

“Stay outside, Pilgrim.”

I sat my pack on the ground up against the wall by a table.

“Hey, don’t put your pack there. It wettens the wood of the window seal. Coño! Me cago en dios! Fucking pilgrims,” I look astonished. Yeah, I was stupid for being out here trying to walk, so I guess I had it coming. The man noticed the shocked expression on my face as he and I are both reaching for my pack to move it from being close to the building.

“You’re mother not teach you about respect for others? The pilgrims these days lack respect for anybody,” he says as I beat him to my pack and prop it up on a metal leg of a patio chair. I strip off my poncho and sit down.

“You want something,” a young woman comes from inside and waits on me.

“I’d love a Cola-Cao. Very hot, please.” she scoffs and returns inside leaving me under the glaring eyes of the dueño who says nothing but observes me with disdain. I remove my scarf and coat and hang it on the back of another chair. I’m spreading out my things. This irritates the man.

“What are you going to do? You can’t camp out here all day,”

“Don’t you worry. I’ll be gone in no time. I’ve called a taxi.”

“Mejor,” he says and vanishes inside.

The woman returns with my hot instant breakfast, and I sip it warming myself as much as possible while rolling a cigarette and lighting it. I manage to change into a dryer shirt and socks without being noticed, something I was sure would piss this guy off. The taxi wouldn’t be but a few more minutes and I sat enjoying the raining day despite being soaked and cold.

“Hey. You can’t smoke here,” the man’s voice rings out. I hadn’t noticed he returned to his post at the door and was watching me again. How long had he been there? I was glad I hadn’t put any hash in it. “What, you can’t read? The sign is right there.”

“I hadn’t seen it,” I respond. “Where can I smoke?”

The man points to out from under the cover of the patio toward the cold icy rain, “There. It’s the law.”

“But, sir, there is no one here but you and me. What does it matter?”

“The law is the law, pilgrim. You have no respect for anyone but yourself. I’ve already told you. You can smoke in the rain or put it out. Ahora!” he stamps his foot.

The man’s muffled voice is barely audible over the rain and through the fashionable Covid mask. Was he a nationalist? The nationalists back home didn’t believe in masks and in Covid, although, the isolationism in most of the rhetoric would be well suited for mask wearing and fear of the other, the outsider, the tourist, coming to spread their disease and steal the culture. Spanish people normally don’t promote a flag unless they are still tied into the idea of Country, Church, and Law. The three main tenants of Francoism.

“Si Señor, the law is the law,” he affirms while watching me put out my cigarette and take the last swig off the hot beverage. He motions for the girl to come and immediately bus the table, “Many will not like it, but the law is here for everyone. Not only a few. Follow the law and you show respect to your fellow man,” he says as if he were talking to a student.

“And hospitality? What do you know about it? Where does it fit in your law governed world?” I ask sorely.

“Hospitality? For a foreigner? For an American? Yes, I can tell you are American. You’re all the same. Hah! You don’t deserve it. You are lucky I allowed you to sit here soaking wet ruining my patio for my other customers with your ragged and disheveled appearance. Idiota. What kind of dumbass walks in this rain? You Americans are fucking stupid and crazy. Don’t you know there is a pandemic right now? And you’re out here spreading your germs through our small town, contaminating our people and caring not the death you leave in your wake. Hospitality? You don’t even have a mask on, sir. Why should I treat you any different from how you treat me? You wish death on me. The law is the law. You must wear a mask. The law is here to be obeyed.”

My taxi pulls up and I grabbed my pack to get gone. Before turning to go, I said with a cold icy stare as shrill as the pounding rain, locking eyes with the man, “The law is here so we don’t do harm to another. And besides, the mask mandate was ended yesterday. Do you not read the papers?”

His stare freezes, and I see a hint of joy sparkle from his eyes at the cleverness of my veiled threat. The embolden asshole I am, threatening to fight someone here in Spain, where the men don’t fight. You could see his smile from his eyes despite his covered mouth, and it made me uneasy.

I got in the cab and went 9 kilometers up the way to the boarder of Cantabria and Asturias in Unquera. It was barely 10am and I held up in a cafe just before the bridge crossing into the new autonomous community. I had a coffee and a couple slices of Spanish Omelet while smoking a spliff out on the patio.

With the rain letting up, I set out again, this time leaving the poncho behind, I figured it was better to be wet on the top than have my shoes and socks soaked. The boots would start smelling anyway if I didn’t get to dry them out tonight. After just a mile or two the rain came back down hard. There was no cover anywhere. I looked up on google maps to see if there was anything around, but nothing until a small prayer chapel on the trail two miles up ahead. I booked it. It would take me about 35 minutes to get there and I’d be soaked, but hopefully could hide out, dry some things off and not take on any more water. I’d checked my paper calendar while having coffee before the bridge and it was protected. There was really no reason I couldn’t be soaked and walking, except for the danger of catching cold. It still sucked.

When I got to the chapel, it was tiny, and it was locked. The ground beyond the gate was littered with coin offerings and small pieces of paper with little prayers written on them. I stuck my hand through the bars to use my phone without it taking on any water. The small eve of the tiny roof was only about 4 inches in width and provided no amount of cover, only blocked my pack and back of my body from taking water directly. It was another two miles and there was an albergue in Colombres. I trekked on.

The covered patio to the closed albergue was a blessing and with an open gate, I went in and made myself at home on the picnic table, spreading my things out to dry and changing once again into dry socks, underwear and shirts. I had one set left after this one, having done all my laundry in San Vicente. I rolled a spliff and sat enjoying the cold morning air. It took me an hour to get from the bridge to here. My boots were relatively dry inside, but my coat was soaked through. Sitting there I began to get chilly. I hoped a hostelero would appear soon and I could use some facilities or maybe even just stay here for the day. I didn’t want to catch a cold. I’d gotten sick back in 2019 from pushing myself too hard and had to go to the doctor and take a couple days off. I didn’t want a repeat.

As I sat smoking, and admiring my new business cards I’d picked up before leaving San Vicente, a couple meandered down the road in front of me before poking their heads through the gated bars and hollering over to me,

“Are they open?”

“No, but the gate is. Come on in!” I reply back.

It’s an American woman from Boston and her husband of many years who is from Madrid but has lived in America for the last 18 years or so. They are happy go lucky and don’t seem to mind the rain at all.

“You’re that busker we saw the other day in San Vincente,” the woman says recognizing me.

“What?,” her husband asks her, “You saw him playing music in the street and didn’t tell me? I love live music. I can’t believe we didn’t stop to see you. Pardon me. Why didn’t you say something, baby”

“We were getting in a cab at the moment, honey.” she assures him.

We introduce ourselves and go over the superficial stuff before I whip out my card and pass it over along with a sticker, “I’m promoting my music out here. Just released a few new songs, and I have an album called El Camino I wrote when walking this very trail in 2019.” I say all in one go.

“Amazing Joe! Is there somewhere we can hear your music? And is that a guitar you have there with you? Marvelous,” the man says to me in perfect English.

I play them a song off my phone from YouTube. The conversation remains in English as the man is basically reached native fluency now after so many years of business and marriage in America. The woman and I both try to get a few words out in Spanish to test the other one out a little, but it’s always a little awkward to speak to another native English speaker in another language. They complement the quality of the production of the song, and we exchange a few more pleasantries while I snack on my bocadillo I’d pilfered from the complimentary breakfast this morning.

Around 11am after about 30 minutes sitting there, a hostelera arrives and lets us in to stamp our credentials.

“Joe, your wallet and credentials are getting soaked. Let me give you a Ziplock baggie,” the woman from Boston mothers me a bit and I relish in being cared for. My wallet had indeed taken a lot of water during my hour walk in the downpour this morning. “Do you have a raincoat?”

“No. I ditched it. It wasn’t worth it.”

“Oh, well you must try to stay dry out there, sweetheart. We have the number to a taxi and so we don’t mind if we get caught in the rain. We can just phone them and tell them the mile marker on the nearest guidepost and they will come for us. Do you want me to write the number down for you?” she laughs explaining their trip, “We are old and just wanting to walk a little and not wear ourselves out. My husband’s family is coming in a few days to walk with us and so we are getting some training in before they arrive,” she guiltily adds. Something about the way she was explaining it felt like she was explaining away some kind of cheating she thought they were doing by taking taxis some of the way.

"Her feet are really hurting her. We’ve just got these new shoes for her today. We hope they will help,” her husband adds as the hostelera is now also listening to this woman’s story as the woman coyly smiles with a shy expression. “Okay, well Joe, it was very nice to meet you,” the man says, “We are going to carry on now.”

They disappear down the trail and I hang back getting my things together. I ask if I can use the electric dryer to dry my belongings before setting off, “If you want to pay 5 euro for just the dryer, then yes, I can open it for you.”

“That’s not a problem at all. Thank you so much! I was going to freeze out there,” I say as she scoffs carelessly and says to meet her around on the other side and she’ll let me into the laundry room. Once I’ve got my coat, gloves, scarf, bandanna and even my pants in there, I stand around on the balcony in the now warming late morning sun and smoke a spliff in my basketball shorts. I check in with Johnny, who I’d randomly bumped into in San Vicente two days ago, to see how far he’d made it. He would stay in Llanes for the day. I’d try to make it to meet back up with him there.

The day passed fairly quickly. Now with all my belongings dried, and the rain letting up as I moved into a distinct weather pattern from another valley town, I felt at ease. My apple watch hadn’t recorded a heart rate above 150 for the entire day, as I pushed myself along with comfort, covering 3 miles an hour. I thought about all that had happened so far. The small conflicts that seemed to be mirroring my thoughts of my own behaviors and superficialities. Could the Camino be manifesting exactly what I need to grow? “The Camino gives you what you need, not what you want,” I hear the slogan of my now seemingly so long-ago Camino family echoing in my mind. I was excited to catch up with Johnny again. I wondered how his skin sock of a blister was doing.

In a way I felt the Helper Monster to be completely gone. I didn’t have any desires to needlessly help anyone along anymore. I felt no longing to include myself in anyone’s journey and thus their life and problems. The repercussions, now so apparent, stung and left scars, and I figured it best to attempt not to engage too deeply with anyone at all, on the Camino and in life. Less is more. When a couple of pilgrims overtook me after one of my breaks, we walked together for a few hours chit-chatting. One was a German man in his late 50s and the other an Italian guy who was more my age. They seemed to have an unspoken pact to not allow anyone else into their group of two, and so conversation was minimal and at times offensive. Their names were Olaf and Daniel. They’d met a few days back.

“You don’t have a walking partner,” Olaf, the German man asks sewing doubt as a leisurely distraction to his day “By now it seems that pilgrims all have their walking partners figured out. To go fast walk alone, to go far walk together” he parrots.

“Ah no, I like walking alone,” I say, “I’d been on a three-day break in San Vicente.

“Oh, we know. We saw you playing your music in the plaza two days ago. Sounded good. Is that your guitar?” he points to the plastic bag covered guitar case attached to my pack.

“Yes, it is. I can play you something on a break later, if you like.”

“Okay. Maybe later we listen to something from you. For now, it’s walking that interests me. But you are from Texas, then, eh? You make your money playing music there like cowboy, yes?” he chuckles at his own joke.

“Yes, I’m from Fort Worth. Heard of it?”

“Fort Worth,” the Italian guy chimes in as the German shakes his head. “By Dallas? I have a cousin in Dallas.”

“Oh wow, you really know it. Hardly anyone in Europe knows Fort Worth,” I say with a smile.

“My cousin married an American girl from Texas. They met when she studied in Milano.”

“Does he like it over there,” I ask cordially.

“For an Italian guy, he says it’s hard. He says he love Texan girls though. He’s not a real good husband and cheat a lot. He tells me that’s the only thing his accent can get him. He can’t find a real job, or actually get many friends as his English is pretty poor, but he gets laid a lot. He’s a barback.”

“Damn,” I say. “That’s kind of funny. I knew some Italian guys in Fort Worth once when I worked for a restaurant chain called Lombardi.”

“And? What happened with them?” the German guy asks.

“Well, they all eventually went back home.” I say.

“Life is easier for Italians in Europe now with the EU. We can work anywhere. Like me working in Germany,” the Italian says, “My parents always wanted me to study English and go to work and live in America. I tried that, and it didn’t work for me. So, I started to learn German and lived there for a while, now my German and English combined with Italian make me very valuable. It’s how I pay for this journey. I’m in marketing.”

“What he’s saying is he prefers to live the Germanic Dream,” Olaf puns wittily with a sardonic smile demanding the reaction he was used to from the proud nationalist American type.

It made sense now why they were walking together. They spoke only in German while going along. The novelty for speaking a little English with me was not new for either of them and soon our group of three was two distinct groups, one in English and one in German as they walked a few feet in front of me, or just behind as we moved along the trail. When we approached some geysers, the two of them went off to gaze at them without me, and while they were taking their time, I went on alone without a goodbye. They wouldn’t mind. This is really how two ships pass in the night, I think. Two separate destinations along the same path.

The sun finally came all the way out and with a few clouds peppering the horizon full of mountainous cliffs and seaside views, I was in awe at the sheer beauty of the landscapes around me. I took many pictures and pushed my body onward, stopping every two hours for a break with a spliff. At 6pm I arrived finally to Llanes and checked into the albergue where Johnny was staying. I’d stayed here with my friends David and Ramon way back in 2011 while we walked for 5 days on the Camino. I’d also stayed here in 2019. It was an old hotel and actually a little nicer than most albergues. I loved the rustic look to the balconies overhanging the streets.

It was just Johnny in the room of 8 bunks, and so we chatted and lounged around like it was our own private pension for a while before going out for some food and groceries that we’d use tomorrow on the trail. As I’ve said before, Johnny is very easy to be around. When I entered the room, he didn’t budge from his bunk, laying there working on his videos depicting his days walk. His foot was semi-healed but still heavily bandaged, and his demeanor was the usual stableness with a hint of joy. It was good to see him. We had somethings in common it seemed, and since Johnny had seen me needlessly helping the German lose his coffee pod that morning back in Izarbide the first week on the trail, he’d been kind enough to share his observation with me that me helping others was not needed at all and only caused me problems. “People look to play the victim,” he said back then, “They look helpless, but they really only want someone else to blame when things go wrong.” I appreciated he took the time to tell me that.

The albergue costs us 13 euro each and the curfew was midnight. After Johnny and I ate, he went back to his bunk and I went out to greet an old friend I’d met in 2019 at The Pirate Bar, Silverio. Three years ago, I’d stumbled upon this place hugging the wave covered pier with my guitar, and Silverio, the owner, took a liking to me. I played them some Johnny Cash tunes and he bought me dinner and sent me on my way with a little hash. At first when I went in, no one noticed me. I order some sea snails and a bottle of sider and sat at a table by where Silverio was. I ate a few of my snails even though they hadn’t given me the sauce that traditionally goes with it to mask the horrifying texture and very distinct taste. Boogers of the sea is the way I’d describe them.

Finally intercepting a break in the conversation around Silverio’s table, I ask,” Hey, sir, aren’t you the boss of this place?”

“Si Señor. This place is mine. What of it?” he responds gruffly. He’s a little drunk already, his eyes glossy and bloodshot as well.

“I came here three years ago. I played you some songs and you invited me to my supper.”

“Joder, tio!” he yells slamming his hands down on the table after stroking them across his scalp making his hairs stand up. “Yes, I remember you. Yonny Cash, right! Joder. That was a while ago. And where is the guitar now? You didn’t bring it?,” he grabs the remote off the table and hands it to me, “You have video? Put something on for us.”

“It’s at the albergue.” I say typing my name and Ghost Riders In The Sky into the YouTube search bar displayed on the TV screen overhead.

“For fucks sake, why didn’t you bring it with you,” he says turning to one of his workers sitting with him at the table, “Take him to get the guitar real quick,” he shoves his keys across the table.

“Jefe, no. I cannot. I have no license.”

“Coño! What does it matter, it’s only 2 minutes. Take him real quick to get his guitar.”

“Boss, I cannot. I can’t risk it. I’ve already been drinking.”

There’s a little more debate and finally Silverio stands up and pushes me toward the door with his palm on my back. “Vamos,” he says finishing the last swig of his brandy and gently setting the snifter back on the bar top. “Get him some hash ready too, will yah? While I’m gone.” he says to the man who wouldn’t take me. I perk up a little hearing this.

In the truck the man speeds through the narrow streets of the small town, taking the wrong way on one-way and using short cuts only someone who’d driven these streets all their life would know, short cuts that not only depend on route, but the time of day and what cops are on the beat.

“So, you like marijuana, huh?” he asks me. “We have bags of it. Bags and bags and bags of it. I can’t get rid of it all. You want some?”

“Hell yeah, I want some. I love weed.”

“Okay. We’ll get you some when we get back.”

I imagine him handing over a turkey bag full and wondering what I would do with it. He’s a nice man. He wants to be important and respected, and my returning really gave him a tap to the heart. My thank yous and remembering him did it for him that night. You could tell he was being a little nicer than usual. You could tell he didn’t need all the money he had or the establishment he ran, he did it to care for the other, to provide for his family and the family of his friends and companions. He pulls to a screeching stop in front of the albergue. “Go. Hurry up.”

I jump out and run up the stairs to the dorm room and see the most beautiful young girl laying on one of the bunks across from Johnny. They are talking. She smiles at me and her eyes twinkle sending me into fits of hope and thoughts of the future the way only a woman’s eyes can.

“Yall wanna come to this bar with me? I’m going to play some tunes,” I can’t resist inviting the girl along.

“No. I’m headed to sleep,” she says, and Johnny nods in agreement with her, already tucked away into his sleeping bag on his bunk.

“I’ll try to be quiet coming back in,” I say and vanish down the steps, out the door and back into the passenger side of Silverio’s new-model white Toyota pickup.

“Why did you come back to see me?” Silverio asks me putting the truck in reverse and speeding back out of there. “I’m glad you did. You know nobody does that anymore,” his tone is sincere, it feels like a dad.

“People just go around taking and taking and never even say thank you, much less return thousands of miles across the gran charco,” he hits the steering wheel and I start to go on about my purpose on the Camino.

“Last time I had nothing. I was just beginning to earn money as a musician. Your hospitality that night meant so much to me. The whole purpose of this walk is to say, ‘thank you’, and share what the Camino has given. That card I gave you will take you to my website. I published an album called El Camino of the songs I wrote while walking last time when I met you.”

He nods, “Well, fuck. You got a friend in me. I’ll see who I can introduce you too. Do you want to play some shows? I could use you May 1st.”

“Damn. I’d love to, but I should finish the walk.”

“Take a break and come for our festival. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I guess I could do that,” I respond. “I keep in contact on WhatsApp and see if it works out.”

“Either way, Americano, you’re alright with me. Eres grande. Pepe Salvaje, un puto crack,” he says with gusto reaching around and slapping me on my back after parking the truck back in front of The Pirate Bar.

“Here, listen,” he takes his phone out of his pocket and dials a friend, “This is the leader of the orchestra. If you get in with them, then you’re in for good. Want me to tell him about you?”

“Of course! That would be awesome. Thank you,” I’m saying as someone answers the other end of Silverio’s call.

“Hey, I got this Texan singer/musician here. Will you try him out? Maybe take him on.” Silverio immediately asks.

“Is he any good?” the voice responds.

“For fuck’s sake. What do you take me for? This is Silverio the Pirate,” he laughs.

“Yeah. Ok,” the voice on the other end of the speaker phone stammers, “Well tell him to send me some links and meet me in Gijon tomorrow.”

“You’ll try him out?” Silverio confirms smiling and nodding at me.

“Yes, we can see. I gotta go. We are at rehearsal. Adios.” the line clicks.

“Well, can you go to Gijon tomorrow?”

“Yea, I suppose I can. If it’s really worth it. Is he for real?” I ask.

“He’s for real, Pepe. If he likes you, you are set for life in Spain. Here. Take his WhatsApp and end him some links.

I do this as we are walking back up to the bar. The other man without the license meets me outside as we walk back in and slips me a small, folded paper package about 1/2 inch by 1/2 inch in my hand. The size makes me think its cocaine and my mind flashes back to the many times I’ve accepted such a package in the music clubs and bars back home. I hoped it was not cocaine, and I didn’t really need the hash anyway. I still had well over 25 grams of my own supply. I go to unfold the package and make a spliff in my palm, “Nah, man. Put that away. It’s for you. For later. I’ll make us a conuto to share with mine.”

The man was stingy with Silverio’s gift. The small piece of hash couldn’t have weighed more than a 1/4 gram, and I questioned if this is what Silverio meant when telling me they had bags and bags of weed.

“So, what are you doing here,” the man asks me finally.

“I already told yall. I came here three years ago…,” the man cuts me off starting into to my elevator pitch.

“Yeah, I know, but what are you really doing here,” and his eyes pierce mine with a questioning gleam screaming at me to reveal why I was being so nice. What my true intentions were and why I’d come around looking to suckle the teat this man was so delicately attached to. He wouldn’t last working for Silverio. If he wasn’t already stealing, he was calculating how much of the pie he’d get. That’s why he was so unnerved by me being there, and the care and excitement Silverio was showing me.

“What do you mean? Silverio is a good man. He helped me a few years ago. I didn’t have any money and he fed me. I came to say thank you. That’s it.” I say back and stare him back into the soul one conman to another.

“But you’re walking the same route twice? Why’s that?” he cools down a little realizing I have no plans to stay around.

“I donno,” I say taking a drag off the oversized spliff and handing it back to him. “There’s too much tobacco in it.” I say. My head starts to spin a little from too much nicotine, “I guess I’m trying to see my old self.”

“What like you are studying your life?” he asks wrapping his head around it all. “And you make money from music? Enough to do this walk. How come I’ve never heard of you?”

“Well, I’m not famous, man. I just work as a musician. I make those videos Silverio put on in hopes that I might be rich one day. Maybe something will catch eventually.” He offers me another drag on the spliff and when I decline, he extinguishes it in the ashtray on the wine barrel by the door and we go back inside.

“You took care of Pepe?” Silverio asks the man as we sit back down.

“Yeah. I give him hash.”

“Pepe, he give you enough hash?” he asked me.

“Perfecto, Silverio. Thank you very much. You’re too kind to me. I came to pay you back not take more anyway.”

“Shut it up, Savage. Play us some tunes. Saca la guitarra.”

I play Merle Haggard’s Today I Started Loving You Again, they applaud and ask for something more up tempo, so I go into Tom Petty’s Time To Move On. Liking that one better they suggest I play so the waitress can sing. I try to strum some stuff for her, but we don’t vibe. She looks for a backing track on YouTube and sings a deep-song as the room awes at her beauty.

“She’s great, no Pepe?” Silverio asks me, ignoring the others.

I tell her she should learn guitar and accompany herself. She’s talented, a little dreamy which allows her to overlook her mistakes in pitch, but still, with some stage time, she’d be great, I think.

Silverio has a round of Spanish cheeseburgers delivered for everyone, me included and there’s just enough time to cram it in my face and sing a couple Johnny Cash tunes before I walk back to the albergue. Getting up to leave, Silverio asks me, “Hey Pepe, did my man with the orchestra get back to you?”

“I didn’t want to tell you, but yeah. He says my style isn’t what he is looking for.” I said with a little shame letting my head hang.

“Ah, well. Fuck em. I thought he had taste. Keep your head up Salvaje. Come see me May 1st.”

“I’ll try.” said passing under the threshold and out into the night.

I roll a spliff on my walk back from the hash I was given. It was enough for maybe four or five more. It was good. I hadn’t had any flower since I arrived, and I speculated if that was healthier or not for me. I love smoking spliffs. The night wailed with each drag, and I felt the glow of the high encircle my head and body. I tip toed across the air and up the stairs to the dorm room, crashing into the doors and metal lockers while taking my clothes off and getting into bed. Johnny stirred in his bunk and the young woman rolled over a few times making the bunk creak with each turn. I opened a window to let some of the cold air circulate and laid down.

I put on some devotional prayers from YouTube and fell asleep with my earbuds in. I’d walked 23 miles.