Camino Journal Day 23
April 24
I woke so fresh in the morning and was looking forward to a rest day in Gijon tomorrow. The cool breezy air came in through the open windows to our room at Hotel Rey Carlos I. It’s early around 7 am and I open boooking.com on my phone and put the digital deposit on a two-night stay in a private room off the main promenade for 25 euros a night. In 2011, David and I came here with our native-Toledo friend and fellow band mate during our one week walk on the Camino. Gijon was our last night, and we went out to the main party district to a place known as Sider Street, la calle de la sidra. The locals poured glass after glass and as the night went on and the drunker they became, the more the sider flowed down the street. It filled the small channels used by a down poor to escape the city. David, Ramon and I posted up and busked, and instead of the much-needed coins, we received ever more bottles of sider and only became drunker and poorer as we played.
Gijon is a big city, and Santander was the last major metropolis the trail had passed through. I planned on getting another shave, washing my clothes, and having some more stickers printed at a local printer.
Johnny and I routinely made our way out of the hotel and to the first cafe of the day. After taking our breakfast in relative silence, we started walking. It would be a long 25 miles to make it to Gijon. At five miles every 2 hours, it would be a grueling 12-hour day. The sun was out bright and early and the whole world seemed full of new life after a few days of rain. I listened to the Psalms in my earbuds until the first cafe.
Johnny also enjoyed stopping at just about every place along the way. Our pace was fast enough that we’d race down the trail for a couple of hours, then take a 30min-1hr break. We’d break, the other pilgrims would pass by waving, and then we’d pass them on the way to our next break. Sometimes the others stopped in with us and chatted and had a beverage, but we were just too fast paced for any of the smoking/drinking type to want to join up, and just too slow with desire for a good time to keep pace with the sporty ones. Regardless, we all arrived at the same city every day. There were a few exceptions who would suddenly take on a superhuman speed, and you’d hear tell of a 50km day or pilgrims that walked during the night. At the three-week mark, most of us pilgrims knew our bodies by now and what they could do. Some were holding on for dear life, others were pushing themselves to go over the cold mountain of the Primitive Trail, and I was somewhere in the middle. My attempt was to enjoy this walk. To enjoy the day and to spend my money without restraint. I liked pushing myself for 2-hour intervals plenty of spliffs, good food and alcohol along the way.
At 9:30 in the morning, we see our first bar/cafe and stop in. It’s a sleepy town just outside Villaviciosa and the men gathered at the bar top for the regular morning coffee are quiet with us. A lone woman tends the bar solemnly and without chatter. Johnny and I take our coffee outside in the sunshine and I roll a spliff. A local man steps out and pulls a large bag of about 7 grams of weed from his pocket. He nonchalantly rolls himself a spliff, mixing the broken split open cigarette with the crushed herb in the palm of his hand.
“You making a spliff?” I asked nosily. Having not smoked with anyone in days, I relished in partaking with another stoner.
“Yeah, tio.” He pulls the bag of weed back out from his pocket and selects a small nugget, “Toma, Hazte un porrito.”
I thanked him and rolled one up with his stash. The other men came out and all of them stood together with the rhythm of daily bread. Jokes were tossed, crusted sleep was wiped from the eyes, sugar was stirred in the coffees and a humorous banter of acceptance in life was hot-potatoed from man to man. There were probably four generations of men standing there. Perhaps the oldest had witnessed the civil war. It was probably much like this morning for a small town during the war. Maybe they were quieter back then, not as friendly with a stranger. I doubt the man would have given a porro to a stranger for fear they alert the Guardia Civil.
The other pilgrims pass us on the road just above where we are sitting and Johnny and I way to Iris, Cici and Maga. Iris will split from the group a few miles up and Cici and Maga are also going all the way to Gijon. Behind the girls is a large group of 20 elderly Germans chatting like a small flock of sparrows as they cheerfully make their way up the incline to the trail disappearing out of view. When we finish our drinks, Johnny and I speed down the trail, catching and passing the large group of Germans one by one. None of them say hello or stop their chats to acknowledge our presence.
When we get to the top of the first big hill for the day, Johnny and I sit with a couple of other pilgrims on a felled log and have our pack lunch. I eat a membrillo and cheese sandwich and down a liter and a half of water. Sitting there smoking, the German couple from yesterday who I’d seen setting off in the rain from Colunga come into view. They are quickly making it up the trail. The woman, the faster of the two, is behind the man almost whipping him to spur him ever further and faster on. As they approached us, I imagined their sex life. Black leather and dominance.
As they passed, Johnny and I sat smoking, looking on at them with a bewildered stare. Assuming we were awestruck by their sheer prowess at the trail and lack of a need to break here at this peak where almost every other pilgrim had stopped for a few, the man looks over just before turning with the trail to have his back toward us and says, “It’s so hard, isn’t it?”
Johnny and I looked at each other as a slight snicker from the couple could be heard. They raced onward down the trail. We finished our smokes and continued our rhythm, again passing all the elderly Germans and even catching the girls for a quick photo where the trail split. Johnny and I raced on for another couple hours, stopping at a nice hotel for a shandy beer and something to snack on. We sat on the patio as the waitress came every few minutes offering small croquette tapas for us to munch. Maga and Cici noticed us and joined, Maga sharing pulls off a small bottle of Aquavit, a whiskey that is matured at sea and with a label proclaiming, “Twice across the equator”. It had a bite. Got me a little buzzed.
At around 4pm, we started to get into the suburbs of the city. Not tired at all, I kept up with Johnny and sometimes outpaced him, especially on the downhills. Together we were able to take more breaks than the other hikers, smoke more spliffs, drink more drinks, and still keep up with the overall flow of the group. I felt proud.
As we came out of the pedestrian tunnel that deposits you out onto the main promenade hugging the big city’s coast, I see the German couple to my left sitting on a bench. They’d just arrived and were unpacking something from their bags to eat. I smiled sardonically at the man who’s face contorted in an uncontrollable outward gesture of disbelief and dissatisfaction at the sight of us. Johnny and I had beat him. “It’s so hard, isn’t it?” I hear his cinematic German accent ringing in my ears. The Camino is not a race but passing them at a point where they were so tired they couldn’t continue the final mile to their hotel, was glorious. It certainly feels like a race at times.
Johnny and I parted ways at different points on the promenade. I wasn’t sure if I’d see him again. We hugged. He wasn’t going to take a rest day, so he could very well end up 25 miles ahead of me, if not more. I hoped I’d see him later down the line and figured I would.
The Hotel Alda Pasaje was a modern, square and very clean place. The receptionist was friendly and gave me a map, circling the places where I could get some stickers printed. I gave him a card and a sticker of my latest single and took the elevator up to the room, hearing my music coming from his smart phone as the elevator door closed in front of me. I felt good. I hadn’t taken any of the Adderall in a couple weeks now and I was proud at the distance I was walking. Proud that I could check into a hotel for two nights. Proud that I didn’t have to worry about life anymore. I thought maybe I could understand the wars and the death of the world if it were about protecting this feeling. This security and faith that everything will be alright, that the water will run from the tap and that it will be hot if needed.
I unpacked all my things and laid them out on the desk and got my clothes together for a wash. The bathroom was large and the water piping hot. My shower was a relief to my aching, almost floating muscles. I let myself air-dry and hung out the window taking periodic drags off a spliff while getting dressed. I’d meet up with Maga and Cici for some drinks and a Kebab.
Waiting for them I wondered the old quarter adjacent to the sea. Stopping off at a grocery store I bought a few bottles of local sparkling water, some digestive cookies, a pack of anchovies in vinegar and a bag of kikos, snacks for tomorrow. The girls still not ready, I dipped into the Kebab shop. It was stale and lifeless. One man worked the counter. I ordered a durum with lamb and chicken and sat at a table, the only patron in the shop. As I ate, every 3 or 4 minutes someone came in a picked-up a to-go order or ordered at the counter then waited outside while smoking for the food to be prepared. It was funny, and I couldn’t help but notice the regular Spanish person had taken to eating Kebab on the regular. It was cheaper than most anything around, hot and filled you up. Apparently, though, the Metropolitan Spanish of Gijon still didn’t like to dine in at the Muslim spots.
I finished eating and dropped my groceries back in my hotel before meeting Maga and Cici for another Kebab. They were having Vermouth at a pub just up the street and I met them for a couple of rounds while a local man danced the same 2 moves in sequence for an hour straight. I took the girls back to the Kebab place and the attendant looked at me puzzled as I entered again. The girls unaware I couldn’t wait and had already eaten my first plate. I shamelessly ordered and ate another meal, this time with fries. Cici had paid the Vermouths, so I paid the food. Wanting to continue in the round of generosity, Maga invited us to have copas at a fancy bar right on the port.
“Gin & Tonic? Shall we?" Maga directs us to a table with a million-dollar view. The waiter serves our drinks, pouring a large 4oz swathe of liquor into a tall glass with ice and setting each of us a small 200ml bottle of tonic to be poured at our leisure. After setting his tray back on the bar, the waiter returns with a small plate of Sour Patch Kids. We deposit a few of them into our drinks and let them sink through the liquid to the bottom.
“My dad’s dying,” Maga confesses. “I’ve been on the phone all day.”
I don’t know what to say, and so say the only thing I can think of, “I’m really sorry to hear about that. I hope he gets better soon.”
“Nah. Don’t say that, Joseph. He lived a shitty life. What’s happening to him now is a result of years and years of not caring for himself. He drank and smoked too much, and he still eats terrible. He might die any moment.”
“Will you leave the Camino to go to him if he does,” I dumbly ask.
“I just hope I can make these last couple of weeks before anything bad happens,” she said bothered.
I guess the man had inconvenienced her life too many times throughout the years. Maga seemed reserved and cold about the whole thing. Changing the topic we added a few more chapters to our manifesto, 40 Days of Tortilla, catching the laughing bug and making philosophical jokes about our bodies, the Camino, life, death and the drowning gummy bears laying lifeless at the bottom of our Gins, soon to be decapitated by our guillotine teeth.
“Did you guys sleep at all the other night in La Isla?” Cici asks barely containing her laughter due to recalling the insanity of the previous night in the dorm. We were all so relieved to have hotels and private rooms for the night.
“Ni coño! Not one fucking bit!” Maga replies. “And the Frenchman? What was up with him? He’s crazy!”
“Johnny said he didn’t know where he was.” I say.
“He told me he was a French soldier in the Algerian war and was condemned to hell for all he’d done.” Maga says.
“He told me he was going to buy a horse in Villaviciosa and go over the mountain on the Camino Primitivo and then sail to America from Finisterre.” Cici adds as we all laugh with a roar. I get up to smoke a spliff outside the seated area, but the waiter lets me stay,
“No one here but y’all and us. Fuma si quieres.”
It was pleasant, and with such sad news as the imminent death of a father, the superficiality of the playful conversation was welcomed by all. When the girls returned to their hotel, I walked the streets a little while longer, smoking my good-nite spliff. I thought what it would feel like if my dad were dead. I assumed it wouldn’t be too much different than it is now. I wished I’d been as smart as Bob Dylan and just told everyone my parents were dead from the get-go. It would have saved a lot of trouble not explaining the story over and over for the last 30 years. Being disowned meant I was pretty much dead to him. Here was that compliance again. Forever going behind someone. He still had total control. Not a day went by that I didn’t see his foaming lips and contorted face giving me senseless lectures about things he chose not to do. He appeared in my mind’s eye like Louis Zamparini’s torturing nightmares in Unbroken.
I felt some anger. Was it my rage machines returning? No, this felt different. More controlled. Anger is good, I think. Anger can tell me when something is wrong. What was wrong? What could I fix here? What was actually within my control? I could stop thinking about him. Stop giving power to his reality. I know what happened. I know who I am. Why let a man who left my life 32 years ago have any more control over it?
I paced the city and had an uncontrollable urge to go into the unsightly Burger King by my hotel and order a double-double with large fries and Coke. I refrained and retired up the elevator to my room tucking myself under the meticulously made bed. The air circulated the city from the wide-open mouth like bay. Some of the wafts made their way into my room. I snored them in with deep lung filling breaths and slept like a baby. I’d walked 24 miles.
