On The Camino

Elizabeth from Ireland was my roommate in the Albergue in St. Jean Pied-de-Port. For no reason I’d want to explain, I announced, “I’m seventy-two years old!”  She said, “I’m seventy-three.”  As with quite a few I will meet, the is her second Camino. When she overtakes me 130 kilometers later near Los Arcos, I confess to her I lied about my age. I’m only seventy-one and a half. She tells me she lied too.  She is only seventy-two, but timing her walk to arrive in Santiago on her seventy-third birthday.

Leaving Logrono, I am looking for a bar. A bar here sells beer, wine and spirits, but more importantly, coffee and pintxos.  Pintxos are the northern version of tapas. The coffee is most often in the form of a cortado, a very short, intense, blend of espresso and frothy milk.
Greg from Poland, an intense young man, insists I must have un cortado with him. He is in the Polish navy, walking to Santiago because he is unhappy, and wants a different life. We walk together for several kilometers. He asks me what it is in life that makes one happy.  I tell him that I had a good marriage, and that makes me happy still. It turns out that he has been seeking out and stopping old people and asking them all the same question. I commend his search for truth. He says he will go to Nepal, because there the people have nothing, and they are happy.

I met Daniela from Italy when she had the bunk next to mine in Roncevalles. She speaks no English, and I no Italian, so we do the best we can in Spanish.  She is 56, heavy, and not in good health, so she is walking the Camino to regain her strength. Hedging her bets, she also plans a stop in Lourdes on her way home.

I catch up with her 90 kilometers later in the town of Obanos as I stop for una cervesa and she stops for a cigarette. She tells that her hometown is Bergamo, near Milan.  I remark that Bergamo was the hometown of the character Trufaldino from the 14th-15th century improvised Comedia del ‘Arte.  Trufaldino was the clever young servant who played tricks on his master, an old man.  The master might be el Capitano, miles gloriosus, the cowardly braggart warrior from Spain, Dottore, the learned idiot from Bologna, or Pantalone, the ridiculous senex amans from Venice.  I don’t say it, but this reminds me I must be on my guard against becoming Dottore.

Pantalone, on the other hand, I think I have under control. I have had the good fortune to spend the largest part of my time walking with a couple of lovely young women. My current vulnerability feels to me a good match for theirs. They appear to trust me, and it surprises me a bit, they are right to do so.