On the Third Day

The Lord rose on the third day, and God willing, so will I. Thursday morning will be the last walking day, finishing up with a mild 20k as the gates of Santiago de Compostela open and I sink my palm into the handprint on the column at the entrance of the cathedral. It´s been literally up and down for the past few days as the path and my attitude rises and falls.

I´ve fallen in and out of some remarkable groups of people and shared meals and war stories with people in a pidgeon dialect of whatever language is best understood between Italians, Eastern Block, Spanish, and you-name-it. This afternoon was barrel of laughs with a suprisingly homogenious group of Spaniards(minus moi) over pulpo(octopus) and Ribadeira, a local wine. It´s been a nice balance of conversation and intense isolation over whatever book I´ve been able to scavenge along the way.

My injured knee has been cooperating nicely for the last five days, although it hurts like hell various moments/hours of the day. I need three more days out of it, and I hope it holds out. We have little conversations that go something like this:

ME "Well, how are you doing this morning as we start off our 25k day?"
KNEE "I fucking hurt, if you haven´t noticed, but you still keep making me walk ridiculous distances."
ME "I hear you, love, but we have to keep going until we reach the next cowshit town in Galicia where I promise I´ll get you a nice cafe con leche and let you rest for at least 15 minutes."
KNEE "Ooh. I do like those, but, hey, wait a minute! Then you´re going to make me go again! But maybe if you get me a beer the next time I´ll do my best. Maybe."

I won´t bore you with the rest, but it goes on and on in endless bargaining sessions that have ended in bus rides to the next town in the past. So I´m a little edgy because you´re supposed to walk the last 100k if you want the real experience. (I´m down to 65k if you must know.)

Anyway, thanks for the wonderful comments to my last blog-on-the-run entry. I laughed out loud as read your responses, and you better believe I´m calling your bluff when it comes to the chow. The spiciest thing I´ve eaten so far is the dish called Pimientos al Padrino that consists of roasted green peppers and some of them are hot, but not all! It´s like a little game to play while having tapas. I got a "hot" one that almost made me blink. Really hard core, Spaniards.

Here´s a poem that came to me while walking one morning.

Where Old Men Meet

It is always early morning where old men meet.
Absent words with wives
appear from thin air,
and suddenly there is time
and pretty young women
who find them
irresistible.

Coffee, bitter as the waitress who pours
flows eternally into the stained mug,
and if we are smart we all know
soon
we will sit on the stool
next to the cane
that rests precariously
on the counter´s
edge.