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| An soon-to-be muddy Meseta. |
First, I want to say 'thank you' to everyone who has read this love story and told me to hurry up and finish it. Now that's motivation!
So where were we? Ah, yes, calling a complete stranger a show off. You know how in the movies when a couple have their "cute meet" (i.e. their first run-in) and BAM! they stare longingly into one another's sparkly eyes, and you just know they're going to end up together? Well, that didn't happen. For one, my eyes were glazed over from the cold medicine, so even if a sparkle was happening, Hannes wasn't going to see it. Secondly, it wasn't a look of love he shot my way, but a look of... keen interest. One eyebrow raised in a sideways glance (a look I've come to adore... I know, gag!), he laughed a bit and then asked me what in the world I was talking about. I explained to him my envy of his quick mud stride to which he replied, "Well that's because I'm Belgian."
Okay, so all I knew of Belgium at this point was that they made some killer chocolate. In fact, he was probably a good ally to make on the trail because he must have pralines tucked away in his backpack somewhere. On the trail, chocolate is fuel. And the fastest way to a pilgrim's heart. (That and the offer of a foot massage, which no one does because our feet look about as appealing as
THIS.) So when he gave me that sphinx-like answer I was perplexed. What does being Belgian have to do with it? Do they have webbed feet? Is mud wrestling a national sport? The answer is, of course, much more obvious. Turns out, they have more than their fair share of rain and mud, which over the coarse of three decades turned this cute shaggy blond with glasses and a kind smile into some kind of mud Wunderkind.
The three of us began to talk, laughing about our disgusting situation, while Red and I desperately tried to keep up with him, following Hannes' every step ,which he assured us would get us through the muck alive. He was our Meseta hero. Twenty minutes later we met the fourth member of our soon-to-be pack, Juliano from Portugal. [Note to my single lady friends: If you are looking to date a hot Portuguese man who loves the outdoors and traveling, with his own house and pool and who happens to be the purest gentleman I've ever met, then book a plane ticket, and I'll let him know you're on your way.] For awhile the four of us chatted away in a cacophony of accents and broken English. I'm not referring to Hannes, who speaks perfect English, but to myself, who had walked nearly two months without much talking and could no longer seem to form proper sentences... "Yes, I American. Mom and me walk long time. Not bad feet. Cafe con leche por favor."
A bit further along, after eating chocolate croissants together and sipping coffee in a tiny bar bursting to the brim with wet pilgrims - the floor sopping wet, two people sharing each bar stool - Hannes and I, in a fever of conversation, broke away from the pack and found ourselves passing through the now slightly less muddy Spanish plains alone. At this point, I was so disgusting (muddy body, greasy face, dry nose, watering eyes, frizzy hair... I mean, a real sight) that flirting with him was the last thing on my mind. There was no way this guy would take an interest in me, so why not put all my cards on the table? The ex-boyfriend/s card. The mouth like a sailor card. The worst dates of my life card. The sarcastic, cynical, crass sense of humor card. The big dreams card. The failures card... I mean, it was ALL out there, trailing through the mud right along with us. And with every card I put down, Hannes sent his own flying onto the table. 'Oh yeah, you're going to be totally honest and open? Well take that!'
Never had I shared like this with someone I'd known only a few hours. Maybe I had never shared like this with
anyone, in fact. Sure, you tell people you just met the pretty stuff, but not the grizzled, haggard, soggy, stinky, expired stuff. Not unless you're at some self help meeting. Yet, here I was, dishing out the good with the bad and listening to his own cornucopia of ups and downs, as if we were long lost friends and really had some catching up to do. Most importantly, the man laughed at my jokes. +2 points.
Later when Juliano and Red caught up with us, and by that I mean Hannes and I waited by the side of the road for an hour (sorry, Red, it's true!), Juliano was shocked to see that Hannes had allowed me to walk inside the road, rather than protecting me by having me walk curbside. Frankly, I could care less but quite enjoyed watching Hannes squirm, trying to fish for an excuse. "But women in Belgium don't expect that!" Or how about this delightful quip, "Well, I do that for my dog!" Oh. So now I had been relegated to less important than his dog. -1 points. Only -1 because I was already somewhat used to this situation, seeing as though my dad has barely a picture of me in his house, while my "dog sisters," as he calls them, can be found prominently displayed in about twenty frames.
Once we got into the village and found mom, who had taken a taxi to catch up with us since in true Spanish bus fashion, they decided not to come that day (why drive today when you can drive tomorrow?!), Hannes made sure to make proper dinner plans with us. That, after helping us find a place to stay for the night when the first albergue was full and Lizzie was beginning her "hotel with private bathroom" chant. Hmmm, maybe this mud walker was a gentleman after all? Yet, still I was looking only through friendship eyes. Sure he was cute. And funny. And sincere. And lord those arms were nice... really nice. But romances don't start in the Meseta mud. Okay, so before dinner I did bust out my miniature perfume and mascara that my friend Jeffrey at Chanel had given me in case of an emergency, but that didn't mean anything... Did it?
That night at the dinner table, though, things changed. A complete 180 of my perception. My romcom BAM! moment, sparkly eyes and all. 'Why?', you ask (I hate to assume you did, but go with it...) Did he recite poetry? Shower me in compliments? Admit he was royalty? Reach across the table for my hand? Tuck a flower behind my ear and plant a magical kiss on my cheek? Um, no. Although those all sound like lovely gestures. And he did reveal to me a lot of amazing qualities that night: his intelligence, patience, kindness, depth, lighthearted spirit. Yet all these things didn't have the same life-altering power of three solitary words. Three words in a breezy French accent that made my heart beat fast and my palms sweat and my blackheart say to me, "Damn, girl!" 'Those words?' you ask (there I go speaking for you again).
"Miam miam dodo."
Yup, the three words that make up the title of our French Camino guidebook. Yup, three words that sound like a child's cartoon or the name of a muppet. Yup, three words that are the opposite of sexy, even in French. Yup, three words that translate to "Yum yum nighty night." There's no accounting for taste. Who knows why they had such an effect on me, but there in that moment this Caligirl, as he came to call me, was a goner. The Camino path had shifted and led me to him... the one.
To be continued...
