"Love In The Mud" Part 3 - A Camino Love Story

Posing for a picture before dinner in Castrogeriz.

I went back to our little hotel that night in Castrogeriz, pondering what had transpired at dinner.  Could I actually like this guy after only one day of walking together and a simple French phrase uttered over a menu peregrino (which he kept shaking his head and laughing about, not believing a guide book could have a name as ridiculous as Miam Miam Dodo)?

A quick anecdote about the aforementioned hotel... When my mother asked the proprietor if we could have an extra blanket for the night (being Spring, all furnaces, we quickly realized as we put wool socks on to go to bed our first week of walking, had been temporarily shut down for the season), the man refused, telling her he would bet us 1000 Euros we wouldn't need it.  So as I lay in bed shivering myself to sleep, I couldn't help but look forward to the next day's walk.  We hadn't made solid plans to hike together again, but Hannes and Juliano had mumbled something in between goodnight hugs about trying to meet at 7am in front of Rick's albergue; although our Cali gang were notorious early risers, and the boys weren't so sure they could rise to the occasion.  Oh, and that 1000 Euros the proprietor bet my mom?  The blanket-hoarder never paid up.

As the Cali gang gathered in front of Rick's albergue the next morning, the boys were nowhere to be seen.  Normally, Rick was about 5 to 10 minutes late in joining the rest of us, which would have bought Hannes and Juliano some time to meet up, but low and behold Rick was right smack on time, waiting for us with a smile and a morning song (this one was about trekking poles I think?)  So I shuffled my feet around a bit and slowed my pace to see if perhaps that head of shaggy blond hair would appear from behind a stone corner, but alas, no mud-walker to be seen.  Red and I chatted away on the trail, instead, with me pretending total indifference... 'Oh they'll catch up maybe.  Whatever.  No biggie.  Was nice to meet them.  Great guys.  Yada yada yada blah blah blah.'  Blackheart was in full effect, spinning a web of lies a kilometer long.

Meanwhile, we had a huge mountain to climb, and my sick lungs were screaming in agony.  During one stop to catch my breath, I spied the Belgian/Portuguese duo below, a kilometer or so behind.  Sweat poured down my face in sheets, and I was breathing like a Sumo wrestler after running a 5k.  Oh no, he wasn't going to see me like this!  My treaded feet flew up the mountain, hoping to reach the top in time to put myself back together like a pilgrim Humpty Dumpty.  There I stood at the top (finally!), raising my hands to take a picture of the view below, when in reality I was lifting them up to dry my armpits in the icy morning breeze.  Have I confirmed to you my sex symbol status yet?  The pictures were beautiful though.  The sky over the distant hillside village below was gray except for rays of sunlight spilling over the top like a crown of gold.  Gorgeous.  (Hannes' came out the best, so will try to persuade him to share when he writes his version.)

A well-deserved 'top of the hill' snack.

Then, suddenly, there the boys were.  My sweat-stache had nearly dried up by that point, and my breathing had slowed to a somewhat normal state, so I made my way over, gave a casual hello (which was literally all my lungs could squeak out) and joined them for another day's walk.  And guess what?  Turns out this Belgian was even more amazing than I had first deduced.  You see, shortly before I left for the Camino, I had made a mental list of all the things I wanted in a partner and all the things I didn't.  Let's call it a 'Hit & Miss' compilation of every man I'd dated over the last 15 years.  Okay, let's say 25 years because there was that boy Davy in preschool who had really bad breath when he kissed me on the playground, and bad breath had definitely made the 'Miss' list from then on out.  (Sorry, Davy, if you're reading this.  You were young.  I'm sure your bad breath phase has since passed, as has my horridly frightful permed hair stage.)

As Hannes and I walked with Juliano and Red, I watched in amazement - 'stupefied' is really the term that best sums up my state of being - as Hannes checked off every last 'Hit' item on my list.  He was patient, sincere, had a great sense of humor, was spiritual but not strictly religious, friendly to anyone and everyone, adventurous, a movie lover (as a film major, that is a must) and had the same seize life with both hands gypsy heart I did.  The man even drove a Campervan!  A modern day gypsy caravan, which I already pictured myself riding in if I must admit.  And he adored his border collie, Luka, so my father and step-mom back home would love him.  If this was a "3 Stooges" movie I would be rubbing my eyes and blinking heavily as if to clear the hallucination before me.  A few more miles, and it became clear he also lacked the items in my 'Miss' list.  He didn't smoke.  Didn't drink much (although he assured me he could make a mean mojito - plus 2).  Wasn't lazy or judgemental.  Wasn't shallow - i.e. he liked women who were natural and curvy (seriously, he's an angel sent from heaven right?)

As we got closer to town, we sat and waited by a canal for Juliano and Red to catch up.  An hour later Red came whizzing by as if her butt was on fire.  A frantic Juliano then informed us that ticks had attacked her while she was using the bushes (note to future pilgrims: when choosing pee-estate, bushes are like long abandoned houses up for sale... you have no clue who or what has made themselves at home inside.)  And that's how I came to guard Red from onlookers under a highway overpass as she pulled down her pants to check for ticks... But that's another story.

Actually, this town of Fromista was ripe with good trail anecdotes, including the fact that as I lay down in bed to rest up for chores and dinner (yes, as a pilgrim you must rest in order to be able to complete the physical act of eating), I discovered the sheets were soaking wet!  The little old ladies who owned the joint had no idea what could have happened (the sheets and not the comforter!  Is that even possible?!), and gave my mom and I a huge room overlooking the main town plaza.  We decided in the future to spill water on the bed if our room was too small.  (If you have ever crammed yourself into a room the size of a coffin after walking 14 miles, you  understand how morality shifts ever so slightly in order for a pilgrim to survive.)

Red & I in our Juliet balconies in Fromista.

The boys had planned to meet up for dinner, once again, and as I leaned against my Juliet balcony purveying the pilgrims in the plane tree plaza below - writing postcards, sharing foot abnormalities, drinking cold Spanish beer - I spied Hannes in the distance with that kind smile of his, chatting away with fellow pilgrims, and I thought to myself, 'I guess Romeos really do exist.'

To be continued...