Žoka also decided to attempt suicide from Santiago to Lugo. I met this young and lovely girl from Hungary yesterday in one of the bars in Santiago. While we were chatting, she told me she had torn ligaments, but still wanted to start walking toward the end of the world—Finisterre—the next day. Being spontaneous on this year’s Camino is nearly impossible due to the global Covid situation. I told her that too, but she already knew—she’d been left without a bed several times and had to walk extra kilometres just to find a place to sleep. It didn’t teach her a lesson, or maybe spontaneity was more important to her than comfort. But this year, spontaneity is practically dead—limited numbers in hostels, only one person allowed per bunk bed, social distancing… A pretty dumb rule, also used in our country. There’d still be 20 people in a room, so yeah—you can still catch the virus, just with fewer people around.
Over drinks, I advised her to call ahead and book a bed—otherwise she’d be stuck walking even further, especially since the next albergue after the one I was heading to was quite far. And her legs were definitely not ready for marathon dancing. But like any proper young soul, she didn’t listen to me. And the next day, panic hit—everything was fully booked. She messaged me halfway through the route asking if I knew of any free beds. I replied that I didn’t, but I could call the albergue I was headed to and ask if anything opened up. The owner told me everything was full, but if I was okay with it, Žoka could sleep on the top bunk above me. I had no issue with that. I just knew she’d be totally wrecked after today’s long walk with her mangled legs, and the last thing she needed was extra stress. When she finally arrived, she was a cripple. A 52 km battle on the Camino. Her legs were in such bad shape, not even Ibuprofen helped. Since I hadn’t packed any adult candy in my backpack this year, I asked if she had enough to spare me two—just in case I turned into a cripple the next day myself from the miles we’d walked.