Nothing beats that first-morning coffee. It’s a ritual I don’t necessarily need, but I absolutely want. A cigarette with my coffee and ten minutes to mentally wake up. It’s already bad enough that I wake up at 5:30 AM on vacation just to avoid walking too long in the heat. But even worse? That it’s a whole hour and a half of walking before I can get to my first coffee.
Andrea walks faster than me in the morning. My body and mind are in a completely different world at that time—I simply can’t function that early. That’s why he was already ahead in town, while Tanguy, a French guy, was behind me. The unspoken rule is that you only choose cafés directly on the path—not five meters to the left or right—because you’re only looking straight ahead. I stopped at the first café and checked if Andrea was inside. He wasn’t. He sent me his location via MSN, but for some reason, I just couldn’t get to him. The further I walked, the more the Google Maps dot moved away from him instead of closer. I tried going back, then forward again. Eventually, I just kept going forward because I was so pissed off that I couldn’t be bothered anymore. Walking back to the first café was out of the question—I would have had to climb uphill.
To make matters worse, the Spanish had thrown another fiesta the night before, meaning most cafés were still closed in the morning. So, after seven kilometres, I still hadn’t gotten my much-needed coffee. I checked the app to see how far the next town was (or, more accurately, the next coffee stop). Three kilometres. My vision briefly darkened, and I continued walking, fuelled by pure rage.
I was not happy.
I messaged Andrea: “You screwed up my first coffee. I’m going to kill you today. I’m pissed off, and you better stay away from me because this won’t end well. I don’t want to talk to you.” Look, I know it’s just coffee. But we’re talking about THE FIRST COFFEE. The second or third? Whatever. But the first one? That’s a must. Ivan Cankar[1] would back me up on this.
When I finally reached the next town, the first two cafés were—of course—closed. I messaged Andrea again: “If I don’t get coffee in this town, start digging a grave. And not for me.” Luckily for him, the next café was open. But when he caught up to me, I still didn’t want to talk to him. “Just keep walking if you know what’s good for you. You do not want to meet Angry Tina. Even I don’t want to be around her.” He laughed and walked ahead. Smart move.
When we reached our destination, Andrea wanted to keep walking since we had arrived early. But I had different plans for ending the Camino.
Later, when we got to our accommodation, I regretted not continuing. It was a disaster. I decided not to even shower—I was still cleaner than that bathroom, even after hours of walking through dust. So, I just washed up quickly in the sink.
The volunteer at the hostel noticed my headphones and asked what I was listening to. I told him I’d been listening to the same song on repeat for three days and that I probably needed a psychologist.
Later, Tanguy, Andrea, and I sat apart from the others, each lost in our music. Then, the guy who had asked about my music earlier sat down with us and insisted we listen to his playlist. I couldn’t believe someone could have such bad taste in music—yet he was completely in love with it. Unbelievable. Having spent 12 years in a relationship with a DJ, I knew damn well that what he was playing was a disgrace to electronic music. So, I just put on my sunglasses to hide my suffering—I didn’t want to offend him. I needed a roof over my head, after all, so I bit my tongue.
Later, we went into town. It had weird energy and was filthy. We decided to risk food poisoning for dinner. I ordered two full meals—spaghetti and a giant steak with fries—because I wanted to fall asleep as fast as possible and leave this place in the morning.
The night was terrible. The other hikers partied until 11 PM, while we were in bed by nine.
The next morning, Andrea and Tanguy cursed me out for picking such a shitty hostel. Oh well. Everyone gets to mess up sometimes. I made up for it by buying them coffee and breakfast at the first open café. And just like that, we were all friends again.
Back in 2016, this stage was the hardest one for me...
For someone who loves long walks, there’s nothing worse than starting your morning in pain, walking in pain, going to bed in pain, and then repeating the cycle the next day. Of course, painkillers help, but you can’t overdo it—they’re bad for your stomach. I usually rely on home remedies instead. But when you use them every day, your body adapts, and they stop working. Then, you just suffer like an animal in a cage.
In 2016, I was in so much pain that we had to stop after just 20 kilometres. I simply couldn’t go any further. But we had to find the first available accommodation. That day, it took me over two hours to walk just five kilometres. Normally, I’d do it in less than an hour.
You can’t measure pain, but I can tell you it felt like someone hammering a nail into my foot with a sledgehammer—each hit stronger than the last. I broke down crying a few times that day. And a few other days, too. Calling a taxi wasn’t an option—we were in the middle of fucking nowhere. No buses, no way out. You just keep going. I was this close to hitchhiking with a guy on a horse.
But I don’t speak Spanish, and I wasn’t in the mood to negotiate with body language or sign language. When I finally reached the hostel, I was so exhausted I couldn’t even make my bed, which is required if you want to sleep there. I just collapsed on the floor in front of it and passed out for three hours.
When I woke up, my bed was made. Thank you, Tina, for doing that for me. One less thing to worry about after a brutal day. After that, I grabbed a beer to numb the pain and my bad mood for a few hours because I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any better. I still had 240 kilometres left to walk to Santiago.
It never got easier—just different.
I walked with that pain for three weeks.
On this journey, everyone is the blacksmith of their suffering.
[1] Ivan Cankar - the Slovenian writer, who is also the author of the short story “A Cup of Coffee” (“Skodelica kave” in Slovenian).
