The French woman really proved herself yesterday, even though at first it seemed like our interaction was heading toward a minor drama. When we finally arrived at the accommodation, she had a thousand and one questions – are you hungry, why aren’t you eating, do you need cream, are you sure you’re not hungry, why put ice in your water… I felt like I’d landed in an interrogation room, not a place of rest.
But after walking, I only need one thing – one hour of silence. Somewhere between a chair, a couch, and zen. I politely asked her for some peace and quiet so I could write my blog before laziness attacked. She respected my wish (thank the Almighty) and went to take a shower.
Later, once we’d both completed our daily rituals, she asked me where I was headed the next day. I told her I was aiming for more than 30 km – the exact destination would be decided by the trail itself. She takes a different approach: one day, one stage, because anything more is already “too hot and too exhausting.” Still, she wanted to join me – if I’d “take her along,” like we were going on a school trip.
No problem, I said, but she should know: when I walk, I don’t chatter. I like silence, music in my ears, and hanging out with the internal gallery of people in my head – parents, friends, the deceased, they all show up. And yes, we have a great time. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s my meditation. My church.
She loves actual churches, but I’ve counted enough of those. The only one that impressed me was the Sagrada Família, and even that was more because it looks like something out of a dream after three glasses of wine. Museums? Guggenheim – that’s it. The rest doesn’t move me.
We agreed to start the next day together and see where the wind takes us.
The night was miraculous. Two fans worked like personal angels. For the first time, I slept like someone had cast a spell – in the best way. In the morning, we left at 6:00, while it was still dark. She doesn’t like walking in the dark because apparently, yellow arrows refuse to cooperate despite the flashlight.
After the first ten minutes of walking, I elegantly stepped into a puddle of motor oil. My shoes, previously grey, turned black overnight. It was almost artistic. First thought: “I’m going to kill someone.” Second thought: “Well, at least my sneakers are well-oiled now – maybe the day will go smoothly.” And it did.
Pain? Apparently stayed in bed. And I absolutely didn’t send it my current location. The trail was varied, a lot of asphalt, which always puts me in a good mood. I was bouncing along, the French woman… not so much. My pace didn’t suit her – or her muscles. So I knew we’d probably part ways in Melide.
And we did. We sat down for a coffee, where I gratefully shook her hand, kissed her cheek, and gave her a hug. She continued to museums and churches, I continued on the road with bass in my ears.
Around the bend – a lake! I almost screamed: “Swimming!!!” Headfirst jump, splashing, total bliss. The lake wasn’t cold, but it was wet and just right. Then I treated myself to a beer – why not, only 9 km to go. Easy.
Plan? 33 km. Result? 37. Asphalt, good music, and my brain launched into the stratosphere – in rhythm. The heat? Nothing special. Me and my world. I danced and sang like the headliner of the Camino Festival.
And then – shock. I checked the app – 6 km to go. Great. I walked, walked, sure I’d covered 3. Checked again – now it said 7 km?! Bravo, Tina. Seriously, must you always challenge the universe? My phone became my GPS for the rest of the way. No more trusting my intuition.
On the way, one bar saved me – two Coca-Colas and ice for my ankle. Cryotherapy + caffeine = rocket fuel. The last 3 km were glorious.
When I arrived in the village, I went straight to a bar for lemonade and a bag of ice for my feet. They deserve all the love in the world. Shower could wait.
So I walked 37 km (not 33, but who’s counting?) and gained 325 meters of elevation. Tired? Nope. Winner of the day? Me. Costs? Meh, not stressing about that today.
