If this is my last post you’re reading, that means Urša and I are still at the Jazz Festival in San Sebastian.
By the way, my relationship with jazz is slicing my wrists open, vertically. A totally unimportant fact, I know. But one needs to give music a chance, so I went to get fooled again with jazz in my ears.
If you decide for this trip because of music, all roads lead to music. Last year, the Portuguese Coastal Camino led me to an EDM festival with a dean of some esteemed English school. It was the day I used all the swear words known to humankind, since my original plan was to walk 30 kilometers. But since all the hiker hostels were full, I had to walk extra five just to find a place to rest. Five kilometers on top of the previous thirty is like driving through a winding road for 400 km and when you think you’ve reached the destination, someone tells you to drive for another 150 kilometers. A total fucking rage-fest. And to reach that albergo (which is just an Italian way of saying hiker hostel), I had to drag myself on all four, since my legs were bust. And because cafes open way too late for us backpackers, I ended up waterless. When I finally reached the albergo, I saw a trough full of water next to the entrance. I almost cried of happiness as I took off my shoes and socks and plunged my feet into that trough. My private pool. I might exaggerate, but my feet were smoking. My veins dilated due to humidity and they made me worry I’d have to quit this game. But the capo of the albergo told me it’s normal since humidity was especially bitchy that year. I was so exhausted I booked two nights just for my feet to recuperate. He said it was no problemo if I had no problemo sharing the room with twelve ravers.
I laughed and asked him if he has cold beer. I took a shower and popped one open. I took a few sips when a wild English dean walked in. A dean on the clock, a guitar player in his free time. Naturally we got along instantly. He was drained as well and just wanted a good night’s sleep. Our plan worked until the evening came and with it the ravers. Well-rested, high-spirited and party-craving. All of them, except a couple who offered us tickets. It was like telling a fish to go back into the water. So, we followed the band of ravers to the dancing floor and danced the leg pain away.
When we returned to the hostel with a cab, everyone hit the sack, and I hit the road. I had some coffee first (I’m not a monster) and had a chat with a sheep that decided to keep me company. It was the first morning sans humidity and the sun kindly caressed my face before 7AM. Walking wasn’t mission impossible in such conditions. So, there I was, doing another 25 kilometers, no sleep and no rest, praying I wouldn’t have to do extra miles. If music does its job, humans are capable of anything. I can always say, smiling, that I got a few life lessons from an esteemed English dean, who also said: “The only real school is the one outside institutions.”
I’d like to thank my English professor, a native, who lived and breathed English humor, which I still adore. Granted, she was a demanding bitch of a professor; small, chubby and black-haired. She would enter the classroom, walking to her desk, lifting her big tits with her hands and put them on the desk. “Good morning, everyone,” she would say.
But her attitude paid off. The key that opens the world is learning languages.
Anyway, if you don’t hear from me in five days after this post, it probably means I’ve wrapped myself in rocks and committed suicide in the Atlantic Ocean. Just kidding. I’m here for the company and the fun times. These memories should keep me afloat when/if everything sinks into the ocean.