I visited Santiago four times in 45 days this year. I haven’t visited my hometown that many times. I have to fix that, since going to the market every other Saturday is a must. The town is beautiful and just the right size. Everything is within walking distance. People take their pigs and their mice for a walk here, which is better than falling A.C. units for breakfast and free-falling elevators for lunch. The reason for this visit was my departure, but I had to visit Madrid first. I had seven hours to spend before the airport bus left, so I spent my last hours in Santiago shopping and getting a diploma for the completed Northern path. When I came to the counter where diplomas are issued, I gave my “passport” to the lady and it looked as if I just pulled it from where sun don’t shine. All fucked up and not at all in one peace. She laughed as most of the travelers keep their passports in neat plastic wraps. I told her there was a battle. I got three diplomas this year; the second in Finisterre and the third in Muxia. The real diploma, however, is forever stored in my heart. You can’t lose or destroy that one. I took them anyway. You never know, maybe I’ll attach them to my CV.
I was cranky on that day, which is a given: it was time to leave and meet the real world. The town felt especially suffocating. When I imagined myself stepping on my home soil, I even lost the appetite for the farewell beer I had planned with Polona (we didn’t share the flight). So I went back to the albergo and prepared everything necessary. Anxiety came, an awful feeling you somehow forgot. They let me wait for the bus in the albergo, for free. The bus left at midnight and I had my flight to Madrid early in the morning, at 7 AM. But anxiety made me go for that beer with Polona. She’s a fun girl and it’s better to laugh with her than watch the clock in agony. Then, take the 10 PM bus to the airport and spend the night there. I admit, this was one of the best changed plans on El Camino. The ride to the airport was full of surprises, if we ignore the creepiness of bus and train stations at that hour (or any hour).
When I boarded the bus, I saw Pablo from Madrid, who kept me company for the first two days after I bid farewell to Urša. We met at a bus station along the Path when we waited for the rain to stop. None of us had a raincoat. He said: “Did you forget it as well?” An entertaining lad who doesn’t take no for an answer when beer is in question. We drank two since rain didn’t plan on stopping. I called him Picasso (due to his name) and he didn’t mind. In fact, he sort of liked it. He’s 41 and he teaches architecture. One of the reasons that was his fifth time was the environment and the structures. The other reason was fun. We stuck together for two days until he fell ill and fell behind. Since no phone numbers or “app contacts” were exchanged, we couldn’t stay in touch. I kind of forgot about him, but there he was, on the bus, out of the blue, going to Madrid and apparently on the same flight as me.
His plan differed from mine quite a bit: exit the bus ten kilometers before the airport and walk, stopping at a traveler’s bar. These bars are small watering holes that you hope never to become popular because they’d lose all their charm. Since his idea seemed better than mine, I joined him. There was plenty of time and there was no chance I was going to miss the flight. Seven hours for ten kilometers? We can do that. It was my first and my last night walk on El Camino, meaning it was the best. Go with the flow! There were a few hikers in that bar, also going to the airport. We had three things in common: The Path, the Destination, and going home. It’s hard leaving for the airport when interesting stories are being told.
But even a baby in a womb knows there comes a time to get out, so here was another place to say goodbye to and march towards the airport. We planned my day in Madrid on the way, a bit tipsy. My primary plan, before I met Picasso, was to see the landmarks near the airport. He had a better plan: sightseeing with his friends who were picking him up. And by sightseeing I mean visiting bars and restaurants. What’s more fun: a quick visit of random landmarks or quality time with the boys from Madrid? Silly question, I know. That’s why I’m asking.
Crazy and fun things rarely happen in museums and similar institutions. Since I was alone in an unknown city and I barely knew Picasso, I had some second thoughts. It all could be just a lie and things could go wrong in a blink of an eye. You don’t know what’s behind the corner. But then that first person plural woke up in my head, the one that writes my life following the principle of three seconds. That means I have to make up my mind in three seconds. First: “Sure!”, second: “The fuck is wrong with you?”, and third: “Fuck that, YOLO!” So the afternoon in Madrid was pretty sophisticated and they even drove me back to the airport. What I like about Spaniards is that when one meets another, they interact as if they’ve known each other for years, as if they’re great friends, even for five minutes. You won’t see that in Slovenia, except in a club.
Well, if I found Barcelona’s airport huge, the Madrid one could be compared to the tiniest town in the world, Hum. Another challenge before I land in Italy and deliver myself to my parents, who are waiting there to take me home. Finally safe in my bubble.
When you’re on a bus or on a train and you’re presented with an option: face the driving direction or face the opposite. Which one do you pick? My theory is such: the one facing the driving direction is facing the future; the other one is facing the past. Which one is you?