Almost every albergo has a washing and drying machine. You can easily wash your garbs regularly. You can wash them by hand or throw them into a machine, but do as you please, your backpack will smell like hell due to your violent perspiration. You get used to everything, including the stench. It becomes you and all you can do is making fun of it.
Then, there’s an Italian guy we met in Muxia. He only started his Path the previous day from Santiago. While Camilla and I were enjoying the octopus and roasted hot peppers, that dude took Camilla’s backpack and stuffed it into a locker. When we came back, she realized her backpack isn’t where it was supposed to be: next to her bed. As we were searching for it, the Italian guy approached us and asked us if we’re looking for the backpack (in Italian). We told him yes, and the asshole said vehemently that the thing stank so much he had to put it in the locker, because he couldn’t stand it. When I heard Camilla’s translation, I thought it was too much. I started scratching my forehead and since I know myself well enough, I turned around and headed to the terrace to have some beer. The only thing I know in Italian are swearwords like de puta madre and va fan culo. Oh, and the international language of smacking the fuck out of the bitch. What kind of a man is that? While I was having a hop-based beverage, Camilla talked to him in her language a floor below. When she joined me, she told me the S.O.B. is an informatics engineer moving into the field of Sociology. He reportedly decided to join the Path in order to meet the pilgrims. LOOOOOOOL. What a nice way to start.
LET US PRAY!!!
When we got back, I realized my backpack was gone. WHAT THE FUCK? And what do you know, the mofo told Camilla (quite unsensitively, might I add) that it wasn’t her backpack that stank, but mine! Camilla, my personal interpreter, knew me, her personal trainer, and she realized that when the translation gets to me, things could end badly. I’m temperamental, so I told Camilla to translate this: My childhood friend was evidently incredibly familiar with a basketball and a hoop. But he was also intrigued by a guitar. His parents hired an instructor, who unlike my friend, did not exactly enjoyed the lessons. He suffered immensely, but he loved his life and didn’t plan on cancelling it on behalf of those moment of agony. So he asked my friend if he had any other hobbies. The “patient” told him he’s basically the next Michael Jordan when it comes to ball-related activities. Self-confidence included. HAHAHAHAHAHA… The instructor told him: “Stick to the ball:” HAHAHAHAHAHA
Back to the backpack scene: “If you want to survive another day and read the first paragraph of a Sociology textbook, or walk those measly 90 kilometers in four days, keep your fucking hands off my “house”. And again: STICK TO THE INFORMATICS if you’re planning to se what 2019 has in store for you.
“Ah, sugar, ah honey honey,
You are my candy girl…”