beginning
I saw the old woman as I descended down the mountain toward one of the villages. She grinned a wide toothless grin. Responding with a nod and returning the smile, I continued on. Minutes later, I encountered a fountain with a saint encased in plexiglass and surrounded by coins. A shell was plastered above the display and a sign hung over the water to inform passerby that it was potable. Dropping some change into the offering, I fumbled to make a sign of the cross, almost second-nature. I filled up the bottle, took a long gulp, and re-filled my bottle again. It was cold; and refreshing; and as I turned to admire the view, I saw the woman from before also admiring a view, except in my direction.
“Esta fria.” She confirmed the water temperature loudly and I agreed. There was a pause as we both just looked at each other curiously. Without any other sort of introduction, she told me not to walk at night, or rather yelled it. I didn’t understand her between the lack of teeth and strong country accent. “What did you say?” I asked. “Are you deaf like me, too?” She inquired. “No!” I yelled back. She continued. “And don’t walk at night. And stay off the highway. And don’t go the wrong way. They have markers that help you. And watch out for the wolves.” There was more, but I couldn’t make it all out. All I could do was assure her that I had some good information for the route and I promised her I would avoid the highway, wolves, and wouldn’t walk at night. “Good, son.” She replied more quietly, almost to herself, satisfied. “Bon Camino!” She yelled towards me as I walked on thanking her for the advice with a smile and a wave.
middle
Later that day, the woman at the hostal gave me the new booklet after asking me to fill out my name on its front. She couldn’t read the penmanship on the registration card and asked me to pronounce it. “All the same.” She shrugged. “I’ll just call you Yankee.” It seemed hospitable enough to me. At least I was getting a nickname around the place…
end
In the distance, I can hear cars zooming along a freeway. Dogs barking, roosters crowing, geese quacking–my plastic bag picnic dinner is ruffling against leaves losing battle with wind. Colder and colder, the sun sets behind the highest mointain. Even the Spanish rioja can’t seem to warm me enough any more, no matter how much of the bottle’s contents disappear.
Fingers too cold to write, I lose myself in thought of what, or perhaps who, would be encountered on the path ahead…
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