Ironically, as the individual days become more important, they start to blend together.
The newness of new new sights and relations at each bend in the road, fades into the monotony of passing kilometers. I suspect we do this in life too: stop seeing the new and inspirational all around as we set our sights on pre-determined destinations.
Today’s pre-determined destination was Palas del Rei and the “three amigos” as we had come to call ourselves decided to spend some independent walking time, rendezvousing there at the end of the day.
There was rain. There were villages. I ate almonds.
Raphael and I found each other just before Palas del Rei and booked beds in the large, modern, but remarkable unequipped municipal albergue on the outskirts of town.
Our third amigo was not in residence; after showering and napping, I limped into town in search of Felicity and something to take back to the albergue for dinner.
(“In search of Felicity” would be a good book title, incidentally.)
I stopped at the first private albergue in town, ordered a cerveza, and got confirmation from the other Aussie whose path had been crossing ours that this was where Felicity had found a bed. I stayed there until Fliss returned from her tour of town and we made plans to meet in the morning.
I then went in search of dinner. So few stores in this sizable village were open on this Sunday evening. Eventually found an assortment of empanadas and raced back to the municipal albergue before the darkening sky opened into a thunderstorm of Midwestern proportions.
I sat on the front porch and watched sheets of water envelop the day’s last straggling pilgrims. Why were they delayed? Had they foolishly decided to walk on or was there some unexpected catastrophe that kept them on the road later than they should be?
That evening there was talk of Simone de Beauvoir and William Faulkner. The days ahead and the days passed. The value of writing letters.