Walking Towards The Ocean

Walking towards the Ocean-2

The idea of meeting other people who have the same experience fascinates us, so St and I take our seats, facing each other, at the large table. On my left is the Spaniard from Seville, on my right Marin, the Dutchman with his wife, and the French who occupy the rest of the table. The latter, retired workers and old friends, enliven the evening with folk songs, some of which we also know in Italian. They would like me and St to sing Bella ciao, but they can't convince us, even though we like this popular song. They intend to walk a little bit each year until they complete it. The Spaniard dedicates the Way to his daughter and hopes to arrive to Santo Domingo de la Calzada in about fifteen days. We plan to walk for about a week and then continue by train or bus to Finisterre. Marin, like the Spaniard, travels the Way alone and hopes to arrive to Compostela in about a month. An understanding immediately blossoms between her and me, and we exchange e-mails with the promise to meet again both in Italy and in Belgium. We do not understand anything about the Dutchman and his wife, not even why they are here.

We soon return to our room: a laundry room, with washing machine, ironing table, clothes to be ironed, and two folding cots leaning against the wall; this is the only way to sleep here tonight. St falls asleep in a jiffy, while I start thinking about Marin, how beautiful she is in body and soul, then I take my phone and listen to her voice which I recorded without her knowledge.

“I live with my sister for a maximum of six months a year, the time to work a little, in a house inherited from an aunt, then I wander around the world. I love people, nature and everything around me. Eh eh, I am a butterfly. I have occasional activities, earning just enough for a modest but emotional life. You think I am a wanderer, don't you?”

“No, I don't think so at all, in fact I appreciate you very much; I'm almost like that too!” my voice answers her.

“Well, you're at a good point, but it's that ‘almost’ that's not good, ha ha!”

“You're right, Marin, you're right.”

“You are ‘almost’ on the right path, you don't look so bad. Where I live they consider me a wanderer, no good. But I don't care. I could care less! I do what I want and go straight on my way.”

“You are right, you have to do it, but not everyone is capable of it.”

“Unfortunately, there are still many people who are scandalized by the fact that I live my life in this way, thinking of everything rather than finding a serious job and starting a family but I don't care. Many fail to understand that I am happy and much more than them. It is so annoying when they tell you that you do this because you don't want to take your responsibilities and that you want to do things that are no longer done at your age, because everything has to be done in its time. I am convinced that most of those who speak in this way do not really take their responsibilities, living the opposite of how they would like, because they do not have the courage to face the judgment of others and risks such as running out of a penny or the fear to stay alone. But when is it that you are truly alone, if not when you ignore your soul? Who determines and how do you decide when to take responsibility and what is the right time to do something? I think they are relative concepts: only by listening to the voice of one's soul, we do the right things for ourselves. Suppose someone like me takes on the responsibilities of a steady job and a family, can you imagine what would happen, what would I lose? What sadness, really what sadness!”

St and I wake up for a few moments at dawn and, before going back to sleep, we notice that the sky is cloudless and full of stars, and it's quite hot.

After breakfast, not knowing if we will see each other again, we warmly say goodbye to the Spaniard and Dutch, and set off.

Nature expresses itself magically: the valleys, the vegetation, the birdsong, a few pieces of snow still not melted, the hum of insects, the scent brought by a sweet and fresh spring breeze. From time to time some eaglets fly over us, while we observe worms that, tied together, form long sticks similar to licorice. The songs of some walkers added to it; as they get closer to us they become more and more defined until they fade to the horizon; these are songs of joy and of all kinds, from Albachiara to My way, from La vie en rose to Time, in Arabic, French, English, Spanish and in other languages incomprehensible to us. In this paradise, however, I am also afraid from time to time, imagining large birds swooping down towards us and poisonous snakes crawling at our feet. I talk about it with St who minimizes by making fun of me: «They are quirks, Rich. And what male human being doesn't have at least a couple?».

In the distance we see, standing under a tree, three girls dressed in white who, with great passion, chant in English: «Let's go, let's go, let's walk along the streets of existence, towards Puchiluchio, to reach you!».

Not everyone respects those who walk these paths, whatever the reasons: some religious sing very loudly, in a coarse way, with an attitude that seems to say “here there must be only me and those like me, your motivations do not count, mine instead take me far”. Maybe in heaven, who knows. We comment on these unbecoming behaviors in English with a French marathoner and a group of Swiss hikers; we agree that the only solution, to prevent this atmosphere of peace and brotherhood from being disturbed, is to keep them far enough away: St and I stop and let them go on, the others go on quickly in order to leave them behind. Among the hikers there is also a blind person: we only became aware of his condition when he took some sheets written in Braille from his backpack and started reading with his fingers. We were struck by his autonomy, especially when he continued, hand in hand, with his girlfriend: he seemed to lead her.

We have been walking for a while when the Spaniard reaches us; he smiles, looks at us for a few seconds with his powerful gaze and then goes on. We feel him very close, especially St, and we believe he is really a special person.

Marin, on the other hand, joins us at the point where we need to take a path to continue. We have been standing here for a while and we just can't find any signs that indicate the Way: a yellow arrow, sometimes a red and white stripe. Marin points to one right in front of our eyes, but we haven't noticed. We burst out laughing because sometimes the apparently more complex things are actually the simplest, we have them at hand but we don't see them, distracted by other things. In this circumstance the other is probably also the paradise that surrounds us and the horses that, not far from us, gallop free in the meadows. Marin approaches one of them and caresses it, hugs it, whispers words in French. Seeing how naturally and sweetly this girl does it, St and me too want to imitate her.

Let's keep walking together. My gaze still meets Marin's, with great complicity, just as it happened at the refuge. We smile at each other, slowly my hand starts to caress her hair and then for a while we remain hand in hand.

We part at the fountain: she resumes her pace, while we, instead, stop: St wants to treat the blister that has sprung up under her right foot a few hours ago. She washes her hands carefully and sits down; she starts dabbing the blister with cotton wool soaked in iodine, then disinfects a cotton thread tied to a needle. She pierces one end of the blister by letting some semitransparent liquid escape and pushes the needle until it comes out from the opposite end. I shudder to witness this scene, although I know that there is no pain, since the skin is dead. A little bird alights not far from us and begins to observe St carefully. My travel companion detaches the needle from the thread and ties the two ends to keep it from slipping off; she smiles and tells the little bird that that thread must remain like this for a while, until the blister has dried. Two walkers, a boy and a man in his seventies, both from Carpi, ask St for permission to take photos of her to document that operation and she doesn't feel like saying no; I have a lot of fun observing the scene, under her threatening gazes. While they are tinkering with their mobile phones, we realize that the elderly man has an inscription on his backpack.

The World Cup will start shortly. I will put the earplugs to not hear the commentary. Football is too corrupt and we have never had an Italy, let alone in sport. The unification was an excuse for the Piedmontese to commit a great robbery in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies and one of the most heinous genocides in history.

St and I stare at each other for a moment, then the two greet us, they set off and the voice of Angelo Magliacano of TerroMnia resounds in me singing La Tammurriata del Povero Brigante:

Mother of heaven, earth and sea,

a stranger dressed in red appears to me.

These are glorious and pure lands,

people die, old and young.

What are they looking for, who called them?

They are false, other than brothers!

They come from outside, they command the rescue

Without knowing that they throw us into the pit.

We sit for a few more minutes in silence and then St covers with sterile gauze what she has cured; puts on her socks and shoes again, and stands up. The bird soars into flight just as we take off for Roncesvalles.

4.

Just a little more from the beginning of the pilgrim function. Those present are absorbed in their thoughts; a faint smell of incense hangs in the air and a silence full of respect reigns. I see the Spaniard, the group of French and Marin. From a wooden door to my left, four priests dressed in white enter singing, until they reach the altar. One of them is Father Xavier whom we met a little while ago on the street. We exchanged a few words and he asked me for the f*******: contact.

A badly dressed old man throws himself on the ground and yells in English: «Thank God, thank you for all you've done for me!» The priests remain silent for a few moments, then one of them resumes the celebration. The old man gets up and takes his place not far from the Spaniard.

In the end, the blessing is granted in different languages to all those present who, during the service, have increased little by little, to fill the entire church.

5.

Before resuming the Way, a group of boys, with unreliable faces, with a «peregrinos!» laden with contempt, attracts our attention. They tell us to continue in a direction that we immediately realize is opposite to that indicated by the signs. We consider annoyed that they are just idiots and continue along the right path.

On the other hand, the indications of a farmer who, having stopped the tractor with which he has recently left his cottage, suggest the direction to take with an outstretched arm.