My Camino de Santiago guidebook doesn’t give Elvis much of a write-up, which is yet more proof that the most important guide is the personal one that each and every one of us compiles along the way according to our own tastes and ways of seeing things and that it’s not always a good idea to believe or religiously follow what others have written before us. As far as I’m concerned, you shouldn’t be given a Compostela pilgrim certificate at the end of the Camino if you haven’t visited the Elvis Bar, but that’s just my own personal opinion. Other people will take it or leave it. What it does say about it in my guidebook is that breakfast is served from half seven. David, my friend from León and yours truly here thought this information was a little strange, especially given the piss-up Elvis was left with when we headed on to León just before midnight, but we still came back to the bar in Reliegos with the eagerness of a schoolboy on his first day of class, thinking that Elvis would be there to brighten up our morning, even if this time it was with coffee instead of beer.
As we turned the door handle a few times only to find that the entrance was locked and bolted, I couldn’t help but smile to myself. It was the same thing as when the Parisian guy of Maghrebi origin that I used to live with in my first year in London, and who always managed to find a way out of paying the bills, was leaving to go back to France. The night before, after doing the usual goodbye ritual of hugs and best wishes, I reminded him that he owed us fifteen pounds for last month’s electric bill. Actually he owed us a lot more months’ worth but I thought that just by having him pay his part of the last bill, he could leave the house on a high note. He told me very seriously that I needn’t worry as he wouldn’t leave London without squaring me up and that he’d leave an envelope with the money in the kitchen before leaving. I went to bed wishing him all the best, convinced that there was no way on this earth we were going to get that money. Imagine my surprise when, the next morning, I came down to find a sealed envelope with my name on it in the kitchen, and imagine my even bigger surprise when I opened it with the eagerness of a schoolboy on his first day of class only to discover that inside there was nothing more than a piece of paper with a smiley face and a speech bubble beside it which read "bye, bye, Javier!"…
We had a coffee in another café in the town and David went on to work after as I started to walk, a little earlier than usual. This, coupled with the fact that the majority of people finished yesterday’s stage in El Burgo Ranero, meant that I hardly bumped into anyone on the first few kilometres. Before I reached Villamoros de Mansilla, a town that lies about four and a half kilometres from Reliegos, something quite remarkable happened: after twenty-three days of pilgrimage, I said my first "Buen Camino" to someone.
Before I started this trip, one of my sisters who had done the Camino before, explained that this expression was the normal way to greet fellow pilgrims. I hadn’t a clue about this type of secret code and it sounded to me like a members-only expression from some sort of special group, like a type of greeting between two bearded bikers from the “Hell’s Angels”, albeit a cringe-worthy one, and so I told my sister that under no circumstances would I be wishing anyone "Buen Camino". If I hadn’t succumbed to calling cerveza (beer) by the abbreviation ‘cerve’, no matter how popular the term might have become, I wasn’t going to stoop to this level either and I would be wishing people "buen viaje” (a good trip), which is what we’ve always said in correct Spanish.
My sister, who knows me well, told me matter-of-factly that I shouldn’t try to fight the power of the Camino, as I’d be wishing "Buen Camino" to the cows before I knew it. She continued that I’d surprise myself when walking alone by rehearsing my next greeting to the next pilgrim I come across. She told me that if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up repeating it in my sleep. I told her that she’d have to eat her words when I came back. I lasted twenty-three days until today when, walking at a light pace, I overtook a German about the same height as me weighing around one hundred and fifty kilos, with his face so congested that I thought he was going to explode at any second. As I passed by, I greeted him with a nod of the head without stopping and, as I turned back around and continued on my way, I heard the long-suffering walker with his voice faltering, as if he was struggling to breathe and was about to ask for help, say: "Bu-en Ca-mi-mi-no!". As if we didn’t have enough on our plates with Merkel and after the dressing down I got from Santa Claus for not having my rucksack on my back a few days ago, it has to be another German who puts me in my place. After a few seconds, I turned back around and with a remorseful look, wished him the same. At that moment, as ridiculous as it may sound, I felt as if a weight had been lifted along with the prejudices that very often take hold of us, and from that moment on, I was a bit more open to enjoying that experience and empathising with those around me who, without knowing me from Adam, were wishing me all the best in life with that simple "Buen Camino", all the best with whatever I undertook and wherever I wanted my path to lead. How could I not wish them the same…
A bit further ahead, I met Antonio who was walking in the opposite direction and trying to sell four-leaf clovers in small plastic bags to pilgrims. He asked me for a donation and I asked him if he had change, as no matter how much luck they bring, it’s not exactly the time to be giving out twenty euro donations for a clover that I think he stuck the fourth leaf on to himself. As he opened his wallet to give me the change, I couldn’t help but notice an old photo of a woman he resembled. I asked Antonio if it was his wife and he told me it was his mother who had passed away. I thought he was about to start crying when he told me she’s all he has in this life and if he continues fighting to go on it’s because she gives him the strength to do so from wherever she is. “I do everything for her”, he confessed. I wanted to know where Antonio from Barcelona was headed and he told me he doesn’t have any fixed plans. He’s on his way back from Santiago, he doesn’t have a job or benefits and he’s going to try and get to Navarre, where he knows people from his time doing military service and he’ll see if they have any work to give him.
Antonio did his military service in the Mountain Brigade and was posted to Estella (Navarre). He has very fond memories of his time there, despite all the hidings they were given, according to him. He tells me that the situation got so bad that the troops rebelled against some of the NCOs and the officers had to take the matter into their own hands, and from then on the living conditions in the Regiment started to improve. Antonio had to renounce the love of the niece of one of the Sergeant Majors for the sake of a quiet life during military service. Someone blew the whistle to the Sergeant Major that Antonio was partying with her and he sent for him to tell him to forget about his niece, which was asking a lot, and that if he saw him out in town with her again he would beat him up so badly that he wouldn’t want to go anywhere near her ever again. I gave Antonio back the change from the twenty euros that he had given me, telling him that he needed it more than I did and I wished him a “Buen Camino” as I said goodbye and wondered what his life would have been like if his relationship with the Sergeant Major’s niece in Estella had flourished...
After briefly stopping in Mansilla de las Mulas to buy some fruit in a street market and get something to drink, I continued walking. I met Ruta and Szilvia only to leave them behind soon after as my pace today is a bit faster than theirs. On the last five kilometre stretch I caught up with Zach from Kentucky, who is walking with another American guy. If I thought Zach was 18 yesterday, despite the fact he’s actually my age, then the guy he’s walking with, who is called Michael apparently, couldn’t even have had his first communion yet. I say that he’s apparently called Michael because he’s not uttering a single word. In the beginning I thought he was shy but I then quickly started to consider the possibility that he’s actually just a bit of a dick. Zach must have noticed because then he explained that his fellow walker had actually gotten together with a female pilgrim a couple of days ago and caught a throat infection which had left him without a voice. I got the impression that Michael wanted to say something but, as he can’t speak, he didn’t say a word. Right then Zach started to piss himself laughing and told me that it was a joke and that the truth is that it’s a bet he made with Hilly, the American girl that I met in the pharmacy in Carrión de los Condes a few days ago. The bet is that neither of them can talk until they touch the Cathedral in León. I really didn’t know which explanation was better, the bet or the story that Zach invented in the first place to justify Michael’s silence.
Zach and I chatted about our respective Jobs and the reasons for each of us being here until we got to León. I told him that I’ve decided to put the brakes on in my life after ten years working in banking to give other interests a shot, such as travelling and writing, which have been niggling away at me for some time now. He told me that his reasons are similar and despite the fact he still doesn’t know what he wants to do, he’s here to think about his future as there are things in his life that need to change. This seems to be a recurrent theme amongst people from my generation. I’m constantly meeting people who should be enjoying the evident happiness in their lives as they have everything that, according to what we’re told, supposedly brings you happiness and yet they still show a certain degree of dissatisfaction with their existence and the path they are on. Even though he can’t talk, Michael intervened in a timely fashion to show us a photo he took with his mobile phone on an earlier stage which, as I understood it, is the antidote to mine and Zach’s condition, and that of so many others: "first find out what makes you happy; then find out how to make money with it”…
When we arrived at the Cathedral in León, Michael was a bit annoyed at something that made us all laugh: the Cathedral was closed and didn’t open until four. I was given another reason to smile when I bumped into Günther, who I hadn’t seen since Santo Domingo de la Calzada. Luckily my back is now completely better and I didn’t suffer too much with the bear hug the Austrian gave me. Günther was telling us that he arrived in León on Sunday and has taken two rest days. His wife has already started the Camino Primitivo in Oviedo and they hope to meet up in Melide in one week’s time. The Austrian is so happy that, reminiscent of old times, he danced a waltz with Szilvia right in the middle of the plaza as if they were in one of those big Viennese ballrooms at the beginning of the last century, and got some strange looks from passers-by to go with it. Zach, Michael, Ruta, Szilvia, Günther and myself went to the Barrio Húmedo area in search of a place for lunch that David had recommended to me but, as luck would have it, it was closed. There was an asador beside it that we ended up going into which didn’t disappoint. After lunch we all went over to the Cathedral together to watch Michael touch it and be able to talk again. Afterwards, the first thing he did was come over to me to apologise if he had seemed rude and to thank me for paying the bill at lunch; I’d wanted to treat them and also to thank them for visiting my country. Michael’s a good guy. Between his adolescent bet with Hilly and what he said to me when he could speak again, he won me over. I don’t know if I’m getting soft with age or if it’s this Camino business that has me with my guard down but I’ll have to look into it if the symptoms persist…
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