I walked the majority of this stage alone. I didn’t run into any familiar faces but as my idea was to go back to León once I finished the stage to take advantage of David’s hospitality for one more night, I didn’t hang around talking to other pilgrims for too long anyway, a bit unlike me. As I mentioned before, I met David in Sweden, a few years back now. That year was fundamental in my life. Sick of a life without many motivations as I dragged myself to class in the Faculty of Economics in Zaragoza without much success, I decided to go off and study abroad. I was pretty low in the rankings to get a placement so I wasn’t too hopeful that I would get one to go and study English abroad, which is what I really wanted to do to learn the language properly. Against all odds, and despite the fact that Stockholm had been one of the most popular destinations in previous years, I was lucky enough to get a place studying there. I’ve often wondered if that was destiny at work. What’s certain is that thanks to that experience abroad, I learnt English and passed the whole year. If I hadn’t have been so brave as to apply for a loan and head off to Sweden, I very much doubt I would have gone to Belfast with no job or money after and then to London in the same condition. If I did it, it’s because I’d already done it before and that experience taught me that with a lot of determination and some wit, any ordinary man can go quite far if they put their mind to it.
Of course the beginning wasn’t easy. It never is. My father didn’t support me on this project which he considered to be the umpteenth bright idea from a scatterbrain. When I told him that I wanted to go to Sweden to continue my studies, with that brutal honesty that only us Aragonese can brandish, dad said: “let’s see now dimwit, if you can’t pass when you’re studying in your own language, how do you expect me to believe that you’ll pass in a foreign language, and one you don’t speak at that”. I really couldn’t refute my father’s overwhelming logic as my past record of failures and my lack of knowledge of English, the language of all subjects on the University of Stockholm’s international programme, pointed towards a plummet into Baltic waters with no life jacket. I composed myself as best I could after that dressing down and told him, very calmly, that the decision was already made and that, if needs be, I’d take out a loan or get a job there and that he was not to worry about anything, as under no circumstances would my decision compromise the family finances.
I told my father not to worry but the truth is I was worried. I was bricking it. Nonetheless, the fear of staying in Zaragoza and not being able to fight for what I thought was best for me, was greater than the wind that was put up me for leaving home, against my father’s will, and going to Sweden to fend for myself. So I applied for a loan and headed off on an adventure without which I’d never have gotten my last job, or the one before it, or the first one, nor would I have written for a newspaper or been able to speak English, nor would I have met David or so many others and I likely wouldn’t be writing these lines now, or if I was, many of you who are reading them and who I appreciate, wouldn’t be doing so. Things happen in life when you get up and move, when you walk. It doesn’t matter if your steps seem erratic or you go the wrong way or you trip up. What’s important is to keep walking. If you choose to complain or throw in the towel, all that happens is you fall deeper and deeper into the mud as each day goes by, just like I did before deciding to go to Sweden.
During my first three months in Stockholm, my level of English was so bad that I didn’t understand a thing. In the social circles that formed with other European students, I’d be laughing at the first joke when they were already telling the third. I remember that the University offered us a mentor when we first arrived, a Swedish student who would help me with all the initial steps such as finding accommodation and enrolling for the subjects I’d be studying. The student you were assigned to usually spoke your own language too so that you could do a language exchange with them. I thought that was a really good idea given that I could practise my English with the person as they took me through all the tedious bureaucratic processes. Jonas, who was the Swedish guy I was lucky enough to be assigned to, didn’t turn up any of the times when I actually could have really done with his help. It’s a good job my great friend Erik, who I had met while he was on his Erasmus in Zaragoza, looked out for me and dealt with everything for me, as otherwise I think I’d have ended up sleeping under a bridge for the first few days. Jonas had spent the previous semester in Granada and I immediately twigged: he wanted a free Spanish teacher. It’s a good job that it’s us southern Europeans who are the cheeky ones. I met up with him a few times and despite the fact I suggested that we speak in Spanish for half an hour and the other half an hour in English, he always spoke Spanish and obviously so did I, as I wasn’t able to speak anything else back then.
The third time that Jonas suggested we meet up, my dear friend Luiso was with me in Stockholm as he had come to visit me during his summer holidays. I told him about this guy and together we decided to give him a Spanish lesson that he’d never forget; a master class in pure Castilian Spanish that would put him right up there with Cervantes. Inspired by our acclaimed comedian Ozores, we agreed that we would speak completely unintelligible Spanish so that the cheeky git wouldn’t want to continue practising, at least not with us. The dialogue we had with him went more or less like the equivalent of this:
- Me: Jonas, I hereby present to thee Luis, great friend from Zaragoza.
- Jonas (with a cheesy wink): Nice to meet you Luis, I’m Jonas.
- Luis: How now Jonas, Javier sayeth me that he very much longeth to haveth a conversation in Spanish with thee.
- Jonas (with a bit of a forced smile): Yea, yea, conversation...
- Me: Luis, as thee here seeth Jonas, doth be an excellent teacher and master of all grammar and pray great help with thy learning.
- Jonas (at this point the Swede had a ridiculous smile on his face, like that of the Private Pyle in “Full Metal Jacket”)
- Luis: In Granada I pray thou hast learnt that some words in Spanish origins in Arabic haveth, right, Jonas?
And we continued like that for a while until our Swedish friend excused himself saying that he had something really important to do.
I’m sure it goes without saying that I never saw that dickhead Jonas again. It was really my friend Pete who I learnt English from. Pete is a Scottish guy from Glasgow with a very thick accent. We both had problems communicating with the other students; me because I didn’t have a bloody clue about English and Pete because, despite the fact he was practically the only native English speaking student, there wasn’t a single soul who could understand his accent.
I remember that I’d already seen Pete at some University parties. Coming from the British Isles, he was in the ‘Champions League’ of boozing and would get well and truly sloshed. One time, my friend Bosco ran into him as he was returning home barefoot and zigzagging all over the snow, and without any hesitation put him on his shoulders and took him to his room as if Pete was an injured soldier. There’s no doubt that for us small-town rookie drinkers, he was a total hero.
The first time I spoke with Pete was at a party organised by one of the floors in the University halls where we lived. Pete was sitting on the sofa dozing off due to his drunken state so, in an attempt to rescue him from drunken stupor, I told him, and truthfully at that, that I really liked the Scottish national anthem and asked him to sing it. Pete looked at me, closing his eyes tightly and reopening them to see if this was real or just a figment of his imagination, and then began to sing at the top of his lungs, stretching out his arms in an X-shaped cross as if he was William Wallace before being disembowelled by his executioner: "Flower of Scotland, when we will see your like again....", just then Pete’s arms fell back down, as if his breathing apparatus had just been switched off, and he nodded off. I gave him a gentle nudge to wake him up and reminded him that he was singing his national anthem. He apologised and started over again, but this time he only got as far as “Flower” before falling into a deep slumber. It was mostly thanks to Pete that I learnt English that year. He had the patience to make himself understood, explain certain terms to me that I didn’t know and find synonyms until I managed to understand what he meant. Anyone else would have shunned me like a leper, but Pete showed me a sense of friendship which is still going strong.
As I was arriving in San Martín del Camino I met Jesús, one of “Kelly’s Heroes” from Barcelona and we did the last eight kilometres to Hospital de Órbigo together. Jesús was telling me that the rest of “Kelly’s Heroes” chose to do a different route and will finish the stage in Villar de Mazarife. I left him at a pilgrim hostel in Hospital de Órbigo that he already knew from the two other times he’d done the Camino, and I took the bus back to León, where, after resting for a while in David’s house, I met up with him and the Korean girl Kim in The Wall.
In The Wall Johny served us beers and a glass of white wine for Kim, who confessed that in Korea she had never actually finished a whole glass of wine. A barmaid called Nadia sometimes works with Johny. David already knew her and wanted to introduce her to Kim. She leaned forward towards the Korean to give her two kisses and Kim almost fell off her stool as she pulled back and put her arms up to try and stop the attack, convinced, as I think she was, that Nadia was going to throw out a few punches. Asians really don’t cope well with this invasion of their personal space. Introductions for them are very formal and a certain distance is kept. I’m starting to think that Kim’s nearest and dearest aren’t going to recognise her when she goes back to Korea, drinking wine and dishing out kisses left, right and centre. I don’t know if there are punks in Korea but I think that when she gets back, Kim is going to seem to them like the nearest thing to one …
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