It was a pleasant walk into Donostia San Sebastian.
I found a café in which to eat something and write in my journal. Then I went to the tourist office to ask a few questions about the Camino de Santiago. They gave me a brochure (in German, no less) which had a basic map and some pointers for the entire stretch. It was not specific at all, and (as I found out later) quite outdated, but this served as my rough guide for most of the path.
I hit an internet café and caught up a bit on blogging and eMailing.
The rest of the day I spent lying on the beach. I was really hoping that I would be able to fall asleep, because I have a bad habit of getting sick if I go too many days without sleeping well. That would not be a good way to start a pilgrimage.
I thought about my guitar. She was the single heaviest object I was carrying. I had originally planned to make the whole pilgrimage with only the guitar bag strapped to my back. Since it was meant for a larger guitar than the one I was carrying, I could fit a few extra clothes into its recesses and pockets. I also had my trenchcoat, which was too warm to wear in the daytime of a Spanish spring, but which provided me with a good cape, blanket, and even mattress. It, too, had plenty of pockets.
And yet, I found that I needed to pack a small backpack as well. I was won over by the self-consciousness of knowing that it will be hard to keep yourself and your clothes smelling nice if you only take what you can stuff between a guitar and a guitar bag.
But I had made sure to take only what I could bear to part with. Apart from my digital camera and my mp3 player (both being gifts from my father), my documents and my journals, I could throw away anything I was carrying with me if it got too heavy.
And the guitar was getting heavy. She was an old, beat-up instrument I had bought for 10 Pounds in a Salvation Army Thrift Store in Bournemouth 7 years ago. But she was robust and had character and a sound that was ideal for busking and campfire singing. I could, of course, bear to part with her, because she had served me well these years, and I had already suspected that this pilgrimage would be our last trip together.
I was lying on the beach, in the shadow of some beach club building, but I wasn’t able to fall asleep. I dug out the guitar and played a few songs. Should I do this “right”? Should I find a street corner and see if I can make any money with this? That was, after all, one of the reasons for bringing the guitar.
But I was too lazy and self-conscious. I spent the afternoon like a beach bum, chilling in the sand, singing a bit, reading a bit, lying down for a while. I thought vague thoughts about how to continue the pilgrimage. I tried to do some praying and meditating, but this was harder when I was just sitting there instead of walking.
Eventually I did manage to fall asleep for a bit. When I woke up it was late afternoon. I gathered up my things and started walking out of town.
