Anabel and I got to one sort of picnic area after a while. It was a bit like the rest stops along a highway, but it was mostly for cyclists and pedestrians. There was a rancid smell in the air though, probably from a garbage bin or something, and so we kept walking. I did not want to eat my dinner and go to sleep in an area that smelled like that.
Shortly before dark we reached a similar parking area. There was even a gasoline station just a stone's throw away. We sat down and unpacked some food. Anabel had a baguette that, she warned me, would be "algo chicle" because it was already a few days old. I got her to try some of the pumpernickel that I had found at a shop in Bilbao, because she was completely unfamiliar with it. It seems that dark bread is not so popular in Spain. Between the two of us we also pulled oranges, cheese, chocolate, salami, tuna and yoghurt drinks out of our backpacks.
There was a view of some apartment buildings, and there were people on the street in front of them doing some sort of Basque dance. Anabel told me that she had a Basque flute with her. I don't even have a harmonica, I thought, even though I'm the one who studied music. But for the most part I was glad to be taking a break from music during this time, even though I did a lot of singing along my trek. I was thankful that I had gotten rid of my guitar, and was trying to imagine what that walk from Gernika to Bilbao would have done to my knee if I had had that extra weight on my back.
"Are you OK with sleeping here?" I asked Anabel, pointing to the grass and bushes around us.
"Yes", she said. She had been carrying an isolation mat with her for the whole pilgrimage, and had been hoping to make use of it at least once in an outdoor setting.
I was experiencing something very typical for me: the feeling that the spot I was at wasn't perfect for spending the night. In my various trips -- whether I'm hitch hiking, cycling or whatever -- I start getting into this mode where I keep thinking I'll find something better further along. This means that I usually end up collapsing beside the road around 2:30 AM, sleeping next to some junk pile or in the dark corner of a parking lot because the grass in the field that I passed four hours before was a little too long for my taste, and I had walked on into the darkness hoping to find something more ideal.
But I knew that we wouldn't be likely to find anything better than this. There was some garbage lying around, but I could live with that. I walked over to the gasoline station and used their bathroom to brush my teeth and refill my water bottle, and was again surprised that no one was charging me money for it, like they would have in Germany or the Netherlands.
A lady was walking her dog past the picnic area as I returned, and I hoped that people wouldn't be walking their dogs past my sleeping body all night long.
Anabel had spread out her isolation mat and sleeping bag beside, and halfway under, a large bush. I went around to the other side of the bush and lay my trenchcoat in the grass. It wasn't an isolation mat, but at least it doubled as a coat, cape, and a whole bunch of pockets. I crawled into my sleeping bag, stuffed earplugs into my ears, and went to sleep.
When I went on a pilgrimage through Spain in 2007, I repeatedly thought that I could write a book about everything that was happening in and around me. A few weeks after finishing the pilgrimage I started this blog instead. It may be the rough draft of an upcoming book -- who knows -- but it is my surrender to the urge to try to put into words what might better be left cloaked under a vow of silence.
