90: crossing a railroad bridge

Matthieu and I kept walking together. At the pilgrim shelter in Santander there had been a "secret" tip tacked on one of the walls, describing a way in which one could save a few kilometers by crossing a river over a railroad bridge on which pedestrians actually weren't allowed. We weren't so scrupulous as to let that law stop us, and we had taken a copy of the hand-drawn map with us to make this shortcut. Once on the other side of the river, I told Matthieu to keep walking if he wanted, because I was going to take a break.

I sat down by the river and soaked my feet in the cold, cold water. My feet were in pain, although it was not as bad as it had been several days ago. All the same, I figured that maybe this would be a way to stop it from getting that bad again.

There was no real road or path here, which was hardly surprising considering that the railroad bridge was not meant to be walked on. I bushwhacked my way through some tall grass and got to a railroad station.

OK, "train stop" might be a more appropriate word. It was a platform on each side of the tracks, with a small building which was closed and did not seem to be used much at all. I tried to make myself comfortable on one of the benches, in another one of my abortive attempts to catch up on some sleep. After a while I heard voices, and looking over I saw Anabel chatting with two other pilgrims on the opposite platform. They, like me, were taking a little break in the shade. Soon they went their way. I grew restless of trying to fall asleep, and went walking as well. I found a supermarket and managed to get some yoghurt and a baguette just before the place closed down. I sat down on the sidewalk opposite to eat.

The day was hot. The sun was blasting oppressively, and the air was wavering. There was not much shade for the next kilometers. It was mostly construction zones. Here and there you could see half-finished rows of suburbia houses, but for the most part it was sand piles and bulldozers. Trucks full of earth or stones were rattling by constantly.

I eventually found a bar and ordered a glass of orange juice. I was practically alone in the place, and I asked the barkeeper if I could receive a phone call here. He said it should be fine, so I placed a call to my brother in Canada and asked him to call me back.

We had a good long conversation. My brother and I are opposites in many ways, and there is always that risk that our talks will circle around the same subjects all the time, those elements in each other's lives which we do not understand. I think he had only recently begun to realize just how deep my anger and depression at being alive really was. It alarmed him, of course, but because he couldn't relate to it, his solution consisted of moralizing suggestions telling me that it is wrong to feel this way and that I can feel differently if I try.

But fortunately there was very little of this going on. We talked as men who are forced to try to understand each other because they are brothers, and not as people who each try to force the other to understand them.

89: Fear and desire

On my last night in Amsterdam before I left for the pilgrimage (or rather, the Grenoble vacation followed by the week in Taize followed by the pilgrimage) I had given a concert entitled "Songs of Fear and Desire". I played mostly songs I had written, and I gave way-too-long spoken meditations in between.

The nature of fear and desire really gripped me. Can these forces be distinguished? When are they good? When are they bad? How much do they really "exist" in themselves, and how much are they dependent on each other?

If someone wants something, is it the desire for the thing itself, or is it the fear of having to continue life without it that motivates him? If a man wants to get married, is he driven by the desire for the woman, or by the fear of being left to live his life without her? Can he even tell the difference between the two? People claim they can, but I am skeptical. It feels to me like they haven't faced the question very honestly.

To me, anyway, the answer is not clear. I can't tell if I want something because the desire is in itself a force, or if I want something because I am afraid of missing out on it.

Unless it is one of the forms of desire we call sinful. I can identify those types of desire as being a force in themselves, quite independent of fear. I can identify when I feel lust, or envy, or avarice. This is desire. When I am tempted to lust after a woman, I do not perceive that desire to be really a form of fear. I perceive the desire to be an actual something.

But when I think about my desire for God, I do not perceive that as a something. It seems to be a nothing that is the negative space around my fear.

Ambition, which is generally thought of as desire, seems to be more of a fear; it is the fear of anonymity, the fear of a life without achievement (or, in my case at least, without some recognition for achievement).

Love, on the other hand, I cannot really imagine. It is an elusive concept to me. I think about people I love, and I find that they are few. And then I wonder what it means that I love them, and I find that I don't have a very clear answer to that question. It has gotten even more complex since I have had a look into the whole emotional mess of what is called "co-dependence", that form of narcissism which passes for love in so many real-life relationships as well as romance novels, romantic movies or pop songs. It gets confusing, and even the "real item", the love that the Bible talks about, does not help me out.

88: Lousy walk out of Santander

The pilgrim shelter at Santander had an early morning kick-out policy. I got out and started walking. There were random arrows on the pavement, leading generally westwards out of the city.

But what a long walk out of the city it was proving to be. Suburb after suburb, industrial sector after industrial sector seemed lined up beside a loud, smelly highway. This kind of walking is bad on the nerves. Not since the last little stretch between Gernika and Bilbao had I had such a dispiritingly urban walk.


There was a shrine beside the highway at one point. I looked in, and underneath a crucifix it had a few words from John 14: "Jesus said, 'I am the way...'".

Now that, I thought, that is something one can meditate on during a pilgrimage. Let's try that as a refrain.

"Jesus said, 'I am the way.'"
"Jesus said, 'I am the way.'"
"Jesus said, 'I am the way.'"
"Jesus said, 'I am the way.'"
"Jesus said, 'I am the way.'"

It quickly became my walking rhythm.

The way I was walking was dirty and smelly and loud. It was not attractive. Jesus is the way. This way? Oh man. What a depressing thought.

Finally the trail bent off away from the highway. It went through fields, and some quiet towns and neighborhoods.



I found a sort of park with a water pump and some benches and I figured this would be a good place to eat breakfast.


While I was eating I saw Matthieu coming up along the trail. He joined me for a moment, I finished eating and we set off together.