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.