Walking Towards The Ocean

«I saw you arrive at the hotel with backpacks. Generally you won't find other walkers here, they usually stop down at Cizur Menor» continues the waiter, without saying anything about our clarification, but correcting the imperfection.

I ask him what time they close but he doesn't hear me, distracted by two guys who have just called him out loud.

I stare at the screen for a few moments, pleased with the beautiful action that has just taken place.

«Do you root for any particular team, Rich?» asks St.

«No: my friends and I sometimes watch matches just to spend time together and possibly watch a good game; we don't want to risk getting bad blood because of a disadvantage or referee or player mistakes. Then to think that many of these mistakes can be committed intentionally, in exchange for money or favours - and the news, unfortunately, easily lead us to think so - would disturb us even more.»

St shrugs and nods with a bitter look.

At the next table, a brunette in her 20s is staring at me, oblivious to what the guy sitting next to her is saying.

7.

It is almost noon when we arrive in a small square with a fountain and some benches. Marin is sitting on one of these. My soul leaps into the sky and I immediately sit next to her. We smile and tell each other about the time spent without meeting. It is hot and the sun reigns supreme in this clear and intensely blue sky, unlike when we left Cizur, where it was cool and drizzling. Two elderly women, sitting on the bench next to them, are eating. While one of them picks up a piece of bread that has just fallen off the ground and continues to eat it, the other jumps up shouting and kicks the bench: a trickle of water produced by St that refreshes her feet , reached her backpack. In a moment the two take their things and, with a glare at us, they go away singing in French: «O Holy Virgin, pray for us». The three of us burst out laughing and Marin, shaking her head, says something in German that we don't understand.

We continue our journey towards the Silhouettes, sculptures representing various types of pilgrims, and towards the Mills, of the wind turbines that we were told about in Orisson.

«See you later, I'll join you anyway» Marin jokes.

After a while, in fact, she joins and surpasses us.

We then meet her again, with a tired face, sitting under a tree. St notes that the end of a hammock is tied to that tree, while the other is fixed to the next tree. She doesn't think twice about dropping her backpack to the ground and getting on top of it, and after a few moments she falls asleep. I sit in front of Marin and take off the sweaty t-shirt on which a sentence of mine is written: Many people live looking no further than the tip of their nose, I want to fly higher than an eagle: to the little men the daily life, to those like me the sublime!

After a while she takes off her shirt too, caresses my chest, we stare at each other and, overcome by an intense passion, we take each other by the hand as we enter the countryside. We kiss, her lips are plump and voracious; we are a vortex and nothing stops us anymore.

Marin moans, tearing blades of grass from the damp ground, until we are satisfied and remain still, one on top of the other, for endless and magical moments. Then I get up and offer her a hand inviting her to dance a long slow dance, naked and accompanied by the sounds of nature.

It is time for us to go; Marin, on the other hand, decides to stay to rest a little longer.

She joins us near a village about six kilometers from Puente la Reina; she drinks a cold drink with us and picks up quickly. An English guy joins us and asks where to buy hot wine, but we can't give him an answer. We take a look at ads of guest houses. We are tired and immediately check if a room is available for us.

There is no room and while we continue to search, outside the pilgrim's hostel we meet the Spaniard. He tells us that it is useless to search, the place is small and by now the few rooms will already be occupied. In his opinion, therefore, it would be better to continue. Meanwhile, he begins to drizzle.

We put on our k-way and, breathing in an intense smell of wet nature, we begin to cross fields of corn.

A plump peasant wishes us «¡Buen camino!» and tells us that we will soon be entering Puente la Reina.

In a square, a group of Germans get off a coach. The driver informs us that we need to walk a little longer to reach the historic center.

8.

At breakfast, I find St and the Spaniard sitting at the same table. They smile and talk with complicity, they didn't see me enter and I hesitate a bit before joining them because I'm afraid I am a bit in the way. Then I decide to sit with them anyway. The Spaniard says he feels fit now, his feet don't hurt and it also seems that his body has got used to the rhythm of the soul; this will probably allow him to do a few more kilometers. He can't wait to get to Santo Domingo de la Calzada.

«It's a magical place, I've been there before, but not on foot. You feel a strong sensation when you walk the streets of the center, near the cathedral. Go and visit it, and then… also visit the one in Burgos. It is really worth it. In the one in Burgos you will feel its majesty, while in Santo Domingo's you will find a live rooster and hen that have been there for centuries; obviously they are not always the same» he specifies, then bursts into a pleased laugh.

St and I stare at each other for a few moments and, as I'm about to speak, he continues: «Eh, something nice always happens after visiting that place. Centuries ago, a family arrived in Santo Domingo, a couple with their son who walked the Path. The owner's daughter of the inn where the pilgrims stayed overnight fell madly in love with the young man, but not being reciprocated, decided to put a silver chalice in his saddlebag to accuse him of theft.

The boy was then sentenced to death by hanging. The parents, before leaving, wanted to see his body and, as they went to the place of execution, they heard the voice of the son who said not to be sad, because he was alive, Santo Domingo had saved him. The two rushed to the judge to tell the revelation and he, laughing as hard as he could, while holding a knife and fork, said that the boy was alive as were the rooster and the hen he was about to taste. The two birds got up from the plate in which they were lying and began to flutter around the room».

At these words, the Spaniard again bursts into a swollen and funny laugh that not even we can resist, then gets up, puts his backpack on his shoulder, and greets us with affection.

9.

As soon as we leave Puente la Reina, we begin to hear an enchanting sound that sounds like that of a harp and, as we get closer, it becomes clearer and clearer. A middle-aged man plays the hang and at his side a beautiful young woman with raven hair dances and sings sensually to the rhythm of that melody. We wait for them to finish their performance and then we get closer. They are the Egyptian Ali and the Indian Shira. Both pray to the Most High, who takes the name of Allah for Ali and Buddha for Shira, so that the third wife of one will recover from a bad cancer and the soul of the other will get as close as possible to Enlightenment. I start singing a song that I wrote a few years ago. The two accompany me and I am surprised how good they are, Ali with the hang and Shira with her own steps, at keeping time with a melody never heard before. I also want to sing the lines of two of my poems. And an unpredictable alchemy is created between all of us, in particular between me and Shira. I participate in her game of glances, letting her lead it. I don't lose her eyes for a single moment. Everything here is instinctive, spontaneous, the world made up of schemes and superstructures is now far from us; the authentic soul explodes without restraint; every moment is savored in its essence and is devoid of the distractions of routine. Shira and I embrace and contemplate the horizon together, while Ali sits next to St and teaches her to play his instrument.

We stay almost two hours with them. Then, after a hug with Ali and an intense kiss from Shira, we resume our journey. I think that Shira and Ali will remain in our hearts too.

We pass a run-down cemetery and suddenly we find ourselves in front of an old woman dressed in black. She seems to have appeared out of nowhere and her eyes worry me almost as much as the Orisson tree. With one hand she holds a worn stick and with the other she asks for alms. I hand her a few cents but, judging by her look, she doesn't seem satisfied. She takes a black shell from her pocket, with the face of a witch drawn in yellow on it, and hands it to me.

«No, thanks» we tell her anxiously almost in unison and continue walking quickly.

The old woman begins to scream as she slams her stick to the ground. She runs towards us but trips and falls. I stop and try to understand if she needs help but in a few moments she gets up and, from the way she squirms and screams, she seems to have more strength than before and starts moving towards us again. But fortunately, finding herself in the presence of a powerful and confident gaze from St, she stops and goes back shouting: «Aim gaim pussuffu’, galin aiim, iim bidim lectarù».

10.

«Igor is peaceful, it just wants to play» an aging guy reassures us in Spanish, when the dog on a leash, barking, raises its paws to my shoulders. «I have two of them; the other, Chico, white and small, is at home.» He points to his house. «I can't take them for a walk together, they wouldn't make me walk. They are like cat and dog. Ah! I found both of them in the countryside, they were abandoned and battered and have now lived with me for three years.»

St and I take courage and begin to caress Igor that, from time to time, manages to lick our hands.

«Are you going to Estella?» ask us.

«Yes» I reply.

And while I'm about to ask him how much is longer, he says: «It takes one more hour, it's five or six kilometers from here. But I think you can take even less time, the path is quite easy».

A few minutes later we meet Marin staggering, barely able to make us a smile. I hand her a bottle of water and ask if she needs anything else.

«Thank you» she says, clinging to the bottle and letting herself fall to the ground along the wall of a house. «This morning I ran more than usual and, with this sun and this heat, it didn't do me any good. I'll stop for a couple of hours, then I'll try to get to Estella.»

St and I are not so physically tired, our pace and the many breaks that we allow ourselves avoid reducing us to conditions similar to Marin's; however we begin to be mentally tired. Meanwhile, the sun is really biting so we go into a pharmacy and buy a sunscreen and a refreshing one. The pharmacist tells us that she loves Italians and tells us about two girls, one from Ascoli and the other from Reggio Calabria, who moved here a few years ago. That of Ascoli is her son's teacher. We almost envy them: living in such places could be really nice.

A Estella, a gentleman in his sixties, whom we have just asked for information, wants to accompany us to a bed and breakfast he knows; we hope there is room. Emmanuel, that's his name, tells us in Spanish that he's been retired for a few years and every day he's looking for a good way to spend time.

«And what better way to help two pilgrims?!» he says enthusiastically and we avoid correcting him by specifying “walkers”.

There is room for tonight. Emmanuel, pleased, smiles and greets us warmly as he goes away.

We take a tour of this pretty town. In a downtown restaurant we eat a ham and cheese sandwich, and something that looks like a potato gâteau. A group of fans are watching the Champions League match Inter-Barcelona and they are really sad for the advantage of the Italian team. We consider that last night we slept little due to the heat and we are more tired than usual, so we decide to stay another day. We have still eight days to reach Finisterre. We begin to evaluate whether it is appropriate to walk a little longer or to continue with public transport.

11.

After a short stop in Burgos, we arrive by bus in León which welcomes us with large marble wild beasts placed at the ends of a bridge that, from the bus and train station area, leads to the historic center. We photograph some iron sculptures found in the streets: a guy who reads sitting on a bench, a man and a child in a station ready to leave for who knows what destination, and a giant, almost lying on the sidewalk, who seems to be scrutinizing and challenge everything around him.

I am a bit tired and I lie down on a bench, with my head resting on St.

«Rich, you got a text message» St tells me suddenly.

«Where did it arrive?!» I ask in a weak, sleepy voice.

«What do you mean, Rich?! To your cell phone, where do you think it arrived, in your pocket, in your hands?» St tells me bursting out laughing. «You're falling asleep Rich, aren't you ?!»

«Come on, take your phone and read it, read it... come on» I ask in an increasingly weak voice.

St laughs out loud, almost can't breathe.

«The sender is Danycugina: Hi boy, how's the journey? Tony would like to be there with you, in those wonderful places. We hug you so much.»

«Come on St, answer her, answer her... Ah and thanks for reading it, come on... answer her ans ans...»

«Come on, what do you want me to answer?»

«Write, write.»

«Tell me, I listen to you, go» she laughs again as hard as she can, seeing me in that state more and more numbed by a fatigue that devours me.

A few moments pass and, doubtful but amused, she tells me: «Listen to what you made me write! We would be very honored to have him with us. It can be done, if he does not just chat but stands up to the sky and goes straight towards the goal, like a warrior of Charlemagne or, better still, like a steam rocket, not like an Apecar, which is faster than a bird certainly does not go. We o we o gne gne gne. Ah, Rich, you make me die, what can I do with you?!».

«Sell me.»

«Selling you? Ah, really Rich?!»

«Yes... to the Roncesvalles market.»

«Ha ha ha, at the Roncesvalles market? Full delirium, is it true Rich?! But did you hear me when I read the message for your cousin?»

«Sure, sure, concert. Of course… yes, come on, send it, send it, send it, before it's too late, go ahead.»

«Before it's too late?! Ah. Do you really want me to send this text message as it is?!»

«Just as you read it, but... but... reread it, I want to listen to it again, if there were any errors of form, of content, let's correct it. Come on come on baby.»

«Oh dear God, holy patience, listen: We would be very honored to have him with us. It can be done, if he does not just chat but stands up to the sky and goes straight towards the goal, like a warrior of Charlemagne or, better still, like a steam rocket, not like an Apecar, which is faster than a bird certainly does not go. We o we o gne gne gne. Ah, Rich. Ah ah ah you are a disaster, but I love you.»

«Sell me.»

«Okay I'll sell you - ah - and at the Roncesvalles market, is it true Rich?»

«That's true St, but now… send it, send it. Come on St, before it's too late!»

«Do you really want me to?! You're crazy, Rich.»

«Send... it..., send it.»

«Done, sent to Danycugina.»

I tell St that I often get delirious during moments of semi-sleep. And whoever is with me has a lot of fun listening to my often senseless words and asking me questions.

I tell her about a time when I was lying on the grass with Ava, in Rome, in the Parco degli Acquedotti. After a few seconds of silence I said to her: «Do you know how they test cell phone batteries?».

«No, how?» Ava had asked me.

«They make a giant battery.»

«How big, Rich?»

«Big... like an advertising board.»

«And then how do they try it?»

«With lots of cell phones: one thousand, two thousand.»

«And how do they connect them?»

«Just approach them, this battery is powerful!»

«And then?»

«They see how long it lasts, don't they?!»

I also tell her about another time I was with Cirla, by the sea in Gaeta. A few seconds of silence and I began:

«How sour you are tonight!»

«But didn't you always say that I'm sweet?»Cirla had replied.

«All the women I have to deal with are, even Marisa.»

«And now who is this Marisa?»

«My shirtmaker.»

«Your shirtmaker?»

«Yes, the one who is making my tailored shirts.»

«This is new, ah!»

«She made a white one and now she's sewing a red one and then she's going to sew a blue one, I want ten.»

«And how much do they cost?»

«Two hundred and eighty euros each.»

«Isn't it a little expensive?»

«You say she's screwing me?»

«I don't know, I have no idea how much a tailored shirt costs. But why did you have them tailored?»

«Do you want to consider the pleasure of having a shirt sewn on?» Marisa is very precise; consider that she also measured the vaccination scar on my arm.»

«Ah, ah. The scar from your vaccination! So will you spend two thousand and eight hundred euros for ten shirts? Well, it seems strange to me.»

«You should see how cute I am, standing there, sewing my shirt on; sure it's annoying, for at least an hour I can't move, but... do you want to consider...?»

«But do you like this Marisa? What is she like?»

«She is magnificent, charming, but that doesn't mean anything, do you know how many magnificent women I meet?»

«Ah, you're not being straight with me, Rich. Ha ha ha.»

«And what's strange about all this?!»

12.

«Yes, hello» I reply, adjusting the headset.

«Hey there. Contessa speaking» begins with enthusiasm my dear friend and, lately, also a translator of my writings.

«Hi Contessa, how are you?» I ask her.

«Well Rich, usual life, nothing much in this period but everything ok, I would say.»

«Well well, my Countess!»

«Where are you?»

«On the train to Ponferrada, we are getting closer and closer to our destination.»

«I called you to tell you that I have finished translating your latest writings into English, but I need another ten days in German. I'll send them to you by the end of the month at maximum.»

«My Countess is always very efficient.»

«It's always a pleasure to deal with your words. I liked everything, I loved some points. Between good and evil on page 318 I'd say it's sublime!»

«Thanks, too good.»

«I'm not good, Rich. You are too modest. I really like what you write and…»The line is noisy and now I hear nothing, just a great buzz. «Pingo called me yesterday and would like to meet you to organize that cultural charity event I told you about a while ago.»

«Eh, since I started writing something, many want me in the country in demonstrations, even those who previously did not consider me at all; just like Pingo and the rest of the brainless gang!»

«It is clear that now Pingo and those like him would like to use you to...»

«Contessa, they are frightening tough guys. They want to organize their beautiful cultural events, charities, etc., to advertise themselves, promoting a culture and solidarity that are not interested at all. They are only interested in the votes and the benefits they could derive from these demonstrations. Those do nothing if they don't have an advantage. Honestly… I wish I had as little to do with them as possible. I'm fine here because most of the people you meet are simple, sincere, humble, respectable, and in everything they do, you feel certain values. No, no, I think I don't come back from here, eh, I'm moving permanently.»

«I wonder, however, if you are not idealizing the people you met there, given the circumstances and the atmosphere you are breathing, the places you are in, in short, the beautiful and particular experience you are living.»

«Maybe, Contessa, maybe, but... the concepts remain. In conclusion…»

The line falls. There is no connection. From time to time it returns for a few moments and several Contessa's I've been calling arrive. From the phone, I open the pdf file in which there is Between good and evil and I start reading it right on page 318.

‘Gozo returned to the house, sat down in front of the fireplace still lit with its beautiful bright and crackling fire and began to write in his diary:

I imagine myself placed between anger, a sinister and grinning face, and love, a clear and bright face. The first puts all those who upset me in front of me: Ingalo, Dr. Lupa, my boss, the Duchess Asia and others and makes me relive all the evil they have done to me, inciting me to contempt and revenge. It makes me imagine Ingalo and my boss suffering from hunger and thirst and I, not far away, full of satisfaction, drink, eat and say: «Do you want, do you want some?!»an d I give him nothing, absolutely nothing! It shows me Dr. Lupa who is drowning in a river raging by the currents and I, from a rock, tell her: “Hey, I'm here, I'm up here, can't you see me?! Do you need a spyglass?! I don't save you, I don't save you. Damn!». I throw a rope at her, which I take back as soon as she is about to grab it. She makes me visualize the Duchess Asia tied to a chair and gagged. With one hand I pull her hair and with the other slap her until her breath is lost and her nose bleeds. I tell her: “You ugly bastard, I trusted you, you are a poor failure, insignificant; you only know how to sell well, but you are worth nothing and you know this. You fooled me and my parents, you even replaced them in certain circumstances and you ruined me! And now who gives me back what you took from me, damn it. Who will give it back to me?!» Similarly, I imagine others in difficulty and I do nothing to help them. The good, on the other hand, tries to make me return to myself. It shows me how weak these people are, fragile, and in need of so much help. «Out of ten people three are saints, two are bad and the other five are poor people asleep, who perhaps will never wake up until the last of their days», Ginello once told me, my life coach and great teacher of philosophy and meditation.

Evil draws me to it like a magnet, while good is desperate and tries to recover me. Anger wants to win by taking my soul. It doesn't have to happen. «Anger blinds the eyes of the soul, those must always remain clear and full of love» Ginello told me once.

I don't want to go towards evil, I struggle, I resist planting my feet on the ground, I ask with all my strength to Life to save me, I intensely desire to find myself in the arms of good, to feel my soul light without the weight of anger. And while I see myself exhausted but determined not to fall into the clutches of evil, I am reached by a beam of light that slowly pulls me back, up to carry me in love's arms. «No, no, nooo!» cries the evil.

I throw a piece of bread and a flask to Ingalo and the boss, I let Dr. Lupa grab the rope by tying the other end tight to a tree, free the Duchess Asia. I help all the others I have seen in trouble and, without saying anything to anyone, I turn around and go away. A clear feeling of well-being pervades me and makes me start drawing again from the source of Life.’

The station clock strikes four when we arrive in Ponferrada and it is a very hot afternoon. A woman tells us that we have to walk about ten minutes to get to the historic center, where there is also the medieval fortress of the Templars. I remember that on the train a girl, sitting a few places ahead of us, talking on her cell phone, said that tomorrow evening there would be a theatrical event right at the fortress, during which the public would be involved in a sort of interactive show. I tell St it could be a good experience and we begin to consider staying another day to take part in it.

In just over half an hour we find a place in a bed and breakfast: Da Mario. We decide to rest for a while and then take a tour before dinner. Neither Mario nor others here have been able to tell us anything about tomorrow's show.

It is the year of the Lord 1183. In a room, in the fortress of Ponferrada, I lie dead on a large stone. I have been a valiant Knight Templar. Around me, illuminated by the faint and flickering light of the torches, there are many other knights, the Spaniard and Marin, and St who holds mine with one hand and wipes his tears with the other; one wets my cheek. From outside come the noises of someone who seems to want to enter. Then the scene moves into the 21st century and into a large field. Under a centuries-old oak, there are my loved ones. My mother has swollen eyes and her face streaked with tears. My band sings Vasco Rossi's Angels, while a man, dressed in white, opens an urn and scatters my ashes in the wind that advance over the wheat fields, the expanses of water and the villages, up to a pier wrapped in an intense blue. When the ashes arrive at the end of the pier, I am suddenly awakened by Mario who knocks on the door saying: «It's time to leave the room or confirm it for another night».

13.

On the train to Santiago I wake up suddenly and shaken by a terrible nightmare, just when I was falling into the deepest darkness. That scene now haunts me and comes back to my mind over and over again; I have a feeling there is more in that bad dream, but I don't remember it. St tells me that, while I was sleeping, I asked why we were on this train and, despite trying to make me understand that my torment does not make sense, I cannot reassure myself. Bad thoughts, with cunning and obstinacy, want to take over.

But I manage to fall back asleep just when a terrible headache was driving me crazy.

St wakes me up a few moments before arriving in Compostela and now I feel more relaxed.

On the street, while we are looking for a room for two nights, a lopsided young man with a disappointed attitude begins to rave in English: «Santiago, Santiago; Santiago is a very normal city, with its own chaos, its own messes, streets full of big shops and work in progress. And I have not found God. Where is he, where is he?!» He stops for a few moments and, still in English, he starts singing Vasco Rossi: «Bring me God, I want to see him, bring me God, I have to talk to him.»

I wonder what that guy expected from Santiago; did he think he saw angels floating at a man's height or something like that? St smiling tells me: «Which God did that walked want to find here in Santiago? God can be found everywhere and I think many, maybe even that boy, have already found him before they came to places like this. Perhaps they do not know or do not fully realize it. There are those who believe with mathematical certainty that they have found it, but often this is not the case». St's wise words make me feel good and I feel really lucky to have her by my side in this wonderful experience.

We arrive at the cathedral almost at midnight. Despite being beautiful, it doesn't strike me like the one in Burgos or the one in León. However, the atmosphere is magical, teeming with stars in the sky and people in the square in front; some are lying in contemplation, others are painting, others still sing, play and dance. St and I join a group that is singing Blowin’ in the wind, by Bob Dylan. We all, holding hands, sing universal melodies, each in their own language. And on this romantic night, full of peace and brotherhood, we feel truly happy.

14.

In Finisterre, as we get off our bus, Diego, a thirty year old with olive skin and curly black hair, approaches us. He suggests we go and stay at his brother Victor's hotel, handing us a flyer with photos and we do not hesitate too much to decide to stay there two nights.

A couple from Milan who is in our hotel and have walked the entire Way from León, reminds us that the Champions League match Barcelona-Inter is about to begin and after a while we find ourselves together with them and a group of Spaniards, including Diego and Victor, in the large room on the ground floor with a giant screen.

Inter eliminates Barcelona and I am very sorry to see so much disappointment on the faces of the Spaniards. Diego, with his eyes downcast, almost crying and with his hand on his chest, says: «It was a goal, it was a goal, he didn't take the ball with his arm, but with his chest» referring to a goal not validated by his team. The Spaniards really cared about this match.

15.

We wake up late and don't have breakfast. We visit the characteristic fishermen's market at the port, then we walk to the lighthouse and then to the beach, where we decide to stay to contemplate and breathe this beautiful nature until sunset.

On the seashore, with our feet lapped by the waves, St takes my hands in his and looking into my eyes says: «It's really beautiful here, don't you think? We truly experienced magical moments. But I thought one thing... What do you think if next year we start walking again from Estella's? We could do at least one hundred kilometers a year, until we reach this beach with our feet». My heart overflows with joy and I hold her close to me giving her high five. «Ok St, at least a hundred kilometers on foot every year, until we finish the Way onour legs.»

A star falls slowly on the ocean, just when the sun has recently disappeared on the horizon.

16.

Forward

towards the Ocean

It is raining. Through the glass streaked by the water, I observe a fresh and clean Estella. I'm in the cafe where tomorrow, after almost a year, maybe I'll meet St.

We were at Madrid airport the last time we were together, and we were running towards check-in. Amid the noises of the crowd and the announcements, St shouted: «See you next year in Estella, please, don't forget». And how could I? We had decided the date the night before and, as promised on the beach of Finisterre, we would meet again to walk at least another hundred kilometers along the Way. St had pointed out to me that in the meantime, however, we could neither hear nor write. She couldn't do otherwise and she couldn't give me any explanation about it. If Life had wanted there would have been no contingencies and we would have met again.