The man from the end of the world

Ceva la care am lucrat pe drum si am definitivat acasa. Sper sa aveti rabdare sa cititi pentru ca e destul de lung. s-a intins pe 5 pagini pe Eva.

pentru ca aveti acolo imagini si tot ce trebuie o sa pun textul in engleza aici, pentru cititorii ceilalti, caminarzii care mi-au urmarit blogul si au incercat sa traduca prin google ce scriu. nu stiu daca nu cumva am zapacit verbele in engleza, dar oricum am incercat sa fac treaba mai buna decit google. si care-i mai destept si n-are ce face sa ma corecteze ca eu nu mai am rabdare sa revin asupra textului. .

Some kind of beginning

„You shall have the sensation that you feel to go, once again you`ll feel drown, but the same rhythm of the heart will sound right here in my soul and for the end of our times. I found out how you are because we are talking in the same way, and we have same language. You will hurt me, you are working right now to enslave me, but I know you because I gave you away your hair, in the silence of the night. Don`t tell anyone…”

I began in this manner my article about Camino because in some way those words are connected with my real hunting of miraculous things. For some people this miraculous has something to do with meeting aliens, for others mean quickly healings, and for others mean some exorcising bad sentimental feelings in which they didn`t recognise as a human being anymore. For me, I guess it was the wisdom of the last puzzle`s element, an old chaotic game who matched its elements until the end of my trip to Santiago, finding immediately my peace, my tranquility and ending my researches. You know, that sensation of happiness when you running downstairs to grandma`s wooden attic with your wonderful descoveries, even if the growing-ups see in them some nonsens flapdoodles.

Of course, when I am reading the motto bellow I have some bitter cynical smile because I see better the falsity received a while ago, even I realised that time how ilogical they were, and how incoerent, let`s say I didn`t care. When you are in love you didn`t pay too much attention and you can pass easily over ilogical words. You lose your head and you want to abandon yourself to some kind of love. Then, after a while, false feelings invadate your life and you really don`t know how to escape from this situation. That`s why it`s better to learn quickly how to keep your head on your shoulders.

Sounds delicious, right? Fortunately, I don`t believe in public declamations. And it`s very important for your mind and soul to stay away of paranoic people… To be more exactly, if you gave away somebody`s hair in front of his/her eyes, this has anything to do with some machiavelic plan you put on the road. It just means that he/she has too much rebel hair. Concerning the plans, when it`s about love stories, these are very impredictible and surprising. Plans work only with robots, everybody knows that.

„Bonfin” Cafeteria

On 4th July, very early in the morning, instead to go straight ahead, like any good pilgrim, to Hornilos del Camino, the next village where I planned to stay over night, and rest from my vagabondage, I returned in the historical centre of Burgos to visit once again Santa Maria cathedral. It was around 8.30, to early to be opened, so I had to find out a place, a bar or a terrace to lose an hour. So I entered in first cafeteria in my way, very near to the somptuos gothic building and I asked my caffee con leche and a croissant with a lot of chocolate. Then, as usual, I put my notebook on the table, right beside my photo camera.

Two coreens, a young man and a woman, next table to mine, were eating a large great breakfast, rounding their forks in their well fried egs and pecking their french fries with some coreean dexterity. I recognised immediately the young man, because a week ago, right before our ways beeing separated, Alin was giving him green un-made apples, stolen from an apple-tree, thing that amused me, and upseted Alexandra.
So be it! Bon appetit!
But my attention was really kept by another young tall man, dressed with an orange jacket with vertical black lines on the sleeves and a very funny hat on his head. This guy was resembled a lot with an ex-boyfriend, a 7 or 8 years old failed love-story. I was written that time to mortify this story a poem named „When You`ll Be Far Away, My Friend”, a very beautiful period where I was suffering of such a terible and incurable romantism in a strange and doubtful english. I never showed my ex-lover my blue-heart poem, but I was shoted those paragraphs on the internet and they were burried somewhere on air for a while, and I completly forget about them.
And well, that orange jacket weared by that young man it was similar like one I had once, but also lost God knows where.

Above all these I recognised some sort of sour solitude and an unfinished sadness almost incurable of a very cruel and very betrayed expactations. It seems like the whole Santa Maria cathedral, with all its curves and arches and ogival vaults and all its richeness gothic details, it was crushed that day on his shoulders.

I found out, many kilometres farther that in that day, a little bit too chilly, Nico, this is his name, arrived in Burgos from Australia, by plane, and then took 3 o` clock train and slept for another few hours on the unfriendly chairs from the train-station, but very decided to begin his trip through the end of the World, the final point of the Camino pilgrimage, where it said that is 0 km of personal problems, Finisterre, the place where the ships enter in port in the most west side to the Spain, and also the Continental Europe.

To take a decision. Like this or like that. A white-black game of life. Never between decisions. You can`t ask something like that to a young man who is still dreaming. The symbolism of a journey until the end of the world and then, reaching the final point, burning the clothes that took you on the roads, getting over another way or start, like a continous refreshment, regeneration, purification. Conquered, re-conquered freedom.

That 4th July morning, he lifted up himself on the table after he drank his caffee and went in his steps` law. I thought I won`t see him ever again, so I just was aware about his presence, or properly said his absence, and I entered in the cathedral, immediatly it opened its doors.

Albergues, kilometres, cities and villages, cigarettes, loneliness and little complicities

20 km away, in Hornillos del Camino I was seeing him again in same albuergue as I was sheltered too. I scanned him again up and down, he looked at me a little bit annoyed and then we saw each other`s nausea.

I was alone on my road since 4 days, and all this walking, like an impose marathon by my own will, seems to me more and more pointless. I didn`t want to give up, but I began to be more and more fet up. Nothing fabulous. Stones, bridges, churches, other pilgrims who tried convince each other of their own spirituality, oh, Lord, please don`t let me be missunderstood, but come on, they were lying one to the other that in the end they will find the Zen, and all the 7 chakras will be open to receive aliens information and will be rounding and rounding, and Jesus will come to save them, or perhaps they will be transformed into indigo children in Earth`s saviour, somewhere in 2012 year, the big year, when the profecy said that it will be the next Atlantida or I don`t know which earthquake will swallow the humanity and only the ones who are spiritualized now, on the Camino Real will escape. That`s what they said. Stupid pilgrims. And I was rising my shoulders very bored and very indifferent. Nobody has to frighten you with ending the world when your worlds invented by your own mind are already vanished. There is enough to realise how false they are, and all these perceptions rounding around your ego. Or your vanity. It doesn`t exist a sneakier-trickier plan than this.

Two days later and 42 kilometres farther, I met Nico again, in Fromista, where we stayed over night in the same municipal albergue, which was receiving burst tired pilgrims or full of blisters. We have the beds very near one to another. I started to peek him this time with careful curiosity. He was writing always something in his notebook, like I was, everyone with its notes or should I say thoughts? He noticed that too, and he smiled me, giving me the complicity of man twisted inside. He was checking very often his mobil, like he was expecting news from someone very dear.
After I visited the roman church from Fromista, I entered in a restaurant to have my dinner. The young man was there convulating a cigarette between his lips. He was talking in english with two dutchwomen.
Ok!, I said to myself, one day I will talk with this guy if I will see him again on my way. But I wasn`t in the mood that night. Anyway he was kept by the dutchwomen.

Next day, entering in Carrion de los Condes, 19 km away from Fromista, he was walking in front of me, like he didn`t care where the road was taken him. Same strange sensation of carelessness I had myself too. It began equally for me where I`ll go or where I`ll stay. If something happend or nothing. If I go or if I stay.
Although I was walking.

I was entering already in lovely tiresome of my own steps.
He has a very hesitant walk, which it didn`t adjust with his slim slender body and neither with some kind of wildness in his eyes, very well hidden in a soft thick green blanket of sadness. Then I took my first pictures with Nico, without knowing what happened on his back.
In Carrion de los Condes, right in the principal small square of the city, somewhere in the evening I met him again. He was sitting on a bench, and a bunch of kids making noises around him. He asked me if I have cigarettes. Damn, I didn`t have!

We changed a few words, like we were forever friends and we didn`t have to call each other by name, or having complesent talks. I asked him where is he staying that night, what albergue, and if it is ok. And this is it. Something stopped me to go farther with my questions. He had so tired eyes…

From now on, once ice broken, we started to smile each other with small complicity everytime we saw through other villages or cities left behind. I guess we were used to it just like this. And it often happens on Camino, people bumping one to other, even if you didn`t expect it, because sometime you have a good kilometres or days advance. They are there, on the road, and if you meet them again, it`s ok, if not, it`s again ok. It`s a long road. And your thoughts are endless. So endless… And then, when somebody as same as lonely as you, as same as careless as you, as same as walking as you without knowing yet why is doing this, appears in front of your eyes again when you meet him you just smile. Actually you are saluting his sadness. His dessapointments. His wildness. His youth. His dreams. You know all you need to know about these.

„I`m the runabout of my life/ Like a movie with Raj Kapur…”

The next five days I didn`t see him. I was busy to escape of someone who seems to aglutinate on me, like a clammy snail, or like fog to Galicia`s morning. I was running and eating dust and stones, screeching the grail under my foot, swallowing other and other kilometres, without finding a good answer why am I walking like this, why am I running, why I don`t want to go back, or stop forever, why I want to reach Santiago where some saint`s bones are laying, and maybe they are not even saint. Absurd! I was feeling like in one of Sartre`s drama pieces. I wasn`t finding nothing scary enough or something really unbielivable to let me stoned. Or make me happy. Just ground. And routine. My journey became a fucking routine. Wake up and go. Wake up and go. Wake up… and people and commun stories. Little amuzing things, here and there. Or soft moments of tenderness gave it to strangers without names. Or me helping people with their blesters. Or me listening, like I was doing at home, when somebody had the restless desire to cry, or to confess, or to whine or to think that his/her story is the most interesting and the only one who deserve to be taken in consideration. But those things are like a joint on Camino. And it`s very ironic that a pilgrimage became routine. I mean, where is the adventure? Everybody was whining about their blesters or physical conditions, and for me it became an usual custom to advice them to go home if they were suffering so much. Where is the miracle?
Hm…

And finally you start thinking of nothing, you forget why you left home, it`s seems that all your problems, all your existential dilemma, hand in hand with your searchings, were vanished between these little stones, or on the hit of messeta, or through the slippery mountains paths, or in the cold river`s water where you splashed your burning feet. Maybe this is the miracle. To walk and to find about yourself that you are able to walk at plus infinit and meanwhile the landscape is changing, people were changing, someone goes, other remains, and in the end, when you meet one person dear your soul embraces him or her with some childish joy, and when you meet others even a cold stone apears more friendly than their stupid faces.

I thought those days that in my crazy runaway to end my Camino once for all I lost Nico forever. That`s why, when I saw him again, five days later, in Vega del Valcarce, very very tired (he was made that day 40 km to Ponferrada) but absolutely happy, it was like I was redescovering an old friend. In my corner, hidden under a big umbrella, on a terrace, I felt, for the first time when I was seeing him on this Camino, blowing inside him the cruelty of youth and the brutal hapiness of his soul. He had such a beautiful smile and green intensive sparks in his eyes, like this runabout style of life finally rejected his sadness.
But I knew it`s just a short moment. And it won`t last. And he`ll be drawned back. And it will be worse.
I retracted myself, like every night, in my bed, each night other bed, surrounding with other people, just two or three same as the day before. I was at least a week or ten days distance to Santiago.

Star-dust sweepers…

In Samos, three days later, so early in the morning, we were again on the same terrace from the respective city. Different tables. We were drinking our loneliness from a sweet-sorrow black caffee. I remembered the morning from Burgos when I saw Nico for the first time. Now, as good as then, I was working on my articles. He looked worse than that far 4 July day, when he was started his journey. I looked at him under my eyebrows and I had the impression that I was looking at me in some 7 years old mirror. Or perhaps 8. God damn it! I had to talk with him. If not now, maybe I won`t be able next time, if it`ll be a next time.

I waited to pay his caffee and I waved him to approach. I told him that I have some pictures with him and I am going to send them when I`ll arrive home, if he give me his e-mail address. He looked at me a little bit confused, he wrote on my notebook his address and then he just stood there, in front of me, without saying any word. I have the string feeling to push him or to shake him somehow, and with this gesture to shake me too.
„Do you want to share with me few kilometres?” I asked instead.
„Of course”, he answered.
I pack my things and we came up on the street. We searched the yellow arrows and then we followed them conscientious until the border of the city. We left Samos easely, and the churche`s bells were singing behind us.
Simple. That`s how our friendship starts. No masks. No interests. No games. No expactations. No plans. No promisses. Nothing to conquer. Nothing to lose. Just sharing together some kilometres. Some distance. Some words. More simple than that it`s impossible. In the cruel morning light of July, when the sun was floundering through green leaves of the galician forest. Just like this. One of those friendships that only few people could understand them, but, otherwise, the transparent majority can easily soiled them, spoiled them, missunderstood them, making some scripts about Satan`s plan and some sex here and there.

It wasn`t the case. In that day, other people didn`t exist for us. Whole the world was dissapeared. We were so far away of everything known, of our friends who were chosen other paths, other sticky roads, or other hollows, we were so deeply screwed into the forest that we didn`t have anything better to do than hanging around into the green nowhere.
His story – a commun one. I could go farther and say: like anyone else`s. Love dessapointment that he wanted to smash it on stones and to lose it permanently in forests. Or to rebuilt it from rests. He wasn`t too sure. Doubts. Doubts.

Santa Compagna, Galicia`s forests` myth

We had a rest, on a river`s wet border, which when we wanted to cross over wet sliding stones, we both felt in it, with rucsacks and everything else. So, we stayed longer expecting to dry our clothes and boots. Then he told me one of the most beautiful ghost Galicia`s legends. He knew it for a long time, from childhood perhaps his grandparents told it him. Nico was a child of fields and nature, raised at the country-side, dreaming his dreams among the cattle of caws which he urged them to graze. It seems very interesting to me that all people I met on my road to bump up to the only one who was borned in Santiago, the saint city, who was travelled in Australia, after a year earlier he had crushed by love in some restaurant he worked to pay his studies, and now he wanted to go farther then his born city, and burn everything and start over.

Well, that Santa Compagna myth said that in Galicia`s forests are hunted souls which suffered a great pain in time of their life and, like any other ghost, they didn`t find peace not even after they died. So they stay together, in bunch of 3-4 restless souls, or maybe even more, and they appear only to the people who had an excruciating twisted pain, beyond the supportable limit, and they come and talk and confort them. More than that, once you meet the Santa Compana ghost-gang you`ll be bound to suport it all your life, because they will acompagne you until the end of your days.

Nico didn`t tell me, but I think he would like that his wounded chest attract the ghosts of Santa Compana. He didn`t care what happens with him anymore. His journey was something almost suicidal. I thought this kind of mixture of force and weakness, intelligence and naivity, and cruelty and tenderness, were amazingly blent in one person. A mixture of violent feelings and emotions and sensibilities playing in his green, clear steeling eyes. I had seen once this eyelash shadowly glare somewhere, to another man who chosed to give up on all his dreams just to love a woman, and becoming more and more miserable because of that, burying all his runaway wishes, someone so far away from me, my friend.

… Because are we talking same language?

And suddenly, I stood up, feeling the acoustic urge to spit nevertelling words. Love is not sufference, I told him. Love is not a cage, I told him. Love is not misery, I told him. Love is not a casket, I told him. It`s not an useless fight, I told him. Love is freedom. Love is equilibrium. Balance. Love is when you are flying. It`s the most pure, near and unalterate expression of divinity. Love is absolution. I had to pass through all kind of twisted love stories to understand this. Obsedant loves, or lying, or dry, or possessive loves, or fightening, or frightening loves, or temporar loves, those kind who can`t remain, because they don`t care about you. As you. Just you. You know?
Nobody has the right to make you feel this way. All your loving lovers who gave you stupid reasons not to be with you, just give up on them and don`t look back. It`s what you did all these kilometres smashed on your feet, without moaning and complainting like others, without having that funny walk of pilgrims, without showing your blesters like the majority. You have the dignity of walking not-showing pain. Listen to me, behind all the reasons somebody gave you not to do this or that, there are dens and thickets of other rotten or burned relationships and this is what finishes you inside. But this is nothing to do with who you really are and feel. This makes you hesitate, because you want to know where did you did wrong, where is your guilt, your mistake, what hadn`t done right. I`m telling you, Nico, you don`t need the others inducted guilt. You just waste your time thinking to make happy someone that doesn`t want to. You think your dreams are waiting for you? Don`t think too much. They are not!
Love is crazy, it makes unbielivable things for the other one, if this someone is disponible and open, love is without ending and without beggining, no matter the other one you loved choses to be. Go if you want to the end of the world, and I know you`ll reach there, because you have all you need for this, strong will and strong legs. But go for yourself, not for a stupid woman who doesn`t know you and torture you with her doubts and fears and suspicions and mistruts. You are here or not. You love or you not. You wake up in the morning or not. You follow your dreams or not. You exist for yourself. And it`s not a question of cruel egoism here. Go and find your absolution. This is what you have to conquer. In it you must throw yourself, for it you must go farther and farther and never look back. Not for a human being ho has nothing to do with you and, above all these, is throughing boulders and pebbles into your heart.

That`s what I said to him, and my eyes were empty looking in vain at the river`s water who`s masticate its humid slippery stones. And it was like I am talking to myself, me, this girl who is searching miracols everywhere and ended in some stocked love miseries and then locked in own-made cages. You have the key!, I yelled and my voice had hit the woods and forests.
He gave me his frowning look, and his eyes became hungry and curious, like he was expecting for a long time that somebody confirm his intuitions.
I screamed wishing to escape from all my heard stories, lost stories, fucked-up stories, without carrying on the effects I made with these words. Or if they have any. I was tired of men`s looks killed by foolish women who wanted strong prouves of loving, who had tested patience and toasted it in their frustrating impotence juice and had destroyed the beautiful savage of some hearts that never will be reduced to a domestic life or never will can be sacrified on fals altar of false beliefs.
Nico really has all he need to go farther, without victimise himself. He just had to shake himself from this sweet-sorrow torpor of tireness.
Listen, Nico, I have to go alone now. We will see each other in the next city, or perhaps in the next village. There are seven days until we`ll arrive to Santiago. We have no choice than go farther.

When You`ll Be So Far Away …

I left him there, under a shadowly big tree, without having any clue and not wanting to know what happend behind me. Another people warn in love. Vainglory games. Some woman want some man to fight for her until all the animals in the forest will die. Until he`ll die. But most probably she had some other man who was offering something else. You could go in hell for her and return alive and safe, meanwhile enslave life and death and all the demons in hell, and even that you had another tests to pass, like poor cursed Sisif, and then you didn`t know if you are Sisif or his stupid boulder. Going back, or going down, these are bullshit, nonsens, and I won`t came to you to show you lessons about endless love, because in the end love die more quickly than other things. That`s why is very important but again not. And everytime it depends on the other one`s shows, figures or rights, it depends how good lyer is, he/she wants you or maybe not, I mean he/ she wants you, of course, but what if he/ she find somebody more interesting? And what if he/ she doesn`t find? What if remains alone, isn`t it better to have a safe hand? An A plan? Or B plan? Or C revange plan? Or D marriage plan?
In these cases it`s better to have dust under your boots. And unbroken dreams. And some wildness. Just in case.

Well… four days later, I received all kind of signs that Nico is looking for me. Everyone I met said: hei, Nico is after you, is searching you. He let me signs in all albergues I passed through.
The hosts were reading my origin country on my credencial and asked me: „Tu soy la chica turca-rumana? A young man from Spain was asking about you”. I felt a kind of disperation in finding me, and, when Alin, my romanian friend, which I met him in a little village where I planned to stay over night, told me: „Nico is 4 km away from here, in the next albergue and he wants to show you something” i rennonced immediatly on my initial plan and I run on those 4 kilometres to see him in Arzua.

I will make the long story short and I just want to tell you this: he was very happy to see me again, that kind of not heartbreaking joy, that kind of joy when you jump on other one`s arms and you know you are hugged as well as you are hugging, because you know nothing wrong will happend next to him, that nothing you shared together, moments, kilometres or stories won`t be destroyed, alterated, or vanished in the garbage of forgiveness. Something which should exist beyond distance, in presence or in absence of false gods, beyond each one`s ego, pure, incredible, marvellous fenomenal asexual embracement of souls.
I thought finally I had found my miracle. There. In a young man. I had realised then how disperate need I also need not to talk someone in vain. But it wasn`t over. For me my miracle it was just starting.

Nico took my hand and his eyes were glittering like that day when he made 40 kilometres from Ponferrada to Vega de Valcarce. We sat on a bench and he took some papers from his pocket. I recognised my poem`s title: When You`ll Be far Away, My Friend. He found it on the internet and he had written it on his notebook. He read it me and my eyes became soft and humid, because he turned me back in time, 7 or 8 years ago, making me visualise the whole white night consummed on my working table to find the right words to make another man follow his dreams. And then I had renonced of this crazyness.
The last strophe was like that:

„and if you meet a dying mermaid
and she sings her sad old song
listen to her whispering sadness
and you`ll find the way back home… ”

Nico doesn`t look at all like a mermaid, but I surelly found that day my way back home, even if I had enough time to spent in Spain and I was prepared to the other happenings ready to draw me down or away. I didn`t care, I was having something that never will be lost, no matter circomstances will be from now on. And it wasn`t a love story.

Don`t tell anyone….

Next morning, in Arzua we drank together a caffee con leche, this time sitting both to the same table. We decided to go in separate ways, each one on his/her own Camino. What more could we say to each other, after we talked and talked all night long and he said to me that after months and days he feels now again the taste of the bread when is eating it and the flavor of the caffee when is drinking it?
He gave me as a present his orange jacket who was smelling like wind, like rain, like green rich forest. Dust and water. Pilgrim sweat. And sun. A lot of sun. And it was like something very dear was coming back to me.
He left first. I watched over him until the yellow arrows swallowed him in the forest viscern. He didn`t turn his head. It had to be like this.
I didn`t see him from then. We write one to the other. I know he reached at the end of the world, like he wanted it. But I was sure about that before he said me so.

He wrote me these days:
„Everything is changing in my point of view. I have arrived to my city a couple or three days ago, and as I suposed, all is the same. It´s like that film with Bill Murray where he has to live in the same day everytime. But now something is diferent. I have learned that things are not so easy. But I have learned that you have not to see the next five meters, no. You have to see to the end of the world. To the end of the words.”

And just like this, what it began in a such beautiful named caffee „Bonfin”, just like in a some sort of profecy, it brings me back again the confidence in people. In some people only. The ones who didn`t want to pay in exchange dreams versus love.

Sa zicem ca s-a terminat

si poate ca or sa-mi iasa multe pe nas de-acum incolo, cum se intimpla de obicei cu lucrurile bune pe care nu vreau sa le vad decit eu pina cind tind si ele spre minus infinit. si ce asa mare chestie sa umbli pe jos atitia km? doar nu te-a pus nimeni in afara de tine sa faci asta. si care au fost motivatiile si de ce. si ce-ai mai descoperit pe parcurs. lucruri pe care probabil e mult mai bine sa le pastrezi pentru tine cind vezi in ce hal poate fi denaturat totul.

pina la urma toti o dau cu bita in balta. important este sa ai doua miini cu care sa tii bine aceasta bita si o balta care sa faca plici si sa-i stropeasca pe altii. cit tam tam… poate ar fi mai bine sa schimb limba, tara, obiceiurile, fiindca e de-a dreptul in zadar. si bineinteles cel mai rau este cind vorbesti la modul general, imediat cite caciuli atitea muste.

si cind credeam ca nu voi intilni alti romani pe Camino, in Leon am dat peste doua femei, una mai simpatica decit cealalta, si dupa ce zile intregi nu vorbesti in graiul tau simti o bucurie calda ca alti doi oameni din tara ta de bastina impart aceeasi experienta. sau, ma rog, citeva puncte comune din ea. si ce stii este ca pentru citeva momente nu limba in care te exprimi conteaza, ci ceea ce transmiti cu sufletul, daca-l mai ai. restul ala care speri sa nu-ti fi ramas alterat si pe care te-ai dus sa-l recuceresti, fiindca nu mai puteai nici tu sa-l pipai intre atitea intimplari nefaste.

(Monica, 32 de ani, avocat)

(Dana, 32 de ani, avocat)

si desi pe drumul asta singurul lucru pe care-l inveti este sa mergi mai departe, fiindca nu ai de ales, uneori cind iti asezi din nou talpile pe aceleasi pietre, iti dai seama ca nu mai are rost. ce-ai avut de vazut ai vazut, ce-ai avut de priceput ai priceput si ce a fost prea mult, a fost prea mult. ca chiar daca vrei cu tot pretul sa iesi din anumite intimplari, mai degraba te incilcesti in ele si uite-asa.

la Crucea de Fier de dupa Foncebadon, desi n-am avut nimic de lasat acolo sa devina sloi de gheata, sau stana de piatra, cum este pare-se obiceiul pelerinilor, mi-am dorit, si asta pentru ca oricum nu aveam nimic de pierdut, ca daca e sa se termine ceva in viata mea atunci asa sa se intimple, fara zbateri sau prea multe explicatii. si mai repede, dom`le, odata. sa se astearna daca se poate o indiferenta din aceea lucida si fara alte toane.

apoi in Molinaseca am privit cum se balaceau oamenii in riu si i-am auzit cum rideau. mi-am dorit pentru o clipa sa fiu in mijlocul lor si probabil ca daca as fi stiut sa inot m-as fi aruncat asa, imbracata cu totul, direct de pe pod.

in Santiago am ajuns din nou aseara. ploua marunt, mocaneste si catedrala era inchisa. si mi-am spus ei bine, asta a fost. prea mult. mult prea mult. si nu stiu ce sa fac acum cu toate astea. probabil o sa merg mai departe. cu trenul. cu autobuzul. cu avionul sau pe jos. o sa ma lovesc de oameni si unii or sa se loveasca zdravan de mine. ce importanta are? unii or sa fie fericiti, altii complet nefericiti. ii prefer pe primii, nu? cu ei pot cobori povirnisuri abrupte, sau pot urca in cuibul vulturilor, sau pot fuma printre darimaturile caselor o tigara, doua, inainte de a porni din nou de-amboulea pe cararea mea. pina la urma e vorba doar de anumite perceptii, obsesii din care nu mai poti iesi, decizii luate pe moment, satul fiind de una sau de alta, de dorinta de a iesi dintr-o rutina care te macina, poate si de reinventare, de modelare. sau de evolutie. spirituala sau nu. de-aia nu cred in fair-play. ci doar in fapte. de-aia unii n-or sa vada decit la 50 de m de curtea lor, iar altii vor zari pina la capatul pamintului cum se sfirsesc unii de oboseala sau de neputinta. si pe urma se vor chinui sa se impace cu unii si cu altii, numai cu ei insisi nu. unii se vor alinia la rind sa primeasca pasca, iar altii vor sta sa priveasca deoparte, considerindu-se nedemni de ea. sfinti si pacatosi. toti in aceeasi oala. in aceeasi fiertura. poate crezi ca esti special chiar in momentul cind devii lamentabil. n-o sa-ti spuna nimeni cum esti de fapt, mai ales atunci cind nici tu nu stii.

hai ca a inceput sa-mi placa din nou sa aberez…

(o diploma care mi-a lasat un gust amar)

(locuri prin care am trecut, materializate in diverse stampile)

(si ultima… care ar fi trebuit sa fie cea mai importanta, dar n-a fost)

Ei bine, si pe urma te intrebi unde s-au dus toate lucrurile acelea frumoase pe care le ascunsesei intr-un colt de perna, noaptea, si le gaseai mereu acolo cind aveai nevoie de ele, chiar inainte de a adormi. se intimpla lucruri ciudate cu oamenii, dar mai stiu ca acestea sint facute din furie, o furie oarba, necontrolata si zic bine, domle, a fost furios, peste un an o sa-i treaca si o sa ajunga, din nefericire, ca si mine, la concluzia ca a fost mai bine asa. spre binele lui i-a ars viata una peste bot. si mai dispare o jucarie ce te facea vesel…

(catedrala din Astorga)

(palatul Gaudi din Astorga)

asa cum probabil o sa ma intreb eu peste ceva vreme unde s-a dus nebunia mea, fervoarea, indrazneala, poate cruzimea, si cum am devenit asa de leguma, nu, nu e cazul acum, dar lumea se schimba si nu poti fi puternic tot timpul, nu poti intelege tot timpul, nu poti fi acolo tot timpul, disponibil, flamind sa sari deoparte, nu? esti om, de-aia nu poti, daca erai animal aveai o scuza… asa ramine doar sa-ti amintesti vag rasariturile de soare pe care le-ai privit din taxiuri, diminetile, cind alergai spre destinatii necunoscute, si nu, nu e vorba de escale, ci de altceva, de acea lume care se schimba si nu mai simte la unison cu tine, poate n-a fost niciodata acolo? poate tocmai asta e frumos?

(pardon, apus de soare in Lira, un sat de pescari la aproximativ 60 de km de Finistere)

sa nu bati bum-bum acelasi ritm, ci doar sa tii la tavaleala pentru citeva secunde cit 2, 3 sau 10 ani? si acele replici ivite de nu stiu unde care darima totul, destrama totul… sint lucruri care nu se pot ierta. poti da apa insetatilor cind au nevoie, mincare flaminzilor cind au nevoie, ingrijiri strainilor cind au nevoie, poti sa intepi cite basici vrei, sa mingii cite frunti fierbinti se rotunjesc sub degetele tale, poti sa zimbesti in mii de feluri copiilor, sa-ti dai ultimii bani din buzunar pe un telefon public numai ca sa auzi vocea cuiva drag, si sa faci mai bine de 800 km naiba stie de ce, daca nu de-al dracu, ce Santiago, mai, dar iti spun, unele lucruri chiar nu le poti ierta. si vrei… si vrei… incerci, iti spui, trebuie sa pot sa iert, apoi le lasi balta, balta aia de care vorbeam mai devreme, in care, ca peste tot, luceste soarele, na…

(barci tacute, asta vedeam de la balconul meu pe 21, 22, 23 iulie, tot in Lira, trei dintre cele mai fericite zile din viata mea, liniste si pace si atit)

gindeste-te doar la toate iubirile ratate si e de-ajuns, la timpul care s-a scurs, nu mai esti ca acum zece ani si tot n-ai priceput nimic, macar sa fi invatat detasarea, desprinderea, libertatea alegerilor altuia… oamenii ca oglinzi… vad si nu-mi convine si doar sper ca eu nu voi ajunge intr-un anumit fel… ca vitalitatea asta care mi s-a agatat de glezne, urcind din pietre si praful drumului, n-o voi pierde pentru fleacuri si nici printre gunoaie… dar ce stiu eu cum vin blestemele si deochiurile, hahahahaha… si cum tot din fleacuri se pot pierde mari prietenii, de parca n-as fi patita… dar bine, sigur ca unii au mai multe drepturi decit altii… e atit de usor sa te simti pacalit si tradat, pot sa-ti fac zece scenarii chiar acum. lasa ca o sa le pastrez pentru vremuri mai bune.

cred ca ce m-a tinut incapatinata pe drum a fost doar eliberarea aceea nesabuita, starea de gratie a km mincati unul cite unul si curiozitatea: urmatorul copac, urmatorul sat, urmatorul bar, urmatorul om, urmatorul dor, urmatorul sictir, urmatoarea stare de gratie, urmatoarea fuga disperata aproape catre sau de fericire…

Tu cum te simti cu urmatorul secret pe care-l rupi si te crezi puternic fiindca recunosti in tine slabiciunea tiranului ce vrea sa se razbune ca sa-si linga inchipuitele rani in care tot singur si-a bagat ghearele?… poti sa dai un raspuns morocanos, de parca m-ai minti pe mine sau de parca mie mi-ar mai pasa de ceva. vreau doar sa ramin cu impresia ca anumite muzici inca mai vibreaza in mine, chiar daca altii le-au ingropat demult, fiindca imi placeam exact asa cum eram atunci.

indragostita si increzatoare in oameni. adica naiva. ca sa nu zic proasta. si daca nu sint unii, vor fi altii. asta nu inseamna ca toti sint la fel, ci doar ca pe unii ii poti iubi in siguranta, iar pe altii doar daca mori incet-incet. ii prefer pe aia cu siguranta la ei, fiindca daca ma imbat cu ei astfel, in ceasuri tirzii, stiu cum sa ma adoarma frumos si nu fac urit cu spume si reprosuri. si mai stiu sa-ti incalzeasca degetele cind mori de frig, sau sa te stringa la piept cind ploua al dracului afara si tu te simti ca un ciine pus la zidul scorojit al cine stie carei biserici opulente pe dinauntru, dar care miroase a Nala si Damayanti pe dinafara, si ceva singe scurs printre firidele caramizilor.

ceva se intimpla, am mai zis. simt miscari de placi tectonice in sufletele prietenilor mei. si chiar daca nu ma privesc direct pe mine, uneori imi pasa pina in miezul cutremurului si inapoi.

oricum, am vazut mai multe decit trebuia sa vad. nu ingeri, diavoli destui. si poduri reci ce desparteau lumile in doua. si tu sa nu fii nici acolo, nici acolo. chiar nu stiu cum sa explic mai bine de atit. si nici nu vreau.

Later edit (English translation)

Let`s say it is over

and maybe a lot of things will became crazy, as usually happens with good things that I see until they tend to minus infinity. and what was so great thing to walk so many km on foot? Nobody put you to do this except yourself. and what motivation and why. and what you discovered during this trip. things that probably is much better to keep for yourself when you see how can be denatured by superficial people.

In the end everyone splashes with the hammer in the mud. For this, only thing you need is to have two hands to keep it well and some mud to make splash and sputts the others. Pam pam!… maybe will be better to change your language, country, customs, because sometimes you are sure that everything is in vain. and of course the worst is when I am talking generalities. How many caskets so many flies.
and when I thought that I won`t meet other Romanians on the Camino, in Leon I gave over two girls, one cute than the other, and after the whole month not talking in your language you feel a warm feeling of hapiness that two other people in the same country as you are having the same experience. or, whatever, some common points of it. and what you know is that for several moments, not the language in which you express counts, but what transmit with your soul, or the remains of it. Those remains that you hope they are still there inaltered and for that you went on the fields to rebuilt them, because you could not touch you anymore among so many stupid missadventures.

and although on this road the only thing you learn is to go further, because you don`t have other choice, sometimes when you put your foot again on the same stones, you realise that is sensless. what you had seen you saw, what you had understand, you understood, picked the good and what was too much was too much. that even if you want disperatly to escape from everything`s lace, even if you want out of certain happenings, you are just involved there and you don`t know how you ended like this and so on. And so on…

At Cross of Iron after Foncebadon, although I had nothing left there to become ice, or sheepfold stone, as is it seams to be pilgrims` custom, I wanted, and that’s because I had anyway nothing to lose, that if something in my life has to finish then so be it without many flops or too many explanations. and faster, senior, fuck them once. to spread some indifference and cruel lucidity and no other vagaries.

then in Molinaseca I looked at people how they were splish-splashing the river and I heard them laughing. I wished for a moment to be in the middle of them and probably if I knew how to swim I have thrown it, dressed like I was, from the bridge.

I arrived in Santiago last night again. small and cold drops of rain, and the cathedral was closed. and I said, well, it was too much. too long. and I do not know what to do for the moment with all these. probably I will go forward. by train. by bus. air or on foot. Some people smacked on me and others hit me back. So… What is more important? some will be happy, others completely miserable. I prefer the first ones, right? I can go with them on down steep slopes, or climb in eagles` nests, or smoking among some broken houses one or two cigarettes, before going further on our path. In the end we are just talking about some perceptions, obsessions in which you can not get out, fast decisions, or bad decisions, being tired of this or that, the desire to get out of the routine that pulverise you, and then the reinvention, remodelling. or evolution. spiritual or not. – that`s why I do not believe in fair play. but in deeds. – that`s why some can`t see 50 meters further from their yard, and others will discern things `till the end of Earth how the happenings smashes in tireness or incompentence. and then they will struggle to come to terms with and some others, but not with themselves. some will be in line to receive pasca row, and others will stay behind to regard, considering themselves not saints enough to receive it. Santos y pecadores. Kings and beggars all in the same pot. in the same porridge. you may think you’re special in particular moments when you become lame. Nobody will tell you how you really are, especially when you don`t know yet.

God, I`m begginning to love my aberrations…

Well, and then you are wondering where all those beautiful things that you were keeping hidden in a corner of your pillow were gone, you are wondering at night, those things that you were finding always there when you were needed, just before you fall asleep. strange things happens with people, but I know that they are made of rage, a blind and uncontrolled rage, and I say okay, someone was furious but over a year this rage will pass, and this someone will reach, unfortunately, as well as me to the conclusion that it was better this way. only for his own good, life punched him. and look how another beautiful toy who makes you happy disappears… forever.

As probably like I`ll ask myself after a while where were vanished my craziness, my fervour, my courage, cruelty, and how I became so like a vegetable, no, it’s not the case now, but the world is changing and you can not be strong all the time, you can not understand all the time, you can not be there all the time, available, hunger to jump to help people, isn`t it? You are just a human been, that`s why, if you were an animal you had an excuse… remains only to remember the sunsets you admired from cabs, in the mornings, when you were running to unknown destinations, and no, I am not talking about stopovers, but something else, if the world is changing and no longer feels in unison with you, maybe it is because never was there? And not this thing makes life more beautiful?

Maybe not to hit the same boom-boom of the heart, only to keep the same drolling for several seconds as 2, 3 or 10 years? And those lines and remarks arised from nowhere who can destroy everything, and crush everything … the things that can not forgive.

you can give thirsty people water when they need, hungry people food when they need, care to the foreigners when they need, you can sting how many ampullas you want, and comfort hot foreheads are rounded under your fingers, you can smile in thousands of ways to the children, you get lose the pocket money from a public phone only to hear the voice of someone dear, and to do more than 800 km hell knows why, if not the hell, but I am telling you, there are some things that you can`t forgive. and you want… and you fucking try and you say: come on, I have to forgive, I must to forgive, and then you renonce to do that, you let them in the mud of indiferrence, the mud that I was talking earlier, in which, as everywhere, sun is shining in the same way…

think to all your broken love-stories and this is enough for you, time had run, you are no longer as ten years ago, and you still don`t get it, at least if you had learned the detachement, the breaking out, the breathing in, free elections… people like mirrors … I saw them and I am not comfortable with that and I only hope that I won`t get into a certain kind… the vitality that it was hung out of my ankles, climbing through stones and dust road, I won`t lose it for widgets, nor among the garbage… but how do I know how curses will came and what astral map will say, hahahahaha… and how all of the widgets can be lost big friendships, like I don`t know as well… but, for sure some people have more rights than others… is so easy to feel tricked and betrayed, I can make you ten scripts right now. I think I`ll keep them for better times.

I think what kept me stocked on the road was only this foolish issue, some state of grace of eaten km one by one just for curiosity: the next tree, the next village, the next bar, the next man, the next desire, following nausea, following state of grace, the next almost desperate running in the arms of happiness… or running out of…

How do you feel with the next secret you think you can broke and became powerful because you recognize in it the weakness of the despot that wants to revange his imaginary wounds made by himself?… You can give a grouty answer, like you will lie me or like I care. I just want to remain with the impression that certain music still sings for me, even if others have long been burried it, because I liked myself exactly as I was then.

loving and confident in people. meaning naive. not to say fool. and if some are not, there will be others. It doesn`t mean that all are equally, but some you can love safely, and others only if you die slowly. I surelly prefer the first ones, because if I will drink with them late in the night, or in the afternoons, I know how beautiful they lull you, without bubbles in the corner of the lips or reproaches. Also they know how to warm your freezing fingers when it`s cold outside, or how to embrace you when it`s raining hell out and you feel like a dog lost under some old wall of the church ,opulente inside, but smelling like Nala and Damayanti outside, and some blood leaked through the recess` bricks.

Something happens, I said before. I feel tectonics movements in my friends souls. and even if these happenings are not directly related to me, sometimes I feel like I am in the middle of the earthquake.

Anyway, I saw more than I needed to see. no angels, devils enough. and cold silent bridges that separate world in two. and you aren`t here, nor there. I don`t know how to explain better than this. and I don`t want to.

De-a lungul Spaniei

si de-a latul. si de-a curmezisul.

inapoi pe Camino, chiar in orasul de unde a inceput propriu zis o asa numita calatorie interioara, sa vedem. cumva trebuie sa dam intimplarilor o semnificatie, nu?
Burgos. Si acest calm cu care pot privi acum totul. am trecut aseara pe linga terasa unde l-am vazut pe Nico prima oara. interesant este sa descopar ca se numeste Bonfin. atunci, nu am dat importanta numelui, acum ma amuza, deh… aseara era inchisa cind am ajuns in centrul istoric cu autobuzul de Zaragoza.

mi-am amintit apoi, in timp ce stateam in pat, cu picioarele pe pereti, cartea aia de joc cu mesaje pretioase, care cica se potrivesc celui ce are bafta sa le traga dintr-un pachet smecher, carte bineinteles pierduta. ca si batul Don Manolo, undeva intr-o alta statie de autobuz, intr-un alt oras mare, Valladolid, unde am poposit vinerea trecuta. zicea mesajul ala ca daca fac lucrurile in acelasi mod ca inainte o sa am aceleasi rezultate, nu? ceva pe-acolo. bine, parca era si un film pe tema asta, cind unul si-a bagat picioarele in tot si a facut viceversa de cum ii obisnuise pe toti. nu mai stiu ce s-a intimplat cu el pina la sfirsitul filmului, dar fiind eroul principal sigur a fost ceva cu happy-end. Bonfin, cum ar veni.

ei bine, nici n-am terminat bine Camino si-a venit cu lejeritate spre mine un anumit soi de miserupeala fata de tot ce ma deranja pina acum.

for example:
1. cind vezi ca unul exagereaza cu prezumtiile, suspiciunile sau paranoia, in loc sa-l linistesti cum faceai inainte ca prostu, fa-l, domle, sa cedeze big time;

2. cind altcineva sta cu ochii pe tine ca pe butelie ca nu cumva sa faci vreo prostie la care nu te-ai gindit, dar a avut grija altcineva s-o faca in locul tau, c-asa sint ginditorii astia, gindesc si in locul altora, ei bine, fa prostia aia chiar de fata cu el/ea. inainte, cu tupeu, sa vedem care e mai nesimtit. nu cum faceai inainte, te retrageai pentru binele omenirii careia nici macar nu-i pasa de tine. si daca se dovedeste ca esti tu ala cel mai nesimtit, doar asa la misto, ca tot s-a jucat nu mai stiu cine cu focul si-a vrut sa vezi ce si cum, batind saua sa priceapa iapa, sa nu se mire nu mai stiu cine c-a luat-o in freza.

(pe cind pantalonii mei erau inca lungi)

3. intru aici si dau peste alta desteapta care crede ca a fi scriitor este mai presus decit a fi om, si, ca orice basinoasa care vrea sa-si demonstreze dreptatea, mai ales atunci cind greseste, baga o atitudine de-aia dupa care mor eu, especially cind se crede inventatoare de penicilina si are impresia ca se trage din os de ceauseasca. bine, daca in mod normal altadata i-as fi zis vreo doua in fata, acum nu mai am timp, chef sau energie pentru jeguri de-astea umane.

(nu mai e loc, dom`le, pe pamint de atitia scriitori, in Ponferrada li s-au facut si strazi, sa nu cumva sa… )

in fine…

egoismul feroce al animalului demult fara nici un dumnezeu. lucrurile se intimpla sau nu. unele le poti controla, altele nu. sa-ti fie egal.

am innoptat din nou in Burgos, in acelasi Albergue de-acum 3 saptamini, simtindu-ma ca o veterana pelerina care s-a intors in locurile unde mai are cite ceva de verificat inainte de plecare. reluind traseul in sens invers trec prin locurile pe care le-am calcat a pied si ma cuprinde duiosia la fereastra autobuzului.

dimineata de azi a fost rece, parca statea sa ploua, parca nu. cerului ii este egal ce se intimpla in lume, desigur. eu, pe terasa strajuita de 5 platani uriasi, port la git cruciulita daruita de Jeremy, pe umeri jacheta lui Nico si pe cap palaria de culoare incerta a lui Vodky. acum na, ce sa mai zicem, impresii gresite vor exista intotdeauna, in continuare sint convinsa ca legaturile dintre oameni sint importante si daca ajungi sa-ti bati singur joc de ele, poate ca nici nu meriti altceva decit singuratatea. e si asta un echilibru. unii il numesc cinism si chiar se mindresc cu el. of course, au muncit din greu sa ajunga acolo, asta nu inseamna ca sint interesanti. poate doar morti din pdv sentimental, nu?

despre ce dracu vorbesc eu aici?

sint in drum spre Leon.
Alin la Bilbao. Alexandra se prajeste la capatul pamintului.

La o distanta de doua zile si jumatate de Santiago

Diminetile, ca de obicei, mi le incep intr-un bar sau o cafenea. Ma uit la oameni, la stiri, rasfoiesc un ziar, fumez, fac ordine printre notite, verific hartile pe care le am la dispozitie. diminetile Spaniei. pamploneze. leoneze. castiliene. acum galiciene.

Galicia, desi este mai salbatica, mai intortocheata si are carari mai inguste, pute ca dracu. a balegar si a borhot de nu-ti mai ramine altceva decit sa maresti iar pasul. l-am tot marit zilele astea. ca sa scap de anumite persoane, dar si ca sa ajung mai repede la Santiago. ce diferenta intre primele zile ale calatoriei si cele de-acum… nu degeaba doream eu sa-mi conserv energia atunci.

e ca in atletism. sprint pe ultimul tur de stadion. inspiratie. expiratie. conectarea cu pamintul. felul in care plaminii tai primesc aerul. grija cu care-ti obisnuiesti trupul cu efortul fizic. ochii cu orizonturile. deschiderea. incepi cu joc de glezne. sfirsesti cu alergarea de viteza. nu trebuie sa fii campion sa tii minte diminetile din adolescenta cind faceai jogging prin parcurile Constantei.

Din Sarria turistii s-au inmultit. ii numesc turisti si nu pelerini, fiindca in umbla in grupuri mari, galagioase, cu rucsacruile pline de lucruri inutile si cu buzunarele doldora de bani, se opresc in fiecare bar, fac zarva si ajung deja beti manga si cu chef de trancaneala pe la hanuri. daca pornesti din Sarria si ajungi la Santiago poti primi diploma de pelerin pentru cei 100 km pe care i-ai facut pe jos.

ma gindesc la pustiul asta, Eduardo, de 11 ani, care a mers mai mult de 400 km cu tatal sau si si-au intrerupt calatoria undeva aproape de Triacastela, pentru niste urgente de familie.

ei nu vor avea diplomele de pelerin, desi Edi a fost admirabil in rezistenta lui, in cumintenie, fara mofturi, fara vaicareli, fara vreau aia sau ailalta, da-mi aia, cumpara-mi telefon nu stiu de care etc etc. copil care atunci cind am rupt o planta de prin paduri m-a certat c-am omorit-o degeaba.

din Saint-Jean, de unde am inceput calatoria, n-au mai ramas pe drum decit trei oameni: eu, Alin si Alexandra. Ne-am intilnit destul de des, desi n-am parcurs km astia impreuna decit primele zece zile. cumva ne-am obisnuit asa. eu m-am obisnuit asa. nu simt nevoia de alte explicatii. si nici Alexa. dar in Portomarin, cind am baut un suc impreuna, fara sa ne spunem prea multe, fara sa avem puterea sa admitem asta, ne-am dat seama ca a fost mai bine asa pentru fiecare, pentru ce aveam de descoperit, de aflat, de rezistat. parca totul a intrat in pamintul pe care am mers. mi-a spus ca si-a amintit si ea visul pe care l-a avut inainte cu o luna de a pleca din Bucuresti, tot in timp ce traversa podul din Portomarin si-am avut un click cind am rostit aproximativ aceleasi cuvinte ca cele din vis. numai ca atunci il interpretasem cu totul altfel!

vremea s-a schimbat. e rece acum, ca si cum ar veni toamna pe-aici. in tara aceleasi rahaturi, aceleasi fleacuri, aceleasi sanse irosite. poate de-asta am avut aseara un atac de panica intr-o padure, unde atipisem sub umbra unui copac. m-am trezit si nu mai stiam nimic, nici cine sint, nici ce caut acolo, cit timp a trecut. apoi mi-am revenit usor, dar a fost mai rau. am simtit ca ma sufoc numai la gindul intoarcerii. parca am ramas fara aer, fara sentimente, fara emotii. senzatia de neputinta atit de straina mie.

am tipat la niste germani din apropiere, ca sa-mi revin. faceau si astia prea multa zarva la 50 de m departare. mai tirziu in restaurant, am izgonit-o pe Marie-France, sa dispara si-asta cu rinjetul ei cu tot, ma urmarise toata ziua cu durerile ei si cu palavrageala inutila despre constelatii familiale si cu visele ei despre karma. i-am spus ca je suis desole, mais je veux rester seule.
nu voiam sa mai alerg alti km sa scap si de ea. unii oameni chiar sint lipsiti de orice intuitie, desi mai clar de-atit nu le poti spune una sau alta. nu mai am putere sa desenez in vint, desi am energie pentru 40 km pe zi.

trupul ma asculta acum. 6 kg s-au topit in masa musculara. miros a soare si a vint. vitalitate si rezistenta. stiam insa ca toate astea sint in mine. ca pot merge pina la capatul pamintului si inapoi de sau dupa barbati, dar ca nu voi putea spune in fata niciunuia te iubesc sau du-te dracu. acum pot.

spania e frumoasa, dar cred ca m-am saturat de tortillias, de salatele rusesti care sint de fapt frantuzesti, de piinea lor uscata care-ti taie gingiile si de germanii care-au impinzit-o, aceasta rasa care se considera inca ariana, dar care se baseste in public si nu recunoaste holocaustul. mama, ce mai iau foc cind aduci vorba…

nu ma intereseaza diploma de pelerin, motivatiile mele n-au fost de ordin religios. singura religie pe care o imbratisez si careia m-am supus intotdeauna a fost si va fi in continuare dragostea.

nu mi-a fost dor de nimeni din tara pe drumul asta, adica dorul ala cumplit, atit de misto in care simti ca te topesti fara el. cu mama am vorbit mereu la telefon. in rest, chiar am vrut sa uit citeva persoane. stiu insa ce fac, cu cine sint, pe cine mint in continuare.

nu stiu nici cit e ceasul, nici ce zi este, nici in a cita zi a calatoriei sint. am pierdut notiunea timpului, am incetat sa numar km. stiu doar ca sint la doua zile si jumatate distanta de Santiago si ca nu simt nici o emotie. in fapt, nici nu cred ca sint moastele vreunui sfint acolo, dupa cum e legenda, dar ma rog… sa lasam pelerinii sa-si vada de credintele lor. in ceea ce ma priveste o sa-mi iau o camera de 5 stele si intru in primul cabinet cosmetic sa-mi fac manichiura. atita tot. Apoi de la Santiago o iau la pas spre Finistere, capatul lumii, sa-mi ard cele doua tricouri pe care le-am tot purtat si sacul de dormit. rucsacul meu cintareste acum 2 kg. nu m-am indurat sa-mi arunc parfumul, in rest am renuntat la tot ce nu-mi era necesar sau am dat cui avea nevoie: pastilele de spirulina, crema si plasa anti-tintari, sprayul anti-dog, acum nu mai mi-e teama de ciini etc etc.

dar nu mi-a lipsit nimic. nici tigarile, nici cafelele, nici mesele bune cind am avut chef de ele, nici apa calda, nici internetul, nici discutiile interesante. am avut absolut tot ce-mi trebuie. e simplu cind iti dai seama ca ai nevoie de atit de putin ca sa fii liber si fericit.

am inregistrat totul pe retina, in inima, in minte. am 4000 de fotografii in aparat sa-mi amintesc locuri si oameni, expresii umane, am legat doua prietenii frumoase cu doi barbati absolut extraordinari si mai am 14 zile pina la intoarcerea in tara. citeva zile o sa dispar undeva, intr-un loc numai al meu. si mai vreau sa ajung in Zaragoza sa ma imbat cu Vodky, ca de doi ani ne tot amenintam, sau sint trei, ma Vodky, ca nici nu mai stiu. o sa-ti povestesc cele mai mari tembelisme pe care le-am vazut vreodata. ramin la concluzia ca multi oameni sint de-a dreptul timpiti, dar ca asta poate face viata interesanta si suportabila, cind stai in conul tau de umbra si te amuzi de lucruri stupide sau de-a dreptul catastrofice. si daca ai cu cine sa zimbesti ironic sau complice peste toate astea e tot ce-ti poti dori in anumite momente.

Camino nu te transforma. doar scoate in evidenta ceea ce esti. te face mai constient de tot ce exista in tine, dar nu vedeai din cauza celor care sforaiau in jurul tau, pe flancul drept si pe flancul sting, bruindu-ti tacerile, deciziile, increderea si binele pe care le aveai in tine. lucruri pe care merita sa le pastrezi.

merg mai departe tot singura. cu alexa stiu ca ma voi intilni in avionul de plecare. poate si atunci o sa ne tinem de mina si o sa tacem.

celelalte articole ale mele despre aceasta calatorie, le veti citi in Eva cind vor aparea.

voi ati fost ingerii mei. miracolul care m-a facut sa merg mai departe. si daca n-ati fi fost alaturi de mine la tot ce se intimpla, probabil ca demult as fi cedat. a fost un drum greu, iar momentele foarte crude prin care am trecut nu le-am scris. asta pentru ca nu vreau sa va sperii, iar daca vreodata vreti sa faceti ceva extraordinar incepeti drumul asta. merita toti kilometri.

(km 0 de pe Camino, capatul… Finistere)

bueno… ne-auzim peste citeva zile.

Cum sa fugi de un barbat in 39 de km

Chestia asta cu neamtul m-a scos din sarite in dimineata cind am vrut sa parasesc Astorga, unul dintre cele mai frumoase orasele prin care am trecut.

ok. schimbi citeva palavre cu cineva, discutia este interesanta, gasiti o limba comuna in care sa va intelegeti, te cazezi in acelasi han si nimeresti in acelasi restaurant, de altfel singurul deschis din satul cu pricina, ca nici nu mai stiu care era, incepi iar sa vorbesti, ce naiba sa faci? doar n-o sa stai cu capul in farfurie daca ala are chef de confesiuni. fac si eu un pic pe desteapta, cind ramin in pana de idei, pac, ii arat niste poze, si uite-asa… pe urma incepi sa vorbesti despre munca ta, el iti spune ce l-a impins pe coclauri (intotdeauna am setul meu de 5-6 intrebari pe care le strecor in conversatie, fara ca cel de linga mine sa-si dea seama ce urmaresc).

ma rog… treaba e simpla. anul trecut un scriitor german, un mare comic cunoscut pe-acolo, a facut Camino si pe urma a scos o carte, citiva au crezut in ce-a spus acela si toti germanii merg acum spre Santiago de Compostela. zici ca sint in Germania, nu in Spania. Padurile sint pline de ofiderzin.

(germani mincind fasole)

dar de-aici si pina sa dau peste tot de tipul asta, era deja prea mult… si singura solutie era sa dublez viteza si sa-l las in urma citiva km sau poate vreo doua zile. chiar era peste tot. mergeam la dus, era acolo, mergeam la bar era acolo, mincam pizza, era la masa alaturata, voiam sa vizitez o catedrala, pac! il apuca si pe el rugaciunea de seara, hai la vizitat un muzeu de ciocolata, hop si el cu ciocolata in dinti… luam un pat de dormit seara, el era in patul de deasupra si tot asa… tipul de altfel mai interesant decit multi altii, dar nu chiar sa-l vad tot timpul, si mi s-a luat de el intr-o seara cind a inceput sa plinga in farfurie ca nu stiu ce spusesem eu de timp, ca fuge prea parca si ca sint mereu in competitie cu timpul si el bag seama c-a realizat din senin ca are 50 de ani, nu tu familie, nu tu nepoti, nici copii, doar o slujba care sa-l scoata la pensie. chiar nu stiam ce sa-i fac. asa ca am cerut nota de plata.

(cine iubeste si lasaaaa….)

nu arata nici rau pentru virsta lui. un neamt de 50 de ani este echivalentul unui roman pe la 36-39 de ani, cu familie, doua slujbe si 3 colaborari, nevasta cicalitoare, 3 copii si cel putin o amanta, maritata si aia cu cine stie ce bou.

asa ca a doua zi in zori a inceput alergatul pe strazile Astorgai, adica un fel de ascunsa si pitita si viteza la maxim. m-am oprit la km 15 sa beau o limonada, apoi la 25 sa maninc rapid ceva si am luat-o din loc si mai repede cind am auzit citiva germani in spatele meu. asa am reusit sa-iajung din urma pe cei care luasera trenul din Sahagun pina in Leon, bineinteles ei mergind mai lent, ma rog, nu mai tin demult socoteala kilometrilor.

Ponferrada nu mi-a placut, am facut poze castelului templierilor, ca un bun turist ce sint si am mers si mai departe.

In Cacabelos, unde m-am cazat l-am intilnit din nou pe Jeremy si pe Eduardo, si m-am simtit iar in siguranta.

O zi mai incolo am dat peste Alin si Alexandra (nu pot sa-i mai spun Mayra, nu stiu de ce, simt nevoia sa-i spun numele adevarat).

In O cebreiro am stat foarte putin cit sa intru in biserica si sa ma rog pentru doi prieteni buni.

In Triacastela mi-am cumparat un ruj lichid. Simteam ca merit asta.

In Samos am reusit in sfirsit sa vorbesc cu Barbatul de la capatul pamintului, cu care tot voiam sa vb inca din Burgos. Acum stiu de ce am venit aici, pe acest drum. ba chiar cred ca drumul meu s-a cam incheiat. Nu am avut timp sa citesc ce scrie in blogul lui, dar na… imi traduce vodky mai incolo.

(Nico - barbatul de la capatul pamintului)

Aseara mi-am luat o camera privata, doar eu si atit. fara alti pelegrini, fara fisiitul pungilor din plastic, fara barbati care pling, fara sforaitori. Atunci am realizat ca e gata. cu asta basta. desigur voi merge pina la capat. peste cinci zile voi ajunge in Santiago. apoi peste alte patru in Finisterre. dar pentru mine, asta a fost. de-acum e doar asa, sa termin ce-am inceput.

In Portomarin, unde sint acum, in timp ce treceam podul cel mare, mi-am amintit visul Alexandrei. am stiut ca o sa dau de ea si in orasul asta. am baut amindoua un suc sau o cafea, nici nu mai stiu. i-am spus ca pentru mine s-a incheiat Camino. ca de-acum incepe altceva, apoi am luat-o de mijloc si ne-am plimbat pe podul din visele ei.

da, asa e. nimic nu se intimpla fara un motiv. nici noptile cu luna plina nu merita sa le petreci de una singura. nici unele mailuri nu merita sa ramina fara raspuns. nici unele prietenii nu merita rupte. iar barbatii de la capatul pamintului merita sa ajunga la capatul pamintului, teferi si fara atacuri de panica. asa cum altii merita ceva timp sa le traduci cele mai frumoase sau cele mai puternice cuvinte pe care le-ai rostit cuiva.

(apus de soare in drum spre finistere)

mi-e dor sa citesc ceva, mi-e dor sa vad un film, mi-e dor sa ma cert cu Zan, mi-e dor de o mamaliga fierbinte. mi-e dor sa lucrez la masa mea, sa ies pe balcon, sa fumez in liniste ultima tigara din zi, mi-e dor sa scriu povesti pentru copii, mi-e dor de atitea lucruri si de atitia oameni…

ma duc sa-mi imbratisez iala…

Travelling alone

cum iesi din Calzada del Coto drumul se bifurca in Camino Real Frances si Via Trajana. ghidul meu zice ca Real Frances este mai prietenos decit celalalt, mai multa umbra, sate mai apropiate unele de altele, deci si apa la dispozitie.

cind m-am trezit in dimineata respectiva, familia de francezi plecase deja. mi-am baut fara nici o graba cafeaua intr-o harmalaie de pasari de zici ca eram in filmul lui Hitchcock, ca mai apoi, dupa ce mi-am aruncat rucsacul pe umar si am facut primii pasi, chiar sa gasesc pe cararea principala a satului pasari moarte. In continuare nici un suflet de om, parca eram intr-un loc bintuit de pasari si-atit. nici sagetile galbene nu mai erau la locul lor. devenea prea fricky asa ca am grabit pasul.

jeremy imi spusese inainte de a-si lua ramas bun ca in ultimele zile de meseta voi intra in ceea ce spaniolii numesc “fairy land”.
come on!

trebuie sa va spun ca pina acum n-am vazut nici calea lactee, nici ingeri, nici macar un afurisit de spiridus. doar s-a tinut dupa mine un magar, despre care am scris mai multe in partea cealalta pe Eva. si-n afara de satul cu pasarile moarte si de ziua in care ne-am ratacit de doua ori, n-am avut senzatia ca ma aflu pe unde nu trebuie. cel putin pina acum.

ok! deci sint in mijlocul unei raspintii si trebuie sa decid incotro s-o iau. la stinga sau la dreapta? camino Real Frances sau via Trajana? si care incepe la stinga si care incepe la dreapta? genul de decizie dupa care mor de placere.

inchid ochii, numar pina la 5 si fie ce-o fi o iau la dreapta. aveam sa-mi dau seama mai tirziu ca am intrat pe Via Trajana, adica drumul cel mai putin batut de pelerini.

iata! pe o distanta de 20 km nu m-am intilnit cu nimeni. nici apa n-am baut. de teama pasarilor galagioase, care parca ma voiau mai repede plecata de-acolo, n-am mai apucat sa-mi umplu sticla cu apa.

secunde care se prelungeau in alte secunde, ca si cum timpul se plastifia pe cimpii, ca si cum pasii mei mergeau in gol. dupa fiecare dimb, dupa fiecare colina nu se intindea in fata mea decit drumul prafuit. kilometri interminabili. scrisnetul pietrisului sub talpi. n-o sa uit niciodata sunetul asta. camera de filmat care se infierbintase in mina dreapta. gindurile care deveneau o masa compacta, incerta, buzele arse de vint, dar picioarele in continuare zdravene, simteam cum mi se intind muschii pe sub pielea, cu carnea de pe coapse se intareste cu fiecare pas.

20 km fara sa vad pe nimeni. poate ca am luat-o pe drumul gresit tocmai ca sa experimentez singuratatea absoluta, si-n timp ce scriu acum asta, imi dau seama ca pe Camino nu exista drumuri gresite. e ceva atit de viu in pietrele astea, ceva atit de sacru incit simti, pur si simplu, dincole de cuvinte, de taceri, dincolo de durerea pe care o ai intr-un deget sau in toata talpa, simti cum iti iei forta, vitalitatea, energia din absolut tot ce te incjoara. flori, fluturi, sopirle, cintecele riurilor, simfonia greierilor, serpii care-ti taie calea, ciripitul pasarilor din cringuri, morii aruncati parca deasupra capului tau cu lopata, dar mai ales, mai ales, din scrisnetulu pietrisului atit de asemanator cu scrisnetul maselelor tale. hm…

la un moment dat m-am oprit brusc. pietrele au tacut si ele. am inchis ochii, am intins bratele si am ramas asa in mijlocul drumului pret de citeva minute, nu mai stiu cite. dar am inteles atunci perfect ce mi-a spus multi ani in urma bunicul meu: “intr-o zi vei fi atit de singura in mijlocul Universului incit te vei intilni in sfirsit cu tine”. da, acum inteleg si mai bine ce mi-a spus si Mario Arroyo: “camino starts when it ends”.

am avut atunci pentru prima data straniul sentiment ca sint acolo unde trebuie, exact cind trebuie. ca in mod normal mi-ar fi fost teama de atita necuprinsa pustietate, ca cel mai mic fosnet de iarba m-ar fi facut sa tresar de spaima, dar nu, senior, incredere deplina, neprogramata, neconditionata ca esti ceea ce esti si nu vei fi niciodata altfel si ca cine vrea explicatii pentru asta trebuie sa fie nebun.

dupa alti zece km ma cazam in unul dintre cele mai frumoase hanuri, unde un don hospitalero m-a indemnat sa-mi aleg o carte din cele patru pachete de carti pe acre le avea pe masa (in engleza, franceza, germana si spaniola).

era un ritual al locului respectiv. am ales una in engleza pe care scria: “if you do what you have done, you will always get what you have gotten”. hangiul respectiv mi-a explicat ca fiecare pelerin primeste exact mesajul de care are nevoie si ca aceste carti nu gresesc niciodata. eu aveam nevoie de un dus rapid.

ei bine, daca ma las in voia misteriosului, daca dau voie Fortunei sa decida ea pentru mine? (apropo mi-am luat intr-o zi un pachet de tigari Fortuna sa vad cum sint).

e ca un joc. e ca in copilarie. ca atunci cind credeai ca tatal tau e zeu si mama nemuritoare. cind vorbeai cu norii. cind te facea fericit o halvita de 2 lei. cind te laudai cu basicile tale in fata celorlalti. si altul mai smecher venea si se lauda cu capul lui spart. iar altul cu mina in ghips. o ceata de pusti pe care nu-i impiedica nimic sa se joace in continuare.

si multe altele… mai important este ceea ce nu voi spun niciodata despre Camino. si cred acum ca acel Coehlo cu balmajelile lui nu a facut niciodata, in fapt, calatoria asta. ca doar s-a documentat sau a auzit povesti de la unii sau de la altii. am eu feelingul asta, nu stiu de ce…

de azi incepe Camino duro. cred ca pentru partea asta ultima mi-am conservat energia. azi intru in Foncebadon, satul cu ciini salbatici, as fi chiar dezamagita sa nu vad vreunul. sper ca Basescu n-a trecut si pe-aici. apoi muntii, O Cebreiro etc. oricum, inainte de asta, prioritatea principala este sa scap de un german care s-a cam lipit de mine in ultimele doua zile. imi place sa merg singura, atita tot. imi place atit de mult sa merg singura ca prefer sa ma muste un ciine, decit sa fiu nevoita sa mai vorbesc cu cineva.

Regards from Spain

Alaltaieri am plecat din Corrion de los Condes, facind prostia sa nu-mi scot bani din cont. de fapt, cred ca mi-am zis, ei lasa, voi gasi in urmatorul sat sau oras, ce-o veni la rind, un bancomat ori something. numai ca pe o distanta de 16 km nada… n-a fost altceva decit drumul in arsita, iar urmatorul sat nu avea asa ceva. nici urmatorul. nici urmatorul. am impartit la un popas piinea si apa cu o poloneza, Maria, fugita de-acasa. nici barba-su nu stia pe unde umbla. asa, scapata si ea pe cimpii. nu vorbea engleza prea bine, intelegea cit de cit (de fapt, cind o sa am timp o sa va povestesc niste lucruri extrem de amuzante cu love-story-urile de pe Camino).

buuun… apoi i-am dat si citeva bucatele de ciocolata (ca sa intelegeti mai bine cit este de arsita la cinci minute dupa ce am desfacut ciocolata era deja topita), pe urma m-am plictisit de ea (de poloneza, adica) si am ramas in urma citiva pasi…

am fotografiat un pelerin, care era mult inaintea mea, cam la vreun km, si care tocmai se urca intr-o masina. cineva, probabil fii-sa, venise sa-l racoleze de pe drum. “donºt tell my friends”, mi-a spus cind a facut calea intoarsa cu masina si a trecut pe linga mine. sa trisezi pe Camino este un lucru inadmisibil. si ok, pina la urma pe cine pacalesti?

in Teradillos del Templieros l-am regasit pe englez. m-am cotrobait de maruntis, mai aveam vreo 10 euro, si am platit cazarea. mai tirziu, poloneza s-a alaturat unei discutii incepute cu ¨Jeremy si mi-a zis: “you have greetings”… “greetings?”, am intrebat mirata. “from whom?” cica: “from your friends”… what a fuck is this?

patru ani vorbesti despre una, despre alta, imparti una, alta, iti planifici o calatorie cu o prietena, porti acelasi tip de adidasi, cumparati din acelasi magazin, ai acelasi tip de tricou, numeri impreuna cu ea zilele ramase pina la calatoria vietii, esti pe acelasi drum in sfirsit, intilnesti aceeasi oameni, dormi uneori in acelasi han sau albergue, sau hotel, sau pension, sau ce vreti voi, la doar o camera distanta si bum! iti trimite greetings printr-o poloneza-mesager. nah, eu nu pot sa inteleg lucrurile astea, desi zice lumea ca ma duce mintea.

(doua idioate)

cred c-am ales bine sa-mi vad de cappucinourile mele. trei nu e numar bun pentru o calatorie, am stiut asta de la inceput, asa ca, nu e ca si cum ar fi o dezamagire. in Sahagun beau o ultima cafea cu englezul si fii-su si ne despartim. in sfirsit reusesc sa-mi scot niste bani de pe card si comand cea mai mare pizza cu carne tocata de berbec si toate cele, o nebunie, si doua limonade reci reci reci, fara virgula : ))))

de-aici din Sahagun multi iau trenul catre Leon. cica nu e nimic de vazut pe o distanta de 65 sau 70 de km, sau citi or fi pina in Leon. dimpotriva, eu cred ca e mereu ceva de vazut chiar si la masa alaturata. ultima data cind ii vad pe Yoga man si Mayra sint intr-un sat si ma anunta ca si ei vor lua trenul sa scape de meseta. meseta asta este o portiune de cimpie cu sate putine, apa aproape deloc prin jur, caldura ca la balamuc, se intelege… dar, eu aleg sa trec prin ea, stiu sigur ca daca voi lua trenul, mereu voi avea sentimentul ca ceva imi lipseste de pe Camino. si apoi si meseta asta face parte din drum.

(Marina, din Suedia)

(Maria, poloneza)

ati vazut filmul ala Oscar din 1960 si ceva cu Luis de Funes? la un moment dat, Luis de Funes cedeaza psihic, o ia razna din cauza situatiilor pe care nu le poate controla. cea mai comica bucata din film, desigur Luis de Funes a fost platit sa faca asta.

- Cum naiba poate o femeie sa-ti aminteasca de Luis de Funes? hehehehe… lasa ca va zic eu mai tirziu ce-am vrut sa zic. dar am scris aici sa nu uit. pina acum cele mai misto discutii de pe-aici le-am avut cu englezul. o sa-mi lipseasca pe drum.

In Calzada del Coto (au dat astia niste nume satelor…) ramin la un albergue doar eu si o familie simpatica de francezi. trei oameni in tot albuergue. asta e ceva nou. se pare ca toti cei pe care i-am vazut pina acum au luat trenul catre Leon. hm…

un satuc mic, linistit. no templiar wall around. turme de oi trec pe strada principala si-si lasa maslinele in urma.

mai tirziu, hangita ne aduce cafea calda. si lapte. si azucar moreno. adica zahar negru. va dati seama ca am tinut minte imediat ce inseamna. bun, avem de toate acum.

conversatie placuta, cafea calda, noapte linistita, femeia are cei mai frumosi ochi verzi pe care i-am vazut vreodata, iar barbatul are talpile pline de basici. hanul, daca pot sa-l numesc asa, o sa vedeti de ce dupa ce o sa pun poze aici, se afla chiar linga un teren de joaca. urmaresc copiii, fac poze, se alearga unul pe altul cu bicicletele, rid, sau joaca fotbal. sute de pasari deasupra satului. o cismea de apa curge in apropiere. iar astea sint singurele zgomote care intrerup linistea. cred ca ce ma bucura cel mai mult este ca fac tot timpul poze, cum faceam cindva, acum vreo 6 sau 7 ani. redescopar pasiunea asta…

ok, ca sa scurtez: dorm singura intr-o camera cu 12 paturi, in sfirsit scap de sforaiciosi, dorm neintoarsa of course… apoi dimineata imi injectez betadina intr-o basica si merg mai departe… 30 de km mai incolo sint la Mansilla de las Mulas (v-am zis!)

ce-am facut azi, va spun poate miine. ziua asta chiar merita o atentie speciala.
acum incepe numaratoarea inversa. mai am 380 de km, cam asa ceva…

Carrion de los Condes

Exista un nivel al cruzimii pe care o sa-l ating cu satisfactie atunci cind ajung acasa. sint curioasa sa vad cit de tare dor bubele unora, haha, glumesc… iar or sa dirdiie unii aiurea… tocmai mi-a zis un amic de-al meu ca tot n-am renuntat la rautati, ca poate Camino asta o sa-mi bage mintile in cap… da, bine, si eu am pacalit-o pe maica-mea ca dupa aceea ma marit si nici ea nu m-a crezut.

Ok. Sa continuam. In Fromista l-am revazut pe Jeremy si pe fiul sau si alte citeva figuri cunoscute, adica pelerini care trec pe linga tine sau tu pe linga ei. Fromista vine de la numele unui vizigot, dar n-am vazut nici o ramasita vizigota prin orasel. si nici nu pot spune ca m-a impresionat cine stie ce biserica. Nici urma de yoghin si Mayra, ultima oara cind i-am intilnit erau prin Burgos, i-am cerut Mayrei asigurarea mea de sanatate et cºest tout.

Ceea ce inveti cel mai bine aici este sa nu te atasezi de oameni. Le tii companie, sau iti tin ei tie, dar, daca ai nevoie de spatiu, pur si simplu ramii 2 pasi in urma sau maresti ritmul. No problemo! Toata lumea intelege asta.

Marie-France (infirmiera de 51 de ani) s-a despartit de mine ieri dimineata, cu lacrimi in ochi, habar n-am de ce, pina si aici am lipici la distrusi psihic. nous nous verrons a santiago, ii spun si rasuflu usurata c-am scapat de ea. si iar incepe sa plinga cu lacrimi de crocodil, de nu stiu ce sa-i mai fac.
Cred ca mi s-a luat de ea cind am vazut-o fitiindu-se in chiloti in fata preotului Giancarlo. Posibil sa fie o femeie extrem de buna si de sensibila, dar un astfel de gest ma indeparteaza de oameni. inteleg si mai bine cum, dupa ani de prietenie cu cineva, ai brusc o revelatie, ca si cum te-ar lovi un baros in cap si hotaresti sa pui punct, fara alte explicatii sau discutii. barosul asta rupe trena lunga a unor replici si situatii nepotrivite pe care le-ai suprotat, dar ai putut sa treci peste ele. desigur, acelasi lucru este valabil si in cazul meu, ca doar nu sint eu usa de biserica. si oricum nu pentru orientarea mea religioasa am venit aici, atit timp cit n-am, domle, niciuna, fiindca nu cred in orientari de vreun fel, dar sint sigura ca unii oameni sint inteligenti, iar altii prosti facuti gramada.

in alta ordine de idei, nu stiu cum se nimereste, insa de fiecare data prind patul de sus. pe de o parte e rau fiindca trebuie sa ma catar si sa ma dau jos tot timpul, ceea ce e cam aiurea cind te dor talpile, pe de alta parte e foarte bine fiindca atunci cind sint atacata de pe flancul drept si de pe flancul sting de sforaitori nocturni, azvirl cu mai multa precizie pastilele de spirulina in ei. uneori am succes si-i nimeresc si, desi nu prea-si dau seama ce se intimpla, se intorc pe partea celalalta si se opresc pentru citeva minute, apoi o iau dela capat. fireste mai tare ca prima oara…

ei bine, dimineata am luat-o din loc pentru alti 19 km si-am ajuns in Carrion de los Condes. Jeremy mi-a tinut companie si-am avut o discutie very funny despre negocieri, spania, invatamint (el detinind o scoala particulara in MAdrid) si un fel de chick-talk despre prima iubire (a lui, ca a mea parca au fost mai multe, iar discutia asta din urma m-a cam obosit, na! - bai, nu mai am chef de astfel de discutii cu vraja marii cam spumoasa)

am ajuns pe la ora 12.00 aici, la naiba devin din ce in ce mai buna in mersul pe jos si-am scapat de 1 kg de hirtoage, mape, harti, brosuri, cabluri) i le-am trimis acasa lui Zan sa se distreze cu ele. In Carrion i-am revazut pe ioghin si mayra, ne-am cazat la acelasi albergue, v-am spus doar ca se intilneste om cu om, darmite pelerin cu pelerin. chit chat citeva cuvinte de complezenta, cum stau picioarele, uite leocoplast, iata si farmacia, unde-i supermercado…. genul de complezente care-mi plac la nebunie…

si ca tot veni vb de rautati, ale mele, nu ale altora, doamne fereste, iata un pizdism de carpeta turceasca, desigur cea mai minunata de pe terra, altfel cum? ( http://rapireadinserai.blogspot.com/2008/07/o-porcrie.html) de 50 de centi. atit costa o pereche de sosete spaniole pe care sa le incalti o data si sa le arunci. ar fi interesant sa-i public mailul de-acum doi ani, in care mai ca nu ma pupa in cur, nu fund, da?, dupa ce i-am recomandat “bazarul” in 7 plus. si pun pariu ca daca ii pun o intrebare din templieri, o incui imediat. intre timp gagica a ajuns lady, mai stii? ea nu se caca, ea doar isi face nevoile fiziologice, pardon! anonima asta e buna de caricaturizat in fhm. hai, fa, ca te-am facut si pe tine vedeta, acum dispari in mahalaua ta.

later edit:

lucruri mai serioase ca tot veni vb de templieri. aici, in Carrion de los Condes, am vizitat cea mai frumoasa biserica catolica de pina acum. biserica lui Santiago din Carrion a fost o alta asezare a Cavalerilor Templieri. fatada ei, in mod miraculos salvata de distrugere si foc in timpul invaziei franceze, are una dintre cele mai impresionante colectii de sculpturi spaniole. le-am fotografiat dar n-o sa le pot pune curind aici, ma rog, chestii tehnice. merita vazute, fiindca sint de o frumusete rara. apoi nu m-am multumit numai cu asta, am filmat slujba, un Ave maria atit de clar, de suav, un cor de voci ce se impleteau cu cea a preotului, va spun, e ceva ce te face sa ingenunchezi.

tot aici, mai e si biserica Santa Maria del Camino din sec XII, cu 3 bolte voluptuoase, cu o arhitectura pe stil roman. printre celelalte decoratii am retinut-o pe cea a unui grup de tauri, care, dupa cum mi-a povestit o maicuta blajina, dar foarte sprintena, are o legenda interesanta. de fapt, toate podurile sau monumentele ramase din perioada romana, vizigota, sau maura, sau chiar franca, au propriile lor povesti, pe care preotii, daca-i intrebi, sint dispusi sa ti le spuna. multe dintre ele le-am inregistrat pe reportofon, altele le-am auzit de la pelerini sau hospitaleros.
asta cu taurii este legata de batalia de la Clavija unde, gratie aparitiei misterioase a unui grup de tauri ce i-a atacat pe colectorii unei taxe locale, satenii din Carrion de los Condes au fost scutiti de taxa obligatorie pentru multi ani. asta se intimpla pe vremea lui Mauregato, un rege maur. acum, ca de obicei, n-am cum sa verific asta, si nici nu stiu daca spaniola mea este atit de buna, dar asta am priceput din ce zicea maicuta.

acum insa nu e important ce vad, ci ceea ce simt cu privire la toate astea. aveti toate sansele sa obtineti informatiile dorite din orice ghid turistic bine pus la punct, dar va spun, nimic nu se compara cu o legenda auzita de la un pelerin, la o terasa, la un cappuccino (the trouble maker capuccino), sau de la un hospitalero, intr-un albergue, la un vin de Riojo, chiar inainte de a se da stingerea, sau de un preot in curtea bisericii, unde clopotele bat la fiecvare jumatate de ora, iar berzele cloncane in cuiburile lor din clopotnita, si o pace gregoriana invadeaza satul sau orasul in care ramin pentru o noapte sau pentru citeva ore.

A saptesprezecea zi

Camino nu este pentru cei sensibilosi, ci pentru cei cu adevarat sensibili. vai, sper sa se vada diferenta, daca nu, ce importanta are? niciuna.

saptesptrezece zile pe un drum ca asta sint ca saptesprezece vieti traite una dupa alta. aventura ai vrut, aventura ai, madam, sa te saturi… dar nu e numai asta… unul dintre motivele pentru care am venit aici este toata istoria asta adunata printre farime de ziduri ramase inca in picioare… in Burgos am vazut catedrala de doua ori, am vrut sa zic am vizitat-o… El Cid - prima legenda citita, primul erou cu care tatal meu mi-a facut cunostinta… acum la mormintul lui (al lui El Cid, adica) am plins pentru a doua oara de cind sint aici…

(statuia din Piata El Cid , mormintul se afla in catedrala din Burgos)

ultima zi, cea de ieri, am fortat mai mult decit trebuie ritmul. 29 de km prin meseta. am cedat in fata manastirii san Nicolas, de fapt cred ca chiar drumul m-a dus acolo. mi-am zis ajunge… fiindca daca mai fortez mult s-ar putea sa nu mai termin calatoria si mi-a mai ramas destul timp sa iau lucrurile pe indelete, sa vizitez tot ce mi-am propus sa vizitez. multi au renuntat din cauza problemelor pe care le-au avut cu picioarele, ori aici, singurul lucru care conteaza este sa fii sanatos ca sa poti merge mai departe. am primit gazduire in manastire, mai erau zece pelegrini acolo. maicuta, o italianca a zis in prima faza ca nu mai sint paturi si m-am gindit imediat la izoprenul ramas in Los Arcos. nu am niciodata timp sa scriu, si nici nu e asta intentia mea, despre toate bataliile care se poarta in mine sau despre cele care stiu ca s-au intimplat inaintea mea pe aceste cimpii arse de soare.

o sa va spun ca sub cerul liber, cu capul sub brat, in bataia vintului, tout va bien. si de fapt asta e chiar libertatea pe care o cautam, nepasarea, disparitia grijilor de miine, de poimiine, stii ca esti in siguranta, chiar daca unele ginduri te poarta mai departe decit ai crezut vreodata. sa dormi intr-o zi pe cimpi, si peste doua saptamini la un hotel de cinci stele. ce stiu eu? imprevizibilitatea exista… dar trebuie sa fii aici ca s-o intelegi, ca s-o simti. nimic din ce-am planuit la plecare nu si-a urmat cursul firesc. nici programul, nici imparteala km pe zile, nici thelma and louise.

probabil ca tu sau tu aveti aceleasi ginduri stupide, afurisite si mici in a judeca lumea din spatele biroului vostru de corporatisti cu capsa pusa pe reguli, sincer, mi-a mila de voi. mi-e mila se sensibiloseniile voastre inchipuite, de felul in care-i gratificati pe unii si pe altii, dar faceti mai mult rau in ignoranta voastra si cu aerele astea basite cu care umblati prin lume, ca si cum daca ati citit “los pilares de la tierra” sinteti cineva ca aveti idee despre istoria lumii. nu veti sti nimic pina in ziua cind veti primi din partea unui necunoscut un ajutor ca de la simplu om la simplu om. toate crtile voastre nu valoreaza nimic atunci cind esti nevoit sa dormi in cimpie dar te gindesti la ce oja o sa pui diseara pe degete. stai acolo, pe perna ta moale, pe scaunul tau ergonomic si dispari din calea mea…

in fine… aseara am plins a treia oara. de emotie, de fericire, de recunostinta ca am gasit dragostea neconditionata intr-o simpla manastire pe care in mod normal, daca ai fi fost sanatos nici n-ai fi intrat in ea. preotul Giancarlo, italian si el de origine, s-a aplecat asupra picioarelor noastre umflate si le-a spalat, apoi le-a sters cu un stergar alb si le-a sarutat. atunci am izbucnit in lacrimi, fiindca un om mult mai spiritual decit mine, statea in genunchi si saruta tuturor pelerinilor picioarele. si asta in ziua in care-i murise cel mai bun prieten.

(in gradinita manastirii San Nicolas)

(Jose, unul din pelerini, luindu-si ramas bun)

apoi cu mina lui ne-a pus masa, printre sfesnice si luminari aprinse, am mincat toti in tacere… cea mai buna masa de cind sint pe drumul asta. mincare calda, ceva ce mi-a adus aminte de dragostea neconditionata a mamei. apoi tot cu mina lui a intins saltelele in fata altarului si-am adormit vegheati de icoane.

e admirabil cita grija ne purtam unii altora chiar daca nu ne cunoastem, chiar daca nu stim cine sintem, chiar daca am parcurs impreuna doar 5 sau 6 km… e aici ceva care nu-ti permite sa-ti pui masti, o compasiune reala, o dragoste imensa pentru sinele pur si noi, pentru aceeasi experienta comuna pe care o impartasim, dar atit de personala. ceva ce n-am mai intilnit demult, de atit de mult timp incit aproape ca uitasem ca exista, ceva ce speram sa gasesc…

voi, cei care judecati dupa aparente, sau dupa cuvintele in spatele carora se ascunde un om, ginditi-va daca veti fi vreodata in stare sa daruiti azi, acum, chiar in acest moment, putina ingaduinta fata de ceea ce vi s-a dat, putina recunostinta de ceea ce aveti deja… si pe urma sa veniti sa-mi tineti prelegeri despre istorii pe care nu le cunoasteti, doar aveti impresia ca sinteti buricul pamintului.

what goes around comes around… si mai incolo… mult mai incolo e ceva in voi de care va va fi tot timpul rusine…

am ajuns la mijlocul drumului. se spun ca cine reuseste sa parcurga distanta asta pe jos ii vor fi iertate toate pacatele, va arde karme intregi de remuscari si regrete. nu stiu daca e adevarat. pentru mine nu conteaza asta, nu mai conteaza multe… e ca si cum am spart sau macinat intre degetele de la picioare, care ma dor in fiecare zi din ce in ce mai tare, toate faradelegile pe care le-am gindit, sau spus, toate regretele, anumite zbateri si nu vad altceva inaintea mea decit o infinita compasiune fata de cei care dorm inca in birourile lor, cu geloziile, inviidiile, pasiunile alea mici care-i guverneaza, maruntisurile, sau puterea pe care cred ca o detin, acele lasitati care fac din om un simplu animal instinctual care nu face altceva decit sa judece, sa critice, sa injure, sa se creada mai destept, mai inteligent decit restul lumii.

ce cacat!

a trebuit sa ajung pe Camino ca sa inteleg ca oricite bube ai avea, vei continua sa mergi mai departe, chiar daca ai impresia ca nu mai poti, ca totul te doare, o sa mergi anyway, fiindca n-ai incotro. iti expira timpul de-aia! nu Camino iti va rezolva probleme existentiale, nu Camino iti va lua grijile care te apasa pe umeri. nu. adevarul este ca nu stii niciodata ce va fi miine, pe cine vei intilni, cu cine vei parcurg urmatorii km, nu stii niiodata ce e miine. daca stii cred ca ai o problema. numai mortii stiu ce fac miine. sint morti, desigur.

(cimitirul din Granon)

si un lucru straniu care mi s-a intimplat acum doua zile: umblam de capul meu prin meseta spaniola, abia mai puteam sa fluier a pustiu, cind am vrut sa-mi verific harta zilnica pe care o aveam in buzunarul de la spate al blugilor. harta disparuse, si voiam sa vad citi km mai am pina la urmatorul satuc. nu era nimic grav, scrisesem insa pe ea adresa de mail a unei italience, Sonia, pe care o cunoscusem in Belorado, si de care-mi placuse mult. ii cerusem mailul sa-i trimit pozele pe care i le facusem. asta e, zully, mi-am spus, mergi mai departe fara harta, urmareste cu atentie sagetile galbene si lasa ca italianca poate trai si fara poze.

(Jeremy, the english guy)

(Eduardo, fiul sau, cel care mi-a gasit harta)

dupa o oprire de vreo ora intr-o cafenea, merg mai departe. fluturi morti de caldura pe poteci. imi auzeam doar pasii turtind cu nadejde pietrele de sub talpi. masaj spaniol, caravasazica. alti km in ritmul asta. stiu eu la ce ma mai gindeam? dau peste un tata si fiul lui. faceau si ei Camino, un fel de educatie spartana. el- englez stabilit in Spania de vreo 24 de ani. incepem sa vorbim. ma intreaba la un moment dat unde ma cazez. nu stiu, ii raspund, voi merge pina ma plictisesc. mi-am pierdut azi harta, asa ca nu conteaza, trebuie sa gasesc un sat pe undeva, ii mai spun. era cumva asta? si-mi arata propria mea harta, pe care o recunosc imediat dupa mailul italiencei, dupa scrisul meu demina…

care erau sansele ca dintre toti pelerinii care ma depasisera in timp ce imi faceam siesta, sa ma intilnesc taman cu cel care gasise harta mea?

simpla coincidenta, zice acum scepticul din mine. sau poate e doar Camino…

sint in Fromista acum. e sarbatoare mare in Spania. vor fi focuri de artificii diseara si tot in seara asta se va drumul taurilor pe strazi… frumos, nu? cu toate astea, nu din cauza asta sint aici… pina la sfirsit imi voi da seama de ce, daca nu cumva am gasit deja ce cautam.

ps: scriu repede, e ca si cum un fragment din ce spun ma va face mai tirziu sa reconstitui tot ce-am vazut, trait, simtit. s-ar putea sa sar litere virgule etc… asta e situatia. mergeti si voi mai departe.

ps1: daca stie cineva unde pot gasi ghidul Liber Sancti Iacobi as fi recunoscatoare. O sa am mare nevoie de el la intoarcere.

ps2: o sa ramin vreo doua zile in Fromista ca sa ma refac. astept sa se deschida biserica San Martin a carei arhitectura simpla, eleganta, romanica, s-ar putea sa fie, n u stiu exact si nici n-am unde sa ma informez acum, una dintre piesele unicat ale arhitecturii romanice. o vad chiar acum de la fereastra unui albergue, cel la care m-am cazat.

ps3: oamenii pe care i-am cunoscut zilele astea:
Rainer, cu care am avut in Burgos o discutie foarte interesanta despre poezia germana, el insusi fiind poet, il gasiti aici.

si Olivier, care stia de Roland, nu si de Olivier, asa ca aseara, dupa masa, intinsi pe saltele, chiar inainte de a adormi, i-am spus legenda lui Roland, partea cu razbunarea. il gasiti aici, daca aveti timp sa-i rasfoiti blogul si stiti franceza. tot la el gasiti si poze si citeva insemnari despre drumul pe care-l face.

Pierduti in cimpie, pierduti unul de altul…

Ieri a fist una dintre cele mai grele zile. canicula pe cimpii. ziua in care ne-am pierdut de doua ori, astfel ca in loc sa facem 23 de km am facut 27, cu tot c