I ran eight miles tonight, and all I could think about the entire time was how many miles we used to walk in a day while we were on pilgrimage. Twenty, twenty-five, sometimes more. And it didn’t seem to matter how many blisters we had, or if we had cried on the way into town from the pain in our joints, or even if we couldn’t walk up the goddamn stairs at the end of the day. None of us had ever been that happy in our whole life.
I remember long dinners, sometimes homemade—wherever home was that night. I remember wine, lots of it. Sometimes I didn’t remember what happened after the wine, but that’s what friends and fellow pilgrims are for. I remember hours-long conversations about nothing, or about everything. I could tell you the family history of at least two of my best camino friends like it was my own family history. I remember reading lots of books, I remember lazily laying in the sun, waiting for clothes to dry. I remember tears and fears and all sorts of adventure that we never did expect. I remember sunrises and sunsets, siestas, long nights of watching futbol and drinking calimocho. I remember making love under the stars. I remember music and happiness and people whose features are forever engrained in my memory.
I still wear the charm around my neck—the triquetra, the knot of eternity, that Ben gave me before I got on the train for Madrid. I wear it to remind myself that my life is forever knotted, forever connected, to those people I walked with and those people I love.
getting goosebumps, damit, i wish i could write like this. but no, this is something that only ladies can do.