Ups and Downs

Morning dawns at Orisson quietly, in cool mist and low clouds. The six of us women wake up and start what will become the morning routine of getting to the bathroom, rustling our various configurations of plastic bags, and getting dressed for the coming day's walk. We also need to head down for breakfast, as staff was very specific that it was from 7 to 7:30 ONLY. That's when I discover that the American and European ideas of "breakfast" are quite different. I eat a couple of pieces of dry French bread with a little marmalade and manage to snag a bowl of coffee. I haven't done as much packing because I know I'm not leaving till 9am, while the others are going sooner. After breakfast, I say goodbye to Ingeborg and Rita, hoping that I might meet up with them further along the Way. As I am up in the room doing the last bit of packing, I hear the Irish ladies below. I go to the screenless window and lean out. They are heading up the road towards Roncesvalles, wearing their small, light daypacks. I know they will be there in just a few hours, if that long. I lean out and call "Buen Camino!" and they turn and wave, saying it was wonderful to meet me. Before they left, Trish had kindly given me some sunscreen, as I had been burnt pretty badly on my upper arms, where I don't normally go bare. I am very grateful.

After I get everything back in my pack, and get the pack off the top bunk, I go downstairs to wait for my ride. I sit down at a picnic table right outside the eating area of the alburgue and watch the other pilgrims walk off into the mist, UP the road towards the summit, which will then lead down into the Spanish town of Roncesvalles Spain. I wish I were going with them, but acknowledge to myself that, right now, I do not have the stamina to walk 22 kilometers to get there.

Just at 9am, my ride comes out and takes my pack before I even realize it and has it in the trunk of his car. This man, whose name I never do know, has the most wonderful face. He has a head full of curly salt and pepper hair, a 2 or 3-day growth of grizzled beard, large, dark, droopy eyes, and a face that seems to be just a little bit pulled down by gravity. He speaks no English, and I speak only a few words of French, but somehow, we manage to communicate. He smokes incessantly. I get in the car, and think that he will drive me up over the same road where the pilgrims have walked, as I have seen cars come down that way; however, when we start off, he heads down the road that I spent all the previous day struggling up. As we whisk back down ground already covered under utmost effort, I am absurdly caught by a fierce desire to burst into tears. In seven minutes at the most, we are BACK in St. Jean Pied de Port. It seems just wrong that it should only take that small amount of time to re-cover the distance that took so much determination from me yesterday. Perhaps that feeling is why, later on, I feel such resistance towards any going back, even if the going forward is longer. But I do learn one thing--the short cut off the road, was, indeed, much shorter than going ON the road all the way, and even though it was rough and rocky, I am glad I decided to go that way. Otherwise, I might still be walking UP!

Once in St. Jean, my driver (D.) takes a different turn, and heads for the highway. I see what his intention is now. Rather than drive over the narrow upper road, he's going to take the longer, but quicker, main road. Soon, we are flying around turns, and headed for Spain. Again, I am reminded of the Blue Ridge and Smoky mountains. Wild thyme sprouts from the sides of the mountains where the roads are cut. The blooms are past their prime, but still deep enough to turn whole banks pink. D. slides a cassette tape into the car's player, and I wonder what we will be listening to. It turns out to be beautiful choral music, from what I think he says is a mass either in Santiago, or regarding Santiago. Either way, it surprises me, but driving fast through the mountains, listening to that music, watching the mist and clouds low lying in the valleys we pass, it's just a magic time. Soon, we pass into Spain. There is no border check, no notice that we have gone from one country into another, other than some touristy looking buildings with a couple of signs that say "Bienvenidos a Espana!" I think of trying to "just drive" between the U.S. and Mexico and ruefully shake my head.

Soon, we are at the place, just outside Roncesvalles, where the pilgrims will come out of the mountains, and walk into town. There is a church there and D. takes me off the road, and around it, indicating that this is where I would have come off the pass. I thank him for letting me see it. Then we are driving into the small town, and he pulls up at a restaurant/bar. Here I am, where ever that is. D. takes my pack, carries it into the bar, and sets it down by a table towards the back. He indicates that I should sit and asks if I would like a coffee. Yes, I say, and go towards the bar. No, no, he motions, he will get it. And off he goes, buys two coffees and speaks to the man behind the bar. The man looks at me, and in Spanish asks if I need a room. Yes, for one night. He nods. Okay, I guess it's arranged. D. then brings back the coffees and sits with me while we drink. "Tranquille," he says, "Be calm." I've heard that a lot already. Tranquille, be calm, it's okay, don't worry. In spite of myself, I tear up. "Vous etre gentil, tres gentil," I say to him...telling him he's very kind (I hope!) He sees my emotion, and just reaches over and pats my hand. In a couple of gulps, his coffee is gone, and he gets up to leave. I stand as well. He reaches out to shake my hand, but I have to hug him, and give him a kiss on both cheeks. I am so grateful. I also ask him in my limited French to please tell Natalie thank you again. I know he understands me. Then he is gone, with his sad French eyes, leaving me there to finish my coffee and bask in the kindness of a stranger.