Last Saturday in Spain

Last weekend, after having realized there weren’t Saturday buses to Cuenca from Ciudad Real, Tello, Tim, Cris, and I decided we still wanted to make the most of the day and go somewhere. Left to Cris’ Spaniard expertise (she’s a local), we decided to road trip it to the Castle de Calatrava.  A forty-five minute jaunt, south of Ciudad Real, her father offered to drive the four of us (not trusting Cris’ driving skills, apparently). We left Ciudad Real around two in the afternoon. The sun was high in the blue sky. With the five of us packed in the SUV we were on the road. The terrain isn’t too different from the North Dakota landscapes I’d grown accustomed to—mostly flat, some rolling hills, but for the most part, plains.  The real difference lies in the hundreds of olive trees, which line the Spanish terrain. We arrived at the castle around three in the afternoon, which meant we’d be waiting for over an hour for the castle to open its doors back up to the public. Somewhere in the cold castle I imagined the guy who ran the place, taking his siesta, like the rest of the Spanish population during that time of day.  We sat on top of boulders and ate our lunch overlooking the valley to our right and the castle atop the hill to our left. Cowbells rang just over the far hilltop. Something about the castle and the wide open horizon made me think we could get away from the modern world, away from Facebook, cell phones, alarm clocks, and anxiety about things like which car should I buy? Or which style of shower curtain hooks would look best? 

I looked at the two, one-liter bottles of water, “How long do you think we could make it with this water? I mean if we were to start walking. Do you think we could figure out how to purify more water, how to find food to eat?” Could we make down to Morocco, over to Portugal, or up to France?”

Tim looked at me perplexed and I could tell he had just realized I was serious—or that a part of me believed it anyway.  “Not far.” He laughed, “are you serious?” “People do that don’t they?” I said. And they do—people from all over the world come to Spain, France, and Portugal to walk the Camino de Compostella, known to the English world as the “Way of St. James.” They attach a seashell to their backpacking backpacks and walk for miles, weeks, sometimes months

“Well what if we had the gear? Would you guys ever want to do it? Just start walking? We can do that, right?"  I asked again.
           

“I think people have the illusion that they can do that.”

Castilla de Calatrava

When he said that, I didn’t want to believe him, but a lot of me did. Maybe I was no different, just entertaining the illusion. And what was I hoping to gain from it all anyway? A lot people talk about how they want to move to New York City, or Paris, but do they really? Or are they just attracted to the idea of it all—the fantasy.  Do they imagine the sweaty subway cars, and the shoving to enter one?  Would I get bored five hours into the walk, or would I learn something about myself?

People who walk the Camino all seem to have a purpose for their walk.  In fact, upon completing the walk, they’re asked, “Why they did it?” 

Maybe that’s what I’m after.

We finished our lunch and I took out the Frisbee. It was hot enough to take off my light jacket, even atop the hill. We played Frisbee on the edge of gully, the stone castle behind us, and the sound of cowbells—still clanging in the distance.

Cris demonstrating what the Spanish make up
for in soccer, they lack in frisbee.