happy thoughts – Brunomad

Eyes Ablaze

Snow has been falling for the past several hours, impossible to stick as the rain of previous days prevents a proper freezing point from being established. And yet it comes down, thick at times, these flurries. You can see them illuminated in the street lights of Zurich, this endless descent; cars are beginning to develop a blanket of white, but the ground remains slick – wet wet wet – perhaps the morrow will bring ice.

And, much like this march of maddened moisture, I find my own quest rivals it: I must continue. I must, for I haven’t any other options. Much like the snow, I descend upon the Swiss countryside, travelling from my base in Zurich to all corners where my ancestors once stalked. Here, the Staatarchiv Thurgau. There, the Stadtaarchiv Aarau. Graubunden. Bern. Diessbach. Leimbach. A thousand names foreign and familiar. A constant mix of Staat- and Stadt-, going into these old buildings with the same tired line,

“Es tut mir Leid – meine Deustch ist schlecht.”

Most speak English; though I am grateful for that, I do my best to speak the lingua franca. When in Rome, as the adage goes. But, given the professional and academic nature of the mission, my language skills are wholly lacking in this regard – before long, I must revert to English so that I might be able to make my immediate concerns and questions known.

Bah. Stupid Americans.

All the same, it is an exhilarating quest – especially when information is uncovered, shared, copied. I have documents. I have anecdotes. I have stories and recordings and pictures. From visiting family members – the kind you only hear about from your folks when they mention the Old Country, these obscure types that one finds so difficult to place or to visualize – so much can be learned.

My great-grandfather on my grandmother’s side was a bastard. “A devil,” it was claimed by a man who knew him once. He built a magnificent palace in a humble farming town, not unlike those obnoxious houses, the McMansions, just outside of my small hometown. His wealth was acquired from less than legal means, dubious at best, and that mystery remains to be solved. I have theories: I need evidence. But by all accounts, his wealth didn’t make him any more likeable or relatable. “A devil,” he repeated. “The day he died was a party. One of my happiest memories about the man.”

He had to sell the manor house and farm in his dotage as his ego couldn’t afford the upkeep. He died, broke, broken, and despised; riddled with cancer. All that remains of his folly is a stone stable. That will last, far, far longer than he. A stone stable house? How absurd.

“My brother was a good boy – a scholar, driven,” claimed my great uncle. You can see Grandpa in this man’s visage, old and wrinkled, the very same ears and nose that he once sported (he could wiggle them, you know, and he always amused us as kids by doing so); this living relic of my dead grandfather was like a curious oracle upon a hill, one that you must climb a desolate peak or brave the harshest elements, just to get a glimpse of his wisdom.

I merely took a plane and train.

But, there he is: my grandfather’s brother. Near 100 years old, sharp as a knife, stooped as any old man his age, yet his eyes ablaze with recollection as the memories came pouring forth. Poor thing, for I put him through the ringer with my questions for hours, constantly filming and recording and questioning and verifying this and that. Once he got going with my questions, I could scarcely keep the pen moving for such was his worth. “He was a good boy,” he repeated several times, “and was determined to achieve more than his allotment.”

Of course: he wasn’t the firstborn therefore he had no inheritance or farm to look forward to in the town of his birth. He would have to strike out on his own, to find his own greener pastures, if he was to achieve that.

He did. With the Mennonites in Iowa, the Swiss in Southern California, the deserts of New Mexico. He would have milked a dozen cows by hand had he stayed behind in Switzerland, sharing a parcel of land with his eldest brother, building a cramped farmhouse on the same plot.

He milked thousands at one point, employed dozens, and raised a family that has since spread across the nation. Humble beginnings. My great uncle’s eyes are still aflame, the brightest spark of an old man sharing older tales – those memories that needed to be said – as I try and capture them all. How pleased he is, how pleased he is, to be speaking thusly and about the old times.

“Es tut mir leid – mein Deutsch ist schlecht.”

It doesn’t matter, I suppose, for the information has been shared. Now comes the power of the pen, the single greatest invention of mankind, the very weapon that has damned nations and cost countless lives. The humble pen. With a stroke, fortunes are changed, lives are rewritten. If this seems cliché, for indeed it is, just remember that the latest war began with a pen stroke and not a bullet fired from an indiscriminate barrel. The smoke rises from the paper, the ink more deadly than bombs.

Is that, then, what I am doing? Declaring war? Don’t be absurd. I am merely penning a family history. A Familie Geschichte as it were, tramping about here and there in this familiarly strange country to track down the stories and anecdotes and documents that I should have tracked down a decade ago. Ah, hindsight – what dumb 23-year-old thinks about their elders in such a vein, eh? At that age, my grandparents were still young, still spry: they would live forever.

And, with this pen, I shall make it so.

The quest continues though my time in the Old Country nears an end. The snow is still falling; I expect ice tomorrow. My coat isn’t warm enough and my hiking sandals won’t keep the cold out. They are better for Camino, for Spain, not for this mission. But, alas, it is what I have. I shall make do. Perhaps I make a nice snow angel, have myself a snowball fight, on the morrow.

Perhaps I freeze and complain about my lot, shake my fist to the heavens and cry foul.

It doesn’t matter for the snow will continue to fall. This inevitable march of time, of progress, as it seeks to smother everything in its path, but is resolutely being denied a proper footing.

Much like my quest, the stories are burning, brimming just beneath the surface, waiting for me to find them. Not even the cold snow will smother them whilst I draw breath.

The fire in that old man’s eyes is mine now, and I will burn.

Swiss Trip

Now Featuring More Swear Words

Howdy folks,

Well fuckin’ hell – it’s been a spell. The rhyme was unintentional as I’ve rewritten the opening to this post a dozen times trying to find that spark that gets me in the groove and writing. You know how this whole writing process works, right?

Anyway, enough jibber jabber. Let me regale you with the comings and goings of your favorite (former) English teacher who now masquerades as a family historian.

So, here we are in Zurich, kickin’ it in style at the local hostel with a cold beer (in whatever the hell 50cl is), a photo album of churches, graffiti, and flags emblazoned proudly with animal dicks, and a whole mess of paperwork. Seems like my quest to track down relevant information regarding the history of my belated grandparents is bound to only become far more interesting.

Trust me, that’s relevant to the family history. Grandpa was adamant that the Bernese flag was incomplete if the bear wasn’t rockin’ a boner. If you look at the cantonal flags of Switzerland, you’ll see that all the animals are sporting massive erections, proudly waving their colors as they tea bag their enemies. Fun fact: the Bernese and Fribourgers almost came to blows once upon a time because of animal boners (not that kind, you furry faggots). The Fribourgers left the cock off the flag and the Bernese were ready to fight a goddamned war over that. Grandpa loved that tidbit of history.

Now, enough about dicks. Let’s get to the meat and potatoes, eh?

Best Laid Plans

Well now, this outta be a strange (albeit shorter) update, made all the merrier given my current crippled status. I’ve the use of only one arm at present so typing is rather burdensome. I’m not 18 anymore I’m afraid and my body didn’t take too kindly to being thrown around in the schwinge pit at the funeral games.

Funeral games you say? Why, indeed!

The Prodigal Grandson

Howdy folks,

It has been a long spell – one would reason that given this past year’s pants-on-head pandemic, I would find myself with far more writing time. Indeed, I have scribbled some rather shitty poems, some creative pieces, a genuine letter of resignation, a slew of academic research papers, and some other riffraff that doesn’t warrant publishing to this mediocre and neglected blog. Alas, I am only human.

Oh? The letter of resignation? That.

Birthday

If any one has any videos of the forthcoming event, be a doll and share them with me via email. I’d like to see from your perspective.

Enjoy.

“Come over for a birthday beer!” she said. Of course I had already started on my birthday beers, my work being completed for the day and the spring sun reminding me that a patio drink actually sounded quite pleasant. “I’ve a Zoom at 4.” Plenty of time to share a drink with my dearest friend of a few doors down.

I tuck my cigarettes into my left front pocket, push a cozy over my Pabst, and pet the cat on the way out. My phone – which hasn’t stopped chirping with birthday notifications – is discreetly slipped into one of the many pockets of my Camino traveling shorts. I step out onto the front lawn and feel the paradoxical heat of the breeze.

Fuck me, I think, what a beautiful fucking day.

The rose bushes are devoid of blossoms; all save one.

I step into the soft grass (supple through dedicated watering sessions) and inspect the token blossom. It is pink – stunningly beautiful – but its edges have only begun to unfold. Three rose bushes and only this lone bud trying to break free to share its beauty with the world. The color, that splash of color like a New Mexico sunset – filled with purples and auburns and golds and mauves and yellows and reds – is about to grace the lawn.

So fucking beautiful.

I take a cigarette from my breast, light it up, and watch as the smoke mingles with the budding blossom. The haze is quickly dissipated by the endless breeze that marks the springtime of my desert oasis. The beer opens with a frothy hiss, and I idle for a few minutes admiring the simplicity of Nature’s realm. The sun beats upon my back, but still I cannot pull myself from the rose. She is too beautiful.

Coming to my senses and remembering I’m obligated elsewhere, I walk the half block to her new home. As my brother would later remark, my attire was delightfully that of a disheveled hobo: the stink of working in the lawn, shorts and shirt filthy from unwashed labor, Afghan Tactical Sandals upon my tanned feet, and the sweat-stained cap of a working man. Cigarette and beer in hand, I walk unhindered, ignoring the cop that passes swiftly behind me. An open container is certainly frowned upon, no doubt more so given my profession as an educator. Fuck it. The die is cast.

We sit on her patio for the first drink – a birthday beer of Dos XX – where the beating sun adds some color to my lower legs and makes the cigarette smoke seem harsher under the constant glow. We schwatz about this and that, about school and lawn care, about moving out and in, about the beauty of the day. Eventually we migrate inside to escape the sun’s amiable wrath, to sit in the cooler interior with colder beer. I nudge a poster board off the table so as not to warp it with beer condensation rings. She mentions an art project with the nephew. Beautiful.

I finish several in the time spent at her new place before she informs me her meeting is at hand.

I walk back to my place, the sun still beating, a new cigarette immediately replacing the last one, an endless cycle of self-mortification. Like a medieval flagellant, I punish myself to truly feel God’s glory.

The blossom greets me at the door, still a rosy pink, still incomplete.

My mother is supposed to come by (she needs help with another computer program and wishes to utilize my faster internet). I tidy up – no bachelor wants his mother to see him living in squalor – before she arrives. I down another beer and another cigarette. It’s too beautiful a day to be cooped up inside, and few things compare to a gentle New Mexico breeze and the shade of an old tree, vices in hand.

The doorbell rings and I quickly answer. Not my mother, but a pair of my students. They are dressed for the heat in athletic attire, one with a skateboard in tow. I remain in my hobo apparel; thankfully I left the beer on the table before answering.

“Happy birthday, sir!”

How the fuck did they know it was my birthday?

“Ah, kids! Thank you kindly!” I said. “How kind of you to come by.”

How the fuck did they know where I live?

We schwatz for a few minutes about the online schooling (a tragedy of corona) and how they’re keeping busy and occupied. Hence the athletic attire: out for a good run and skateboarding in Nature’s bounty.

I bid them farewell after some time, receiving further birthday well wishes and hugs good bye as they continue their adventures. How good of them to drop by unannounced; they care about you. I check the phone for the time and see further birthday notifications. Someone had squealed and now my students were bombarding me, not with homework questions or seeking advice, but wishing me well on this anniversary of sorts. Ah, my goombas. What would I be without them?

I return to the backyard wherein I finish another smoke and another bottle; consistency and pacing are key. Through the open windows I can see to the street. As the last ember begins to scorch my yellow-tinted fingers, I see the familiar outline of my mother’s vehicle. Both parents disembark, remark inaudibly about the state of the place, and make their way to the front door as I snuff out this latest cigarette.

They come in – without knocking – and immediately want to see the backyard.

“Where’s your laptop, Mutti?” I said.

“I wanted to see your computer.”

Well that’s fucking dumb, I thought.

“Show me the tomatoes.”

“Jetz,” I said, gesturing to the back door.

As I show them the progress made with the endless amount of time (being a non-essential employee), my phone begins to vibrate ceaselessly in my pocket. I ignore it; as a rule, I do not check my phone with company present. That would be quite rude.

My mother’s phone begins to chirp – having no qualms about my sense of chivalry, she answers. I can hear my sister through the tin speaker (for she has always been loud). They schwatz for a minute as I show my father the woodpile.

“Your sister is coming by with a cake. Let’s go up front.”

“Fuck her,” I said. “She can come out back and deliver it.” Quarantine be damned.

My mother sighs. “She has two screaming kids. Go up front.”

I tense my grip on my latest beer but relent. Don’t argue with your folks, especially at my age. We make our way up front. Dad remarks that my flowers need more water and that my edging could use some work. He stops at the rose blossom and smiles. He knows far more than I.

As we wait for my sister’s untimely arrival, I hear a cacophony of car horns sounding out a marching beat. How irritating, I thought, for this is a nice neighborhood. I never liked the sound of horns; far too shrill and aggressive. It makes me think of grackles, those hideous birds that infest our area. I turn toward the noise.

Happy birthday, Bruno!

Sweet fucking Christ, I thought. What is this?

My sister is leading a caravan of cars – 15? 20? – a poster with birthday wishes taped to her vehicle’s front. The cacophony grows louder as I realize I’ve been hoodwinked. Her windows are down and she’s smiling and waving – proud sister that she is – as she passes by my place.

“Happy birthday, little brother!” she said as she glides past.

I’m dumbstruck and mouth a response. My hand automatically returns the wave without a thought. My other hand clenches my still-cold beer. The cacophony continues as the caravan makes its way down my street. Neighbors are coming out their front doors to see the commotion; they soon join in the fest by waving and shouting congratulatory remarks.

My brother and his family follow behind, a poster for Uncle Bruno stuck to their vehicle’s side. My nephews wave and cheer. My good friend – with whom I was sharing drinks not an hour ago – is grinning like a Machiavellian mastermind as they drive past. She fucking knew!

But the greatest surprise – the greatest gift – follows behind the family cars leading this Seussian romp: my students – past and present – have assembled in this parade and call from their cars. Windows are down and I can see my students, my beloved goombas, shouting and waving as they drive past.

“Happy birthday, Mr. B!” I hear them shout from their air-conditioned cars. It is a scene of mirth and surprise as the cars keep coming. I remain dressed as disheveled hobo, a beer in my hand, standing in the New Mexico sun as the parade continues. I wave dumbly back, shouting some thanks and gratitude to each student.

“Happy birthday, Bruno!”

“Mr. B!”

“Bruno!”

The shouts never cease, each car striving to outdo the other in noise and celebration. I am taken aback by this outpouring of love.

There, some of my seniors. My first batch of students when I began my calling as an educator. They are denied so many rights of passage given the corona, but here they are in a force, waving and shouting. My OG Goombas. I wave fondly; it’s been too long since I’ve seen them.

Here, my juniors, those blessed kids who’ve had the misfortune of having me for two years in a row. They make up the bulk of the parade – a mosaic of car styles and vehicle colors that raucously makes it way through the neighborhood. The honking is drowned out by the shouts and exclamations of my students, for their enthusiasm cannot be contained. With windows down, heads and arms are out; some offer gifts and cards, and I dumbly step into the street to accept their well-wishes and bid them onward.

I still have a beer in my hand.

More cars continue to flood the street as the ruckus continues; those little fuckers, I thought. They threw me a parade!

As I awkwardly accept packages and envelopes, the tears begin to well up behind my eyes. How kind of them. How thoughtful of them. How blessed are they to be doing such a thing for a grumpy smartass like me. The grinding of engines and honking of horns is drowned out by their shouts and guffaws; my heart is ready to burst at this outpouring of love. What a spectacle; what a scene!

I see my students in their cars, returning their enthusiastic waves and cheers with my own, as I force the tears to stay put. I’m not crying in my front lawn as my classes march past.

As the last of the cars complete their circuit, I realize my parents have been behind me this entire time. They fucking knew. Mom didn’t need computer help – she just wanted to keep me at home for the big reveal. The sun’s heat pales in comparison to the warmth in my breast; I love those fucking kids.

Eventually the parade peters out, though a few students make a circuit to drop off still more gifts and cards. A few parents offer me six packs of beer, which I clumsily accept in the middle of the street. One student offers me her poster (a new keepsake for my classroom) and others simply swing back around to say their greetings anew. Dumbstruck and humbled, I finally step back onto the grass and out of the street. The honking has ceased and the shouts have been carried off in the wind. The curious neighbors have returned to their homes. A small pile of gifts and cards litter the lawn.

I’ve been holding my beer the entire time. Robotically I take a drink; it’s now cowboy cold, warmed from my pumping blood and the spring sun. I don’t notice the taste.

My sister and brother pull their cars along the sidewalk. My brother’s in-laws join suit. Suddenly I’ve got an impromptu family gathering on my hands. They are all laughing and chattering, congratulating themselves on their expert planning and execution. My sister is the mastermind – outwitted by my dear sister! – and my dear friend kept mum over the course of several patio drinks. She gives me the poster – the very one I had remarked upon earlier. Gaily, they gather the gifts, place them inside, then retreat to the backyard to schwatz and relax. Planning a surprise is tough work, and before long I’ve got the grill going. My neglected phone continues to blow up with new wishes and gotcha’s!

My family stays for the unofficial gathering and drinks all my new birthday beers. Eventually they retire to tend to their families and households; I escort them out and bid final farewells to cap this day of surprising mirth.

The sun is beginning to approach the western horizon; soon the sky will be a mosaic of brilliant color. A picturesque way to send off this day. My phone chirps again.

“Do you like wine,” she said.

The day continues to get better.

I pause in my front lawn where only hours ago I stood awestruck as my kids led a parade. What a day. I turn back toward the front, stopping to admire the rose bushes.

She blossomed. A full, pink rose – more beautiful than I had anticipated – now graces the lawn. All it took was a day for her beauty to become full. It is Nature’s way of reminding me of today’s love.

My heart is a well of love, replenished and overflowing with today’s spectacle. My kids – my goombas – who defied quarantine to participate in this birthday parade. I hear their shouts, see their smiling faces; I let a tear of joy fall.

Those little fuckers, I thought. I love them.

Camino Frances: Another Fortunate Misfortune

Another overcast day, a distant rain slowly encroaching upon us as the Galician sun seems nonexistent in this wet wonderland. The buildings of the area are new – post-Franco – but they lack the charm the rest of the Spanish countryside has held to her captive audience. Pre-fabricated and painted in obnoxious colors, they contrast with the verdant countryside just beyond the city borders.

I exhale a cloud of smoke, a Spanish brand, and its unctuous fumes waft back over me like a freighter steaming along past its own flatulence. My coffee sin leche sits on the damp table, a colorful parade of ponchoed pilgrims mustering past like students on their way to Hogwarts. They march because they must. They are all robed in these strange plastic garments, looking bedraggled and low-spirited, their energy matching the gloomy atmosphere of Mother Nature.

Fuckin’ tourists, I think to myself between puffs of cancer and caffeine. The previous day saw an explosion of pilgrims upon the Camino as the 100km mark proves an enticing starting point for many people seeking absolution (and that magical piece of paper that proves you visited the holy city). Despite my desire to remain non-judgmental, I find it a taxing task as hordes of Spanish teenagers – as loud and obnoxious as Americans – trundle along the path without packs, accompanied by their overweight parents who bustle and huff under the strain of their burgeoning wallets and empty day packs. That is not Camino, I think. There is no suffering.

My coffee finished, my cigarette burning my fingertips and near singeing my pathetic travel mustache, I groan along with my aching body as I saddle myself once more to join the march of pilgrims. I must top off on water and find a fountain adjacent to the cafe, dropping my freshly saddled pack onto the wet cement, and snag my two bottles. The button gives way easily enough; it isn’t near rusted shut like in the smaller villages.

With fresh water, I resupply my pack and replace the plastic rain cover. It snaps, then tears, in my soaked hands.

Fuck, I think aloud.

The clouds seem to threaten to burst that very instant as I look dumbfounded at my latest misfortune. First the boots splitting near two weeks into my adventure. Then my leg giving out shortly after. A rain jacket that doesn’t stop rain. And now a quite useless pack cover on a very rainy morn.

I laugh aloud to the fountain, startling an old woman walking her mutt along the main street and waking a bum who slept under a nearby awning. It can’t be repaired and no one around here uses duct tape for some strange reason. But I recall a pilgrim shop nearby that could carry new supplies; with curses and praise for my misfortune upon my breath, I stomp back up the hill.

The shop doesn’t open until 9 and I’ve two hours to kill afore then.

I return to the cafe, order another coffee, and light up another cigarette. I sit once more in my freshly dampened seat, admire the pilgrims who, though seem to be suffering, continue their journey in their colorful carcinogens as I wait impotently along the sidelines.

It is not wrong, I breathe. It is not right, I exhale, that familiar cloud canvassing me like a warm embrace, a much needed comfort on this rather bleak start to a day.

It is Camino.

Camino Frances: I’mma Spank that Mass

It’s near about 6 and I’ve been walking for close to 10 hours. The heat gave way long ago to the overcast clouds of Galicia, which in turn opened up as if it was Noah’s flood. In the uphill struggle of this rugged, mountainous country, I find myself laughing – shaking a friendly fist to the heavens – as I become drenched to the bone in mere moments after walking out from under the tree coverage.

The fantastic views of O Cebreiro – where one can see for hundreds of kilometers in unmolested beauty – were soon replaced by the valleys of the countryside. Resplendent stone villages appear periodically throughout the spotted, near-uninhabited landscape, but they offer few services. Many of the villagers sit there looking at me, that noxious smoke permeating the air, like a cat might ponder its food before crassly murdering it without so much as a second thought. I am a novelty – entertainment for these villagers lost to time. The Visigoths. The Arabs. The Hapsburgs. Napoleon. I’m just another out-of-place foreigner on his inevitable way.

The rain continues to fall, yet I remained determined to make my way to the small village of Samos, home to a splendid monastery renowned for its history of pilgrim hospitality. It is the feast day of Saint James – 25 July – and I intend on making the Pilgrim’s Mass in honor of the saint who bids me e’er onward to his near-mythical burial ground. It is a near 40km walk, but I am resolute.

The pain in my left leg is amplified by the cold rain, the tightened leather boot, and the rough road, but I find myself able to plant my staff into the damp ground, push forward, and grit my teeth through each bitter step. To think, my ancestors once made this walk in ages past – when witchcraft was a thing and possession by the Devil was the go-to explanation for every malady.

And here I was bitchin’ about a sore ankle.

The kind bartender at the last village said Samos was near 10km away; she deceptively smirked when I shook my head in resignation. That pilgrim’s resignation of accepting his miserable fate: if it is 10km, then I walk 10km. She poured me another beer, politely declined my gratitude, and bid me buen camino as I marched out the door and into the wilderness of Galicia.

The rain has been falling for what seems hours and I curse the gentleman in Medina who sold me this lemon of a rain jacket. It stops the water in the same manner the Maginot Line stopped the Germans at the onset of World War II: a great idea but a very poor execution. Within minutes of tramping the waterlogged paths, I am soaked to the bone, the jacket proving little more than a colorful addition to my pilgrim ensemble. No matter, I think, for those who trod this path before faired far worse. My staff digs deep into the mud, and I plod onward to Samos.

My right foot feels different than the left, and under the somewhat cover of an elderly oak, I find the seams have split once again. I curse my misfortune – a waterlogged boot on this Biblical day – but I again remind myself it is part of Camino. “Shit happens,” as we say in English, and after resting for a few moments, I begin my uphill, soaking trudge once again.

The tourist demands; the pilgrim accepts.

After what seems hours – long after what should have happened in 10km – I finally glimpse a sign: Samos .5KM. At last! Civilization within sight. I cross under a bridge and meet two fellow pilgrims, who, rather than experience the torrential downpour, have decided to camp underneath until the storm calms. We laugh at our situation, exchange cigarettes and stories, and I eventually continue on my journey. It is late in the day, I find myself utterly fatigued, and I desperately need a bed for the evening. The pain in my left leg prevents me from stopping too long: if I stop, I fear I cannot start again.

Bidding them farewell, I walk into the maelstrom and soon find myself within the limits of the ancient village of Samos. Sadly, no black-robed monks are there to greet me as I enter the town. In fact, most of the villagers look at me rather quizzically: who is this quixotic figure tramping through God’s watery fury?

With joy, having glimpsed the monastery from the top of the hill entering the village, I whistle my way through the desolate town square. A few Spaniards sit under eaves smoking their noxious cigarettes, tapping their canes and gesturing at my absurdity, but I remain undaunted as I limp into the church. A group of tourists stand agape at my entrance, perturbed by this soaked rat of a man who, in happy misery, whistled and waltzed his way into a sacred place.

An Irish tourist takes pity on me as the Spanish brothers go about their preparations: this was the entrance to the guided tour. The albergue was around the monastery, near 200m from where I had dropped my pack. Undaunted, and rather cheerful, I thank the woman, resaddle myself, and truly limp the last distance into the albergue.

I spot his green hat before he recognizes me.

“And where have you been,” he asks in his comforting Londoner accent?

“Brian! Comrade!” I shout in response, giving him a hug as I enter the dry tranquility of the monastery’s dormitory.

He returns my hug in the British sense – rather awkwardly – and gestures toward the dorms. “This man has been asking about you for several days.”

It is Francisco, the Spaniard from Astorga, with whom I have shared many meals, rooms, drinks, and smokes.

He waves as one does to a long-lost friend. “Hola Bruno!” he shouts. “Permisso un cigarette?” he gestures, making the universal sign for needing a smoke.

I laugh – soaked to the bone – and shake my head no.

I haven’t seen these guys in days and they immediately want to celebrate.

Camino Frances: My Leg Sucks

Howdy folks,

At the time of this writing, the Internet appears to be full on pants-on-head retarded and ceases to work appropriately. No matter, I wager, for I’ll simply post this when I enter an area with decent WiFi and far fewer turigrinos on their goddamned iPhones sucking up my precious bandwidth.

Fucking tourists.

I always take pictures of cows for my brother. Would a tourist do that?! Fun fact: cow shit smells the same in every country.

Months ago, whilst working across from a living caricature of The Office, I was asked if I was a tourist. I find the word quite belittling and very insulting, and I balked at her suggestion that I, Mr. Fucking Wanderer Tattooed on His Arm, would e’er be considered synonymous with foreigners and cameras. A foreign dipshit in a country only to take pictures and ooh and aah over the natives? Fuck me running, please.

Turns out she was only asking if my astrological sign was Taurus not tourist. Whoops, for I am indeed a Taurus.

Whate’er the fuck that means.

These past several days I have been limping along toward Santiago, the pain in my left shin exacerbated by every mountainous downhill step. With these shitty boots – which have twice now split along the seams – I feel every gravelly pebble and every gnarled root upon my aching haunches, the pain only amplified as I stumble my way across the hills and mountains that separate Leon from Galicia. A freshly minted cane helps me amble onward (and gives me a pretty good look, I daresay – just call me Daddy) but I do begin to fear that my leg might come clean off.

To my loving father, should you be reading this drivel, I would be greatly indebted should you make for me a stout, sturdy cane of solid wood so that upon my return I can scare the kids to death with my limping gait whilst brandishing my wooden cudgel. Just a thought. You can make anything out of wood – I have borne witness to that – and I would be honored to swing an old man stick in your stead. If only I was as capable and skilled as you.

I also take photos for my brother who will certainly appreciate the inside humor. Look, papa! Birds!

Grumpy old man that I am, I shan’t complain about the Way for that isn’t the reason we are out here, after all.

Ah, the reason?

I’ll tell you August First – Swiss National Day.

Regardless, I lost track of me mate Brian from London a few days back – his gait far outpaced my hobble and we lost one another in the mountains. No bother, I wager, for the Camino will reunite us should she see it fit. That’s just the Way: you meet people, you lose people. Keep going and you’ll be surprised.

Coincidentally at the Cruz de Ferro where a pilgrim is encouraged to leave behind their past grievances and walk forward with only good intentions.

From the Iron Cross, I limped into El Acebo where I spent a rather peaceful night in the company of a Japanese woman and a German lady. Sure, this sounds like a pretty raunchy sexual encounter, but I assure you I only slept peacefully for the first time since joining Frances. Even though the tiny, elderly Japanese woman snored like a freight train in desperate need of oil and new brakes, I was well within the land of Nod. Despite their need to awaken at 4 fucking AM to pack and repack their already packed shit from the night before, it was a rather peaceful night.

I also met Josef from Bavaria. Between four liters of beer and two packs of cigarettes in just over an hour, we became pretty cool friends.

I stumbled into Ponferrade, had myself a history boner at the Templar castle, and decided I’m too old for this shit and snagged myself a bed at the San Nicolas albergue. There I reunited with an elderly Spanish chap – Francisco – and the lovely German chain-smoker – Susie – and we had ourselves a beer and wine-filled festival of reunions. I was a bit pissed (in the English sense) and regaled any and all nearby pilgrims how Saint Nick was a Swiss and the patron saint of Swissland, and that is was only right and proper I stay there that night. After a fetchin’ meal through clouds of smoke and slurred words, I bid my comrades a good night and prepared for the following morn.

Despite my leg wanting to pull a Confederacy and secede from the Union, I plodded onward like an unwitting beast toward slaughter. Sure, I was moving, but what sort of butcher was waiting for me just over the hill? But God has a peculiar sense of humor I have come to learn, and I was rewarded for my incessant internal bitching with – get this – a wine tour and tasting for – Ellen, fucking get this – a fuckin’ Euro Fifty.

For less than two dollars, I was treated to a local wine tasting and even given snacks to boot. Sweet tap dancin’ Christ – I would never be so lucky back in the States! I snagged a picture of the sign to immortalize to my dear roommate just how badly she fucked up by skipping out on Camino. Certainly, I would have left her behind to the wolves back in the mountains, but this would have been the icing on that proverbial cake to make it this far. God love you, Magellen.

Please don’t let the scorpions into my room…

The pain in my leg refused to subside, the holes in my boots continued to grow, and the excitement in my heart continued to goad me onward. Less than 200km now to the Holy City, come Hell or high water, and though I’m dogged at the end of the day, I find myself quite calm and excited to be on the Way. Over drinks with a few Irish ladies (with the most syrupy thick of accents) I related how this was my third Camino, and, like a heroin addict doing obscene things for the next fix, I once more find myself upon the Way.

Folks, pilgrim or otherwise, I cannot quite fully explain what the experience is like. I know that the Bruno of five years ago (pre-Jakobsweg) is not the fella you know today. My sister, my dear sister, once remarked that she envied my zen with the world and how nothing gets my goat. Perhaps that is the Way – a path to calm. Perhaps it is something more. I have my reasons and my experiences, but, comrades, I encourage you to discover the Truth for yourself.

If you have gone on Camino, go again. Refresh that thirsty spirit.

If you have not, perhaps it is time to go.

Godspeed, comrades. Onwards!

Camino Frances: Para mi Libro

Howdy folks,

For four days now, I’ve been tramping about the Camino Frances on my way to Santiago. You’ve already read – theoretically – about the desolation of Camino Madrid and the stark contrast to Frances in terms of amenities and pilgrims. I needn’t bore you with such details any further.

What I shall bore you with, howe’er, is about the day to day shenanigans I find myself getting in to as I slowly close in upon my goal of visiting the holy city and the splendid coast.

Do forgive the lack of photos as the internet at the albergue municipal is far from fast. It’s reminiscent of the dial-up I grew up with (kids, ask your parents).

Continue reading “Camino Frances: Para mi Libro”

Doubt Breeds Strength

Where to begin?

I hear it. Those reverberating beats of guitar, drums, and keyboard before the onslaught of lyrics eviscerates my reality. That booming voice; a war god howling his rage and frustration. Deutschland. Again and again, repeated for emphasis, to show just how important it is for the listener to pay attention – to take fucking note. Ah, battle ne’er sounded so angrily beautiful. This euphoric assault upon the senses, bringing one to realization that the world is far vaster, far more important, than whate’er miniscule problems one might think they understand.

This is music. Continue reading “Doubt Breeds Strength”