The Texas Woman

“¿Mis maletas están aquí?” I ask the proprietor of the Hostal Etxeberri in Eugi.

I am elated and utterly spent. I have just completed Stage 1—the most important day of the journey. It was a day of splendid scenery, vivid history, and the realization that my logistics are far more complicated than my legs.

Managing my suitcase and rucksack has become a second job. It’s October, and the off-season has already begun shutting things down. My transport company, Camino Facil, will close in three weeks—long before I reach Santiago.

Added to the stress is the "Covid paranoia" of 2021. While others sleep in crowded albergues, I am hunting for private rooms and bathrooms. Since I’m technically homeless with no mortgage to pay, I rationalize the cost. But tonight, that privacy means I’m staying in Eugi, a lovely lakeside town thirty-two kilometers off the trail.

A taxi brought me here from Roncesvalles, where I’d been celebrating the day's victory with drinks and laughter. I’ve already made "Camino friends"—Irish women who like to drink and young American lads who seem fueled by pure adrenaline. I couldn't keep up with any of them; I even left a glass of wine untouched when I departed. That’s how tired I am.

“Be careful,” I warn the proprietor as he reaches for my big pink bag. “It’s heavy.” “¡Soy fuerte!” he responds, groaning as he heaves it. I am strong.

My room has a bathtub—a rare European luxury. As I soak my old bones, my mind drifts back to the morning.

The day began at 8:00 AM in Saint-Jean. I stepped out in second-hand shorts, a cheap fleece from Cork, and a wide-brimmed hat. I chose Asics running shoes over heavy boots, praying my "geriatric legs" wouldn't regret the lack of ankle support.

The temperature was a shock. The staff at breakfast told me it was eight degrees. I did the frantic mental math: Two times eight is sixteen, minus one... plus thirty-two... forty-seven degrees Fahrenheit!Fuuuuck. I scrambled to change into trousers.

As I passed the church tower, the clock struck eight. Through the ancient gateway and across the bridge, the world opened up. I passed mountain meadows where cows wore bells that sounded like a Beatrix Potter book.

“Bonjour, ça va bien?” I called out. “Buen Camino!” came the reply from every direction.

I found my rhythm using a switchback pattern on the steep inclines—zigging left, zagging right. I passed a woman huffing and puffing straight up the hill; she caught my eye, saw my zig-zag, and immediately mimicked it. We shared a silent, breathless nod of improvement.

At a high-altitude food truck, I reunited with Conor from Alaska and Dave from Colorado. They were sitting on giant logs, eating vacuum-sealed cheese. “If you only have one thing here, try the cheese,” Conor advised. Fat content be damned, I needed the fuel. “Fromage, s’il vous plaît?” I asked. The owner replied in Spanish, much to my relief. He sliced the wedges with a large knife. Conor was right—it was the best cheese I’d ever tasted.

The "restroom" at the food truck was another story—a stone-walled cesspool that required a deep squat and a prayer for a strong breeze. God bless hand sanitizer, I muttered, stepping back into the wind.

Later, I fell in with Niamh, Sarah, and Aoife—the Irish "girls' trip" crew. We trekked across the border from France into Spain, talking of our lives. Aoife is a physician; Niamh, a finance specialist. We met Michel, a septuagenarian who had been walking from Paris for six weeks.

While walking with a group of Italian men, the usual questions began. “Where are you from?” “Texas,” I said. “Oh!” one man exclaimed. “I heard about the Texas woman going to Santiago alone.”

I looked at my companions, astonished. Apparently, my story had been circulating since the flight from Dublin. I had chatted with a passenger in the pre-dawn darkness of the airport, never imagining our small talk would become the morning news of the Camino.

It’s only Day 2. Tomorrow, I’m taking a taxi directly to Pamplona to sort out my luggage and do laundry. I feel a twinge of sadness about skipping a stage, but I rationalize it: twenty-five years ago, my now-estranged  husband and I hiked a nearby portion of the Pyrenees.

Back then, we carried almost nothing.

I decide, that old hike will serve as a proxy for tomorrow’s lost miles.

The ugly sounds in my head are quieter tonight, replaced by cowbells and mountain air.

I am exhausted.

But I am content.

Thank you for reading.