We Are Walking

We walk from San Sebastián to Zaurautz starting on a misty-not-quite-rainy morning that later becomes a full blown rainy morning but, eventually, a lovely day. The first day of any adventure requiring effort is always a test: can we do this? Are we up to the challenge? Will there be hot water for a shower when we arrive tonight and if not, will I survive? Even more important: is this a legit tour company and are the documents on my phone reflective of actual reservations in real hotels? Because a lot of these places are in the back of beyond, truly. And I’m not sure you can even get a taxi back to the closest village with a hotel.

We once went on a bike trip with our friends Howard and Jan. On the train from Paris to the countryside spot where we were to meet our tour guide, Jan casually asked how we’d found this company, anyway. “We got a promotional postcard in the mail,” Jerry answered (also casually). Jaws may have dropped. I thought they were going to jump off the high~speed train. Luckily, it was legit.

In Spain, we pass the first-day test, as does the outfit with which we’ve booked our trip. Another big test for me is, will my Spanish hold up? Can I order a sandwich, a slice of tortilla (egg here, not flour) a glass of wine? Phew, I can. But lurking beneath any new conversation, there’s always the question, Can she form simple sentences like a four-year-old?

I lived in Madrid my junior year at Middlebury, way back in ‘83-‘84. I loved it and learned to speak Spanish pretty fluently. (My favorite memory might be the night a cab driver asked me what part of Spain I was from.) But still, you never know how the intervening years will affect what you learned. These days, my biggest challenge tends to be remembering the foods. For example, lomo is pork. Who remembers that? No one. It’s crazy.

The most annoying I’ve ever been in my life, hands down and regardless of what my sons might say, were my first couple years back from Madrid. I started every second sentence with, “When I lived in Spain…” Sometimes I varied it. “Well, when I lived in Madrid…” You could feel eyes rolling around whatever given room. Sometimes I used Spanish words in non-Spanish-speaking company. Super rude. I no longer do that, but can’t swear that the coming summer won’t be peppered with assertions about, “Well, when Jerry and I walked across Spain…”

I’ll try not to do this, though, because I have matured in the last 40 years. (¡Ojala!)

We are walking.

S.