Page 34 of Every Step She Takes
The more time I spent with them, the more alienated I felt. The morebehindI felt. So, eventually, I stopped hanging out with them at all. I stopped hanging out with anyone outside my immediate family, really.
“I swear I recognize her from somewhere,” Vera says to her banana.
“Who?”
“Mal. Like, maybe she’s European famous or something…”
“I’ve never seen her before, but with that hot-ass face and that hot-ass ass, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was.”
Vera scrunches her face in concentration. “She’s definitely rich.”
“How can you tell?” I ask.
“She paid for everyone’s dinner last night,” Vera says. “Didn’t you notice?”
I was so jet-lagged, I wouldn’t have noticed if Mal did a naked limbo on top of the table.
“And she paid with an AmEx Black card.”
“You’re like a little detective, aren’t you, V?” Ari rubs her hands together mischievously. “Perhaps you shall be my Mal spy.”
“I will not.”
I keep my attention focused on my breakfast, once again praying no one will ask me any more direct questions. Maybe Mal is famous. Maybe that’s why I had that weird sensation ofknowing herwhen I first saw her on the plane. Maybe that’s whyevery timeI look at her, my stomach pole-vaults into my rib cage.
Inez stands on her chair and claps her hands together to get our attention. “Good morning, my beautiful pilgrims!” she sings. She glances around the room. “Everyone here is beautiful, but this announcement is specifically for the beautiful pilgrims on the Beatrix Tour. This is the last call for toilets and coffee. We’re meeting out front in five minutes!”
As she finishes her announcement, Mal comes running down the stairs with her bag slung over one shoulder. Her hair is wet and slicked back, showing off her widow’s peak. She’s wearing her Hokas, brown hiking pants, and a white T-shirt beneath her open fleece. She’s distinctlynotwearing a bra again.
And she is, regrettably, very hot indeed.
Matosinhos is beautiful in the morning. As we set out for the day, the sun filters between white-washed buildings that reflect the golden light and make the cobblestones sparkle. There’s a floral smell to the air, perhaps from the purple flowers in the trees, and it mixes with the salty crispness of the sea.
Even though it’s already eight thirty, the city is only starting to wake up. Old men in aprons sweep the sidewalks outside their storefronts, small delivery trucks unload the day’s fresh meat and produce, and school children in uniforms parade down the street in small clusters, their parents trailing after. Inez leads us in the direction of the yellow arrows, through sleepy streets and sunshine, as people call “Bom caminho!” to us pilgrims.
Our group adds to the music of the morning too. The clang of Mal’s water bottle; the anachronistic click of Vera’s camera; Inez’s commentary and Rebecca’s humming and the clang of Ro’s trekking poles; the sound of eight pairs of asynchronistic feet clomping along the Camino. There is something comforting about being part of this morning routine.
The comfort ends, though, when our pathway along the beach turns from sidewalk to boardwalk. Each time my hiking boots hit the wooden slats, pain shoots from my ankles to my calves. I try to cling to the pleasure of the blue sky and the roaring sea, but after an hour on the boardwalk, I’ve lost all optimism.
The group stretches out along the boardwalk as everyone walks at their own pace, and I am the caboose, trudging along miserably. At one point, Stefano jogs back to me and offers to carry my pack the rest of the way.
“But you have your own pack to carry,” I point out.
“I will run ahead and drop my pack off at the hostel, and then run back for your pack,” he says. And the idea of himrunningwith his pack makes me so angry, I almost do let him carry both bags.
Inez has everyone take a photo of our feet fanned around a bronze engraving in the middle of the boardwalk that has the phrasebom caminhoin several languages.Buen camino. Good journey.
There is nothing good about this journey.
We don’t take a proper break until we reach a town called Boa Nova a little after ten. There’s a café tucked under a checkered awning, and Inez wrangles two sidewalk tables together so we can rest. Everyone drops their packs in a heap and trickles inside in search of coffee and a bathroom.
I line up behind Rebecca and search for a menu where there seems to be none. This place is nothing like my local Seattle coffee shop. The café has the low lighting of a bar, which it might be, given the beer tap in the corner. A few locals stand at the counter sipping from tiny white espresso cups, and everyone is speaking Portuguese except us.
“Do you want help ordering?” a voice asks close to my ear, and I nearly jump out of my skin at Mal’s sudden closeness.
“Uh, no…” I stammer. “I’ll be okay.”
When I reach the counter, a stern woman rattles off a monologue in Portuguese while I blink dumbly at her. Duolingo didn’t cover this in the first two lessons.
