Page 102 of Every Step She Takes
I’ve never had moretimethan I do on the Camino. Time to think, time to reflect, time to connect. Time to turn off my brain and do nothing but breathe and walk. And I’ll miss that.
I’ll miss the vineyard too, and that sacred glimpse into the real Mal. I’ll miss sleeping in a queen bed beside her. I’ll miss sharing a room because we wanted to, not because we had to. I’ll miss lazy morning kisses and late-night conversations. I’ll miss Mal. Even if we’re just practice.
Maybe it’s just vacation brain. Maybe this is how everyone feels when they travel abroad. Maybe this is why Diane Lane bought a crumbling villa and never left Tuscany. Because we’ll be in Santiago in four days, and I’m having a hard time imagining how I’ll ever say goodbye to all of this.
I stare down at Vi’s texts. Raindrops coat my phone screen as I jab out my response to her.
It’s a two-hundred-pound curio cabinet. I think you can find it.
Redondela is another adorable town with cobbled streets, medieval buildings, and undeniable charm. Even with the constant misty rain, there’s a small market set up in the middle of town, with vendors under pop-up tents and patrons under umbrellas. Off to the side, there’s a teenaged string quartet dressed like punk rockers playing eclectic covers of contemporary pop songs. It’s just as we arrive in town that they end a stirring rendition of a Sabrina Carpenter bop and start playing something with a slow, gospel start.
Mal grabs my hand. “Oh shit, it’s our song!” she shouts as she starts dragging me closer to the band. It still takes me a minute to place the tune, and then a teen dressed like Billy Idol starts singing the first verse. It’s Madonna. “Like a Prayer.” The song Mal and I danced to in Vila Praia de Âncora.
I laugh as I let myself be dragged across the square, but it soon becomes clear that Mal isn’t joking at all. She fully intends to dance to this song in the middle of this Galician town, even though no one else is dancing. Even though it’s raining and we’re still wearing our packs.
“Mal…” I say her name like it’s a warning that Mal won’t heed. She’s still holding my hand as she starts dramatically swaying to the music.
I’m frozen in place by embarrassment. There are people everywhere, and at least half of them are watching the tall woman with the blue mullet as she dances to Madonna. I’m sweating and blushing and cursing beside her, hoping she stops. Or that I somehow fall through the cobblestones and into another dimension where no one is looking at me.
But this is all going to be over in four days, and when I look back on my life, I don’t regret the things I’ve done; I regret the experiences I’ve missed out on. So, I dance with Mal. She hoots, then pulls me into a bastardization of the tango. I let her lead. When she dips me, I dip as low as I can. And when she shakes her ass, I shake my ass too. And when she grinds against me, I grind right back, as robustly as I can, in tribute to every middle school dance I spent hiding in the bathroom.
I’m dancing in the street, and I’m not thinking about how silly we must look. I’m not spiraling about what others must think of us. I’m too busy watching the way Mal’s hips rock side to side, and the way her bowed mouth looks curled into this goofy smile. The way she screams, “And now I’m dancing,” along with the punk-rock teen. And I want Mal to take me there.
Someone in the audience catcalls us. I’m pretty sure it’s Stefano.
Then Stefano is beside us, twirling Ari in ridiculous circles. Rebecca grabs Ro, and Vera grabs herself and does an impressive moonwalk into the middle of the dance floor that’s forming around us. An older Spanish man offers Inez his hand, and she graciously accepts it, letting him waltz her around the square. More people join in. Couples and children and even a few reluctant teens, all of them dancing gleefully to an orchestral version of “Like a Prayer.”
The grinding gives way to some kind of gentle sway, and we slow dance in front of tourists and locals and this teenage Billy Idol. I think about all the experiences I missed out on growing up: homecoming dances and prom and nights out in college. Pinning a boutonniere to the lapel of some beautifully handsome girl in a tux. Kissing strange women under strobe lights at an ’80s night. Seeing a woman across the bar and having that fizzy, frothy feeling the first time our eyes meet.
But as Mal holds me close in the rain, it doesn’t feel like I missed out on anything at all.
C’est La Vi with Me
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When It Rains…
Sadie Wells
May 23, 2025 74 comments
It rained the entire 12 miles to Pontevedra. Not the light, misting rain we experienced yesterday, but a heavy, thick rain that soaked through even the best Pacific Northwest raincoat. It was the kind of rain that made it difficult to talk to each other, with our hoods up and our heads down, so we slogged along the path out of Redondela in silence, leaving plenty of time for contemplation.
The Camino took us into the woods and up the steep hills of the Alto de Lomba. The dirt path was slick with mud, and each step required my full attention as we climbed toward the top, where we were expecting a gorgeous view of the Vigo estuary. Instead, it was socked in by rain clouds and fog, everything painted in an undistinguishable gray that reminded me of Seattle. It was the first time in eleven days that the Camino’s beauty disappointed me.
As the path briefly took us along the equally ugly N550, I started thinking about beauty. I’ve always cultivated a beautiful environment for myself: serene sounds, soothing aromas, and succulent flavors. An airy, open floor plan and a bucolic backyard paradise. My 500 thread-count sheets and my cashmere blankets. My William Morris wallpaper and my sound machine and my lavender diffuser.
But the Camino has taught me that the most beautiful things are the ones you can’t control or plan for, like…
The sunrise over Viana do Castelo (absolutely worth the 4 a.m. wake up and the 700 stairs).
Jacaranda trees in bloom, the purple flowers drooping like amethyst.
A long, unbroken path in front of you.
An old Portuguese man on his morning walk, tipping his hat at every pilgrim that passes.
A cheap blue hat with an embroidered oyster shell to protect you from the sun.
