Page 20 of Every Step She Takes
“Sadie was also a last-minute addition to our tour,” Inez explains. “Her sister is a travel influencer who was going to cover the tour for her blog, but then she broke her foot abseiling, so Sadie is taking her place and doing the blog for her!”
“It was parasailing and her big toe, but um, yeah.” Sadie stares down at her feet.
“Mal and I met on my first-ever Camino,” she says, continuing her introductions. “She’s originally from Portugal, and she spent summers here with her father, so she’s a good resource to have on our trip!”
I try to mirror Inez’s smile, but I’ve been on Portuguese soil for all of thirty minutes, and already people are reminding me of my shit father and those shit summers.
“Isn’t this so exciting!” Inez claps her hands together and bounces on her toes. “In just a few hours, we’ll embark on a journey toward Santiago and toward living as our most authentic selves!” Then Inez goes so far as to poke Sadie in the ribs. “I hope you’re ready to shed all preconceptions about yourself and dig deep into the core of who Sadie Wells really is.”
Sadie’s heartbeat is nearly audible in the Francisco Sá Carneiro Airport, and I find myself wishing I could reassure her again. I wish I could reach out and hold her hand, because dealing with Sadie’s emotional turmoil is so much easier than dealing with my own.
But I don’t.
“Come!” Inez excitedly throws her arms into the air. “To the road of self-actualization.”
A taxi takes the three of us into the heart of Porto, where we’re meeting up with the rest of the tour group at the Sé Cathedral: the same cathedral where my father’s funeral will be held in three weeks.
As we drive along the Douro River sparkling in the midday sun, I try not to think about the last time I came to this city, this country. It was over five years ago now, for my father’s seventieth birthday. I was living in Amsterdam at the time, volunteering at an LGBTQ+ call center for teens in crises. When the invitation arrived, I had no intention of flying to Porto for one of my father’s self-indulgent celebrations. But working with queer kids who were trying to resolve their family trauma tricked me into thinking it might be time to resolve my own.
My dad called, begging me to come to his party. So, against my better judgment, I did.
But he only wanted me there as a prop, as physical proof that he was a good father. I was something to parade around to his friends when I was in a charming mood, something to hide away whenever I wasn’t. That’s all I ever was to him: an accessory, like his Gucci sunglasses and Jaeger-LeCoultre wristwatch. If I didn’t reflect what he wanted people to see, well… then it was better if no one remembered that Valentim Costa had a daughter at all.
The taxi drives past the Dom Luís I Bridge, and the medieval city center comes into view, with its terra-cotta roofs and narrow white, red, and yellow buildings checkered along crooked streets. On the hill overlooking Ribeira, the towers of the Sé Cathedral loom large.
“It looks like King’s Landing,” Sadie murmurs with her face plastered to her window.
“That’s Croatia, actually.”
Sadie squeezes the backpack on her lap and flushes red. “I-I’ve never been to Europe before.”
My head turns back to my window and I see this spectacular city through her awestruck eyes. The dazzling river, the turquoise sky, and the city spread out on those hills, seemingly held together by magic and history.
Portugal is quite beautiful, if you don’t have ugly memories here.
The taxi deposits us in a narrow alley near the church, and Sadie can barely get out of the car with her oversized pack. Then she waddles up the steps toward the cathedral under its massive weight, which is even more comical.
“Do you need help?” I offer, as Inez skips ahead to find the other members of our group. Because surely I can offer to help this woman without wanting to pick out Ikea furniture together.
“I’ve got it,” she grunts.
Her confidence is undermined by the way she pitches and sways with every step. I follow close behind, ready to catch her if necessary. It takes a while, but we eventually make it to the cobbled courtyard and find Inez standing by a Camino marker. The concrete pillar is only about a meter tall, with an image of a yellow scallop shell engraved against a square blue background, the symbol of the Camino de Santiago. Below that is a yellow arrow pointing to the direction of the path.
Inez is talking to a man who must be her administrative assistant, based on his impractical jeans and espadrilles. He has a clipboard and Inez’s pack at his feet—the same 30L Deuter pack she wore a few years ago when we met in Sweden to walk the Way of St. Olaf. I check in with Mr. Espadrilles, and he confirms my traveler’s health insurance before he asks me to sign one last waiver saying Beatrix isn’t responsible for any injuries I may sustain on the journey.
The courtyard is crowded with tourists and pilgrims, most of them clearly at the start of their treks. A few people hover close to Inez—a masc-looking person in tiny bike shorts doing jumping jacks; a pretty femme with a curly bob, huge tortoise-shell glasses kept in place by a beaded string, and a giant camera dangling around her neck like it’s 1992; a stout, older butch with trekking poles who looks like she just stepped out of a Columbia Sportswear catalogue—but it’s unclear if they’re all on Inez’s tour or if they’re waiting for their chance to take their picture at the first trail marker of their Camino.
“Beatrix travelers!” Inez calls out, and the eclectic assortment of people moves closer as she secures her Afro out of her face with one of her adjustable hair ties. “If you haven’t already picked up your pilgrim credentials, please head inside the cathedral to get them.”
I turn toward the cathedral, and Sadie trails after me like a lost puppy. “Why does the Camino start in a church?” she asks as we step inside the cool, dark vestibule.
And surely answering her question is innocent enough. “Because it’s a religious pilgrimage,” I tell her. “Did you researchanythingabout the Camino before taking your sister’s place?”
Even in the dim light, I can see her blush deepen. “At this point, I think you know I did not.”
“And technically, the Camino doesn’t start here,” I explain as we queue behind a gaggle of Germans with their yellow guidebooks.“The Portuguese Camino starts in Lisbon, but most pilgrims begin here in Porto because Lisbon adds an extra four hundred kilometers, and there isn’t as much pilgrim infrastructure on that part of the route.”
She nods like she’s trying to memorize every word I say. “And what, exactly, is a pilgrim credential?”
