Page 40 of Every Step She Takes
“You absolutely do not needtwo pairs of jeans.” Mal takes them out and throws them onto the floor. “They’re heavy, they take up too much room, and everyone will laugh at you if you trek wearing jeans. We’re leaving these behind.”
This goes on. She chucks one of my cardigans, two of my crop tops, my blow-dryer, and all my skin-care products except my sunscreen.
“That moisturizer is ninety-five dollars!”
Mal puts it directly into the trash. “I’ll Venmo you.”
Vera’s comment about Mal having money flashes in my mind, but then I’m diving to save my electric toothbrush from the junk pile.
“That thing is way too bulky! You can get a small, cheap one from the farmácia for a euro.”
“I can’t get rid of anything else!”
“You can and youwill.” She gets rid of myLonely Planetguidebook, my crossbody purse, my white sneakers (“Could you have packed anything moreimpractical?”), and my makeup bag.
“Wait! I can’t part with my makeup!”
“We aretrekking. There’s no better time to divest from the beauty industry.”
“But Ilikebeing invested in the beauty industry.” I hug the cosmetics bag to my chest.
“Just make sure you’re wearing makeup for the right reason,” she says with some of Inez’s spiritualism in her voice.
“What’s therightreason?”
Mal doesn’t answer because she’s suddenly distracted by my three coats.
She accepts that I need the iPad and notebook to work on my sister’s blog, but she throws out the dress Vi made me pack (“You can get drunk in yoga pants.”), the sound machine (“Is this for a baby?”), and half of my underwear (“You’re supposed to stink on the Camino. That’s half the fun!”).
The next morning, there is a stack of my so-called shit on my remade twin bed. She writesdonationon the back of a receipt and sets it on top of the stack. Apparently, pilgrims leave things behind at albergues all the time, and items are passed along to people who need them.
When we set out for the day at eight in the morning with the rest of the group, my pack is at least ten pounds lighter. Mal has redistributed everything, putting the heaviest items on the bottom,and adjusted the straps to the right height for my body. She secures the small strap across my chest, even though it smooshes my boobs, and the pack feels almost weightless on my shoulders, my hips holding most of the burden.Ifeel almost weightless.
The toe socks are conspicuous at first, as are Mal’s shoes, but after the mile, my feet settle into this new rhythm. My calves still ache, my forehead is sunburned, and I’m the most physically exhausted I’ve ever been, but there’s something almost hypnotic about the walk. Ialmostenjoy it.
The walk from Vila do Conde to Esposende starts with a stretch of wooden boardwalk along the beach, but the blue skies and sparkling ocean help ease the annoyance of it today. May in Seattle is unpredictable, but here, May is glorious. Warm, with a light breeze coming off the water, everything green and saturated and remarkablyalive.
On the outskirts of town, we stumble upon a market with wares clearly targeting pilgrims that packed horribly. Shorts and raincoats, sunscreen and hats. Mal grabs one of the hats—a cheap baseball cap with an anthropomorphic oyster shell embroidered on the front—and shoves it onto my head.
“You can’t do the Camino without a hat.”
It’s the single ugliest accessory I’ve ever seen. I love it.
Ari studies us as Mal pulls my ponytail through the back of the cap, and I attempt to hide my blush beneath the stiff bill. Ari cocks her head to the side, then snorts. “That oyster shell looks like vulva.”
“Will you please help me order real coffee?” I beg Mal at our midmorning stop.
“You don’t want to water anymore plants with your espresso?” She smirks at me. “You can order a cappuccino most places,” sheexplains as she leads me inside the café, where patrons are drinking espresso and beer in equal measure, even though it’s before noon. “Or you can ask for café com leite, coffee with milk.”
“Yes, that,” I say. She approaches the counter and begins speaking Portuguese with the middle-aged man behind the counter. I have no idea what they’re saying, but I find myself watching the way her bowed mouth moves around the unfamiliar sounds.
“Are you hungry?” Mal switches back to English and turns to me.
I have never been this hungry in my whole life. Apparently walking all day works up an appetite. “I could eat,” I tell her. She orders something, and a minute later, a white plate with six round pastries appear in front of us. “What are those?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mal shouts, and the drunk and/or over-caffeinated customers stare at us. “You’ve been in Portugal for forty-eight hours, and you haven’t tried pasteis de nata yet?”
“What’s a pasteis de nata?” I ask at a reasonable indoor volume.
