Page 72 of Every Step She Takes
But as we follow the coastline out of town, each step feels invigorating and energizing, like it’s slowly bringing me back to life. I love the sun and the sea and the predictable routine of putting one foot in front of the other. The water and coffee clearly help my mood, as does the giant croissant Rebecca put in my breakfast bag, but they can’t explain why I feel almost giddy, why I can’t stop grinning to myself.
The Camino is not the reason why I keep pressing two fingers to my smile, remembering the heat of Mal’s mouth against mine. It’s not why Vera takes a photo of my goofy expression and asks me if I’m still drunk.
And Iamstill drunk. Drunk on Mal Gonçalves.
I have a giant, uncontrollable, all-consuming crush on Mal, the kind of crush that makes me so distracted, I trip over my feet three times in a row, and on the fourth time, I skin my knee so badly it bleeds. The kind of crush that makes it hard to focus on anything but her lean legs and long stride. I’m separated from Mal by two retirees and one hundred yards, but it feels like her body is still pressed against mine on that beach.
Isthishow my middle school friends felt about their crushes? No wonder they never shut up about boys. If I had someone to talk to about this, I don’t think I would ever stop.
It’s our last day on the Portuguese coast, and I try to concentrate on memorizing the beauty here. In another mile or so, we’ll take a boat across the border into Spain and find ourselves one giant step closer to Santiago de Compostela. I’ll miss the tiny, old Portuguese men who hobble past us with their “Bom caminhos!” I’ll miss the unrelenting kindness of everyone we’ve metalong our journey. I’ll miss the sound of Mal effortlessly switching between English and Portuguese at every café and restaurant. But most of all, I’ll miss pasteis de nata.
I order an entire plateful when we stop for morning tea, and I make sure to savor every bite before they’re gone forever.
The path moves away from the coast and into the woods, taking us along a soft trail of trees for another mile before the path abruptly cuts across a stretch of sand. We end up on the bank of a river. There’s an inconspicuous dock with a few small boats bobbing in the current beside it and people waiting in disorderly lines.
“All right, my beautiful and/or hungover pilgrims!” Inez announces. “The boats cost six euro! Get on whichever one has room, and we’ll meet up on the other side in Spain!”
I get swept up in the current of people heading toward the boats. Someone takes my cash.
Another man speaking Spanish takes my hand and lifts me into a boat, where I’m surrounded by people I don’t recognize, all singing in Portuguese. I quickly learn they’re all nurses, and they’re doing the Camino as a team-bonding experience.
I look up and see that Mal is next to Inez in a different boat, that the whole group is separated. The motor churns and the noise drowns out all other sounds as we cruise across the river, water spraying up into the boat, making it impossible for me to see. I grab on to my hat and hold it in place amid the wind and the waves.
The trip is wild and wonderful, and when my feet are on solid ground again, I’m in a new country.
The town of A Guarda is on a hill overlooking the Atlantic, and we schlep our bags up to our hotel for the night in a chorus ofdeeply exhausted groans. It’s clear we’re all carrying hangovers in addition to our heavy packs, and the 9 miles it took to get us here were challenging.
It’s a little after one when we arrive, but Inez has a personal relationship with the owner of our hotel, so we’re able to check in early. Perhaps the greatest joy of my life is discovering our hotel has an elevator. Granted, it’s only big enough for one person at a time, and you have to open the doors yourself, but everyone except Stefano happily waits their turn to be carted up to the third floor.
“I suspect it’s going to be an early night for most of us,” Inez says before we all part ways.
“You suspect correctly,” Vera tells her as she stifles a sangria-scented burp.
“So, let’s meet up for lunch in an hour, and then we’ll retire early. We can all do our own thing for dinner, if we’re still awake at seven.”
“Deal,” Ro grunts, “but under one condition: no one orders wine at lunch.”
Everyone agrees, and an hour later, we’re together again, walking the few blocks to Restaurante La Casa de la Abuela. It’s in an unassuming building next to a tattoo parlor, but once inside, we discover a rustically charming place with eclectic furnishings and herbs hanging over the bar. The restaurant is spread out over several rooms and patios, with old family photos decorating the walls. It reminds me of my house of ghosts, but warmer and more inviting.
The owner greets Ari likesheis family, before guiding us through rooms with stone walls and wood-beam ceilings. Each space is full of upcycled furniture items. There are wine barrels converted into tables, repurposed chandeliers, and living room furniture functioning as banquette seating. Seeing the way the pieces work together to create something surprisingly chic makes me miss Nan’s antique store for the first time all trip.
Well, not the store, exactly, but my tiny workshop in the back of the store, the place where I used to reinvent old items the way this restaurant has, honoring the past while also creating something new.
The owner seats us on an expansive patio, and the rest of the group is in the middle of a conversation I missed while daydreaming about furniture restoration. “I have sixteen, I think,” Ari is saying as we all settle around an old dining room table that’s been dressed up with a pink, woven tablecloth.
“Sixteen what?” I ask.
“Tattoos.” Ari chugs some ice water as she considers this. “No, wait. Seventeen.”
“I havetre.” Stefano winks from his chair where he’s doing seated calf raises. “But they are places your eyes cannot go.”
“How many tattoos doyouhave?” Ari asks Mal, leaning across the table to stroke the bird tattoo on Mal’s right wrist. The memories of last night rise in the back of my throat like the red wine and brandy. Memories of Ari touching Mal while they danced together; memories of Mal touching me.
“I’ve lost count,” Mal says, before pulling her arm away to reach for her water.
“I’ve always wanted to get a tattoo,” Vera says wistfully. “But I’ve never been able to commit to something that I would want on my body forever.”
“Not me.” I casually reach for a menu, but it’s in Spanish, yet another language I don’t know. “Growing up, I always swore I’d never get one.”
