We sadly hugged goodbye to each new friend as we walked past their hotels or hostels - Michael, then Dom and Paul, then Marcus. Fabian was in the same albergue as us, so we said goodbye to him the following morning. I’ve said goodbye to him so many times on this trip because we thought we wouldn’t see him again, but there he is again.
“Goodbye son,” Katie told him, sure this was the last time.
Katie and I started walking toward the train station. We stopped at one of the few cafes open that early (I was excited they actually had coffee to go…). We figured the train would probably have a cafe car, but we wanted to grab something just in case.
We went to cross the street and then we hear “hello!” behind us. It was Katie’s son.
“So turns out the bus station is by the train station,” he said. (He was taking a bus to Finisterre.) So we walked with Fabian yet again.
We arrived at the train station and I showed Katie and I’s tickets to the clerk at the counter.
“English?” The worker asked me.
“Yes.”
“This isn’t a train ticket.”
“What?”
“It’s a bus ticket”
Fuck.
I told Katie, apologizing for my mistake.
“When I looked up Santiago to Lisbon for this day it was the only option. I thought it was a train!”
“Ehh it’s ok, what’re we going to do at this point?” She said. So calm for finding out we're about to be on a bus, definitely without a cafe car and possibly no bathroom, for 8.5 hours.
We only had 15 minutes before the bus left. I was asking the counter worker for directions to the bus stop.
“I know where it is,” Fabian said. We started walking to the bus station.
“Have I mentioned how sick I get on buses?” Katie asked.
“I do too after my head injury,” I said.
“Hola vomitos!” Somebody sang. Probably me…
“I hope they have a bathroom….” I said.
“I mean they have to right? For 8.5 hours?” Katie said.
I didn’t buy it. I ran to the bathroom and came out with seven minutes before the bus left.
We said goodbye to Fabian again for maybe the last time.
“Watch he’s going to be on the same bus,” Katie said.
“No he’s going to be driving the bus,” I said.
She and I walked to the bus boarding area. There was no bus number on our ticket and no labels on the buses. Great. We walked to each bus and red the paper ticket on the front (if there was one). There were two buses that appeared to be boarding. The first bus had a piece of paper that said “Porto.” The second bus had no sign.
“Lisboa?” I asked a woman in line. She nodded. Hallelujah, we’d made it with two minutes to spare.
“I can’t believe a bus gets there in 8.5 hours,” I said. “Maybe there’s an expedited road?”
“No dude I went from Albuquerque to Vegas in eight hours,” Katie said.
“But did you walk there for 29 days first?” I asked. “Cuz that’s where I’m having a hard time with it.” She laughed, “Nope!”
We boarded the bus. Our seats were in the next to last row...great spots for getting sick. They were tight seats, and then the woman in front of Katie leaned her seat all the way back, maybe half of an inch from her chest. She gave me a look. It would be a long 8.5 hours.
I mean maybe, I fell in and out of sleep several times (I'd only had the one coffee, okay?).
The bus had a bathroom but it was coin operated.
“We paid to be on the bus and they’re going to charge us to pee?!” I exclaimed. See, this is why we panic pee at bus stations first.
We had a 45-minute break in Porto to eat, go to the restroom, and kind of stretch. The food was disgusting. Katie took one bite of her sandwich and threw it away. I peeled off the cheese on my sandwich. It was so hard I couldn’t bite through it.
“Just 4.5 more hours!” Katie said.
We chatted about the Camino friends we hadn’t seen again, some of whom had major personal struggles going on.
“I hope they got what they needed out of this trip,” I said. We talked about another cancer survivor we’d met (Katie has beat cancer twice).
“I’m sure you’ve learned this since your car accident,” Katie said. “When you’ve gone through something physical like that, you can feel weak. Completing a trail like this reminds you that you’re strong.”
Wise words from a bad ass bitch.
A recorded voice announced the stops in Spanish, Portuguese, English, and French.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are happy to announce that in a few minutes you’ll be arriving at your destiny,” it said at every stop.
“Oh good, I’ve been waiting for it,” I said.
We arrived in Lisbon and Ubered another 40 minutes to our AirBnb. Katie was wide-eyed at the steep hills by our hotel.
“So this is how it’s gonna be huh?” She asked sarcastically.
“So this is how democracy dies, with thunderous applause?” I quoted back to her (from Star Wars).
“This is the hill I die on,” she said, looking at the street name. “Right here, on Rua Manuel.”
The Uber dropped us off, but the AirBnb host had confused our arrival time. We waited for an hour outside. Fortunately, there was a really cute neighborhood square with restaurants and a playground. There were many local families watched their kids play or walked their dogs while they sipped wine, smoked, or chatted with neighbors.
“Everybody is staring at us,” Katie said.
“I don’t think this is a spot with many tourists…” I said.
The square was full even on a Monday night. We had a hard time getting dinner because we didn’t have a reservation.
“Imagine this is your life on a fucking Monday night,” I kept saying, impressed that people had energy after a work day.
We did get into our Airbnb and we did find food. Our first real meal of the day, and it was delightful. Everything is late here, so we didn’t even get the check until 11 pm.
We slept in the next morning, our bodies exhausted from walking, traveling, and waiting up for Portuguese dinner time. Katie was looking at the Camino Portuguese Facebook page, seeing everyone’s photos.
“Do you remember them?” She’d ask me.
I rarely did.
“I’m not a visual learner and I have a hard time recognizing men,” I told her.
“Do you really have a hard time recognizing men or do you just not make eye contact with them long to avoid them getting any ideas?”
“Probably a mix of that and I recognize people by their hair, and men often have the same haircuts. I recognize women and Black men more easily, and culturally they do more with their hair.”
“Interesting.”
“But also I probably avoid looking at men.”
She gave me a look.
We finally roused ourselves to go find a late breakfast. We walked through some beautiful streets, even the ones with hills, and so far nobody has died. Though Katie has def had some close calls with the sciatic pain.
“Hello sir,” she said as she stepped around some glass shards on the sidewalk.
“Oh? The glass is male?” I asked.
She laughed, “No bitch, I’m not talking to the glass. Wait for it.”
I looked around wondering what she could be talking to. A shirtless man ran by.
“Oh,” I said.
She cackled.
“I told you I ignore men,” I said.
“Ok but glass?!”
"I was watching where I was stepping!"
Stay safe kids.
We ate a delicious breakfast and then walked along the Tejo River to the main square, stopping at markets as we went.
“Where do you think those girls are from?” Katie asked, pointing to a group of three women ahead of us with small suitcases. “They have to be close by with how small those suitcases are.”
They were far enough away that we couldn’t hear them talking to obtain language/accent cues.
“England?” I paused. “No, not sunburned enough.”
“Right, they’re too tan,” she said.
“Probably more fucking Germans,” I said, referring to the Spanish trail with 80% Germans we’d just been on.
“That’s exactly what I was going to say!” she said.
After a while we stopped for lunch at the same place where I had my first meal in Lisbon.
An Israeli man was at the table next to us. He was on a Hebrew-speaking tour of Lisbon, and Katie was talking to him about Jewish things.
“And do you speak Hebrew?” He asked me.
“Nope, gentile,” I said.
They both laughed. “We would say ‘goy…’” Katie said.
We left the restaurant to continue our stroll through Lisbon. All day the tuk tuk drivers had been calling to us, trying to get us to pay for rides. One was particular aggressive.
“No,” we both told him.
“You don’t even know what I’m offering you!” He said.
“Yes I do,” Katie said.
“What then?” He asked.
“A tuk tuk ride,” she said. I was walking away ignoring him, annoyed.
“No,” he said. “I’m selling happiness.” She cackled, and then walked away toward me.
“None of them bothered me when I was here before,” I said. “You make me approachable.” She laughed. But my rbf has its uses.
We walked through more markets, and I showed Katie the square with the monuments commemorating Jewish victims were (see this post).
We went into the church where the massacre had occurred.
“This is the creepiest church I’ve ever been in,” Katie said.
“Yep.”
She rose her camera to take a picture. A guard came over to angrily throw us out because we had our shoulders exposed.
“Oh trust me, we’re definitely leaving,” Katie told him.
“Ah, there’s the asshole guard my tour guide warned me about,” I said. “We just got kicked out of the slaughter church for shoulder exposure.”
That shit pisses me off. I have a long history of modesty policing. “Imagine your whole reputation being that you police women for having shoulders,” I said as we walked back to our AirBnb.
“Yep,” Katie said. “In a creepy ass church.”
We returned to our Airbnb to rest before dinner. With wifi again, we discovered we were both in an Instagram group chat with Fabian made by Marcus. Marcus sent us this video, saying it was the "most Fabian thing ever," and we have been saying "toodleloo kangaroo" ever since (Fabian has confirmed that he indeed does have a competition with his co-workers on who can say the most ridiculous exit salutation). Our AirBnb also happened to have books about Germany, so Katie started studying for her next trip.
My one request while we were in Lisbon was to hear Fado music. Fado is traditional Portuguese folk music, usually played by a Spanish guitar, regular guitar, and one vocalist (I figured it was time for someone else on this trip to start singing, since my back is starting to hurt from carrying all of the musical creativity around here...). Fado is supposed to convey longing and heartbreak for someone that is far away. Katie found a restaurant that wasn't completely booked up. I called to ask for a reservation and they told us to be there in 15 minutes, so we hurried up and called an Uber. We wore our pilgrim best...meaning I was in the same sundress and man sandals I'd carried in a backpack for 395 miles.
The restaurant location was a bit hard to find because it was in an alley. It didn't look like much from the outside. There wasn't a large sign, or open windows, and the door opened to a foyer that was tightly shut. There wasn't much ornamentation on the outside. As we waited for the hostess, I noticed three stickers on the door.
"Oh my god. This place has Michelin stars..." I said.
Katie looked at the stickers, dating from 2015-2018. "Hmm, not this year though," she said.
Bougie bad ass bitch.
"Every place I’ve been to with a Michelin star has been with you," I told her.
She laughed. "I swear I didn't know this place had one! So every Michelin start you've been to has been with me and on the Camino? Now you’re not allowed to go to one without me," she teased.
The hostess opened the door to escort us into the main room. It was a huge hall made of old stone, with arched ceilings. Almost everyone else far out dressed us (there were some men in T-shirts...because aren't there always men in T-shirts?).
"This place was low-key shady on the outside, but glamorous on the inside," I said. "Kind of like us on the Camino!"
"Yeah, that's right. Don’t let this pilgrim outfit fool you," Katie said.
"Even though I'm wearing man sandals in a Michelin."
We ordered our fancy food and waited for the show to start. The show was in 15 minute segments in between courses. The first was a man with a full voice. It was all a capella - no sound system. His voice reverberated through the arched stone room perfectly.
The next vocalist was a woman, and she filled the room with her voice as well.
For the third set, we were surprised that one of the guitarists started to sing, and then he was joined by both previous singers and the hostess! It turns out, she is a recorded Fado artist.
When the hostess came to our table after dinner, I said, "I didn't know you were part of the show!"
"Good, it was a a great surprise then, yes?" she said smiling.
"Definitely!"
As Katie and I waited for the check, we heard T-shirt man #2 talking to another man about the Camino. We turned around.
"Are you pilgrims?" Katie asked. It turns out they were not, but they wanted to be. We left the restaurant and waited for our Uber while talking to one of them. He is an avid hiker, and he is in town with his 96-year-old mother. It is her birthday, and he is pushing her wheelchair up and down these hills for their vacation.
"Yeah, you'll do fine on the Camino," Katie told him.
Our Uber arrived and we headed home.
"Thank you for introducing me to Fado," Katie said
"Did I finally bring you a cultural experience?" I asked, surprised.
"You bring cultural experience all of the time!" she said.
"I bring you the honky tonk," I said. "That's the culture I bring."
"And thats great!" she said.
The following day was my last day on the trip. Katie's friend Amir, who now lives in England, was coming to join her for her last two days.
We spent the day mostly relaxing, walking around, eating, and getting ready for work...
The following morning, I woke up to discover my flight was delayed by several hours. I tip-toed out of the AirBnb to grab breakfast and coffee, trying not to wake Katie and Amir. In typical Portuguese style, the restaurant was not open even when the website said it was. I waited another half hour, and they opened, but they served coffee and not food for another half hour. For the first time on the trip, I ordered an Americano and not an Espresso, thinking I'd be sitting there sipping for a while. It was disgusting.
Katie texted me when she woke up, asking where I was and if I'd pick up some toilet paper before I came home (very important). I told her yes, and that I could already feel the dread and workaholism creeping back in. I was in a rush. I'd been waiting at restaurants for weeks, but today, I was on edge. When were they going to start serving food? Why weren't they open "on time"? What the hell is going on with this plane?
"I already feel that work pressure coming back. My flight is getting back late now, and I'm worried about getting enough sleep and running all of my errands," I texted Katie. "I have dreamed about work for the last three nights, and I even ordered....an Americano." Katie has already told me she's going to randomly text me and make sure "you're not working too much again, are you bitch?!" That's what friends are for. I made myself start doing some of the breathing exercises I'd learned from Fabian on the trail (yes, the man does breathing exercises on vacation...goals).
I finally ate, picked up some toilet paper (they treated me like a hero when I returned for about .5 seconds), and chatted with Amir and Katie for about an hour before taking an Uber to the airport.
"Buen Camino peregrina," Katie called out as I walked out of the door.
"Buen Camino!"
"See you later alligator..." she added.
"Nice wagon you fire breathing dragon," I responded.
The trip to the airport was cumbersome. My driver dropped me off in a park, and not the airport, insisting that's the destination I put in. Fortunately, the park had wifi, so I could get a second Uber. I went through airport security just fine, only to get randomly selected for extra security at my gate (they literally swabbed my clothes, hands, and backpack for...something? They were also not convinced I didn't have a computer. I pointed to my backpack, "Pilgrim, I didn't want to carry it.").
If you followed the beginning of my journey, you know I listened to the book Laziness Does Not Exist while I walked my first few Camino days. After I finished that one, I reserved similar books on my library app, but none of them were available. A few days before my flight, one had become available. So at the airport gate, I started Work Won't Love You Back: How Devotion to Our Jobs Keeps us Exploited, Exhausted, and Alone. Intellectualizing something isn't practicing it, but for me, it's part of my process. And I clearly need frequent reminders not to fall back into my excessive workaholism.
I didn't arrive home until 9 p.m. EST, and I started work immediately the next day, jet-lagged and without any groceries in the house. Apparently, while all of my paperwork and automatic e-mail message said I wouldn't be back until June 9, I messed up my work calendar block. It showed I'd be back on June 8. When I landed and turned on my US SIM card, both my program manager and boss had already texted me. They thought I'd run away to Portugal and just decided not to return.
I was a busy body all day. Working, running errands, and I went on a hair cut and dye spree (I have super messed up my hair...ridiculously so...and in reflection, it's been something to keep me busy and avoiding processing that I'm back. This is what happens when you replace your daily journaling with bleach, kids).
While fighting sinking back into these old patterns, I've also feeling completely disconnected. I've had moments of searching for where I put my own plates or bowls in my own kitchen...I didn't remember. I've forgotten to load and run the dishwasher (a regular thing for me in my "normal" life, I HATE having dirty dishes in the sink). I saw a blonde woman in a black sundress walking down my sidewalk and instinctively started walking toward her. I thought it was Katie. And then I sadly remembered...she's not here. None of my new friends are either. I left for this trip wondering how I would be around people after my post-quarantine solitude, and I have returned wondering where my people are.
So now I venture into the journey of applying what I've learned on the Camino into what is my "real life"...for now. I've started this with journaling in the morning while I drink my coffee, usually while sitting on my porch, and doing a 90-second breathing exercise. I'm worried I won't keep it up. I know I will have to make larger changes to maintain my sanity. I am reminded of a quote from one of my hero's, Martin Luther King Jr.,
"You do not have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.” Do not get caught up in the fear of not knowing what to do next. What to do next is none of your concern right now. Your concern is what to do now.”
We all know MLK had much larger concerns than my relaxation, but in justice work, it is well-known that if you do not take care of yourself, you will burn out. Social justice work is exhausting because it requires so much care, learning, and unlearning. Consequently, I am also reminded of Audre Lorde's quote,
"Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare."
In life, and in the pursuit of justice, we must rest. And maybe one day I'll learn to do that without walking almost 400 miles.
See you later, alligators.
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