Guided by Strangers - El Camino, 'The Way'

by Charlotte Leigh Jacobsen (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Spain

The groans and shuffling of sleeping bags wake me from slumber. My bunkmate below me clears his throat and with a thud, swings his body out of bed and plants his feet on the floor. His actions create a Mexican wave within the dormitory; thud, thud, thud. We are awake now. I accept the inevitable and pull the sleeping mask upwards from my eyes, drowning them in bright luminescent light. Sitting up, I finger out the plugs hanging loosely from my ears, the volume increases slightly yet my senses are telling me that I am I dizzy, confused. I reach towards the end of the bed and smooth my palm along the sheets, until I find what I am looking for. Grasping at my glasses I bring them towards my face. Now, I am awake. Stretching my arms high, I breathe deeply. The odor of sleep hits me; stale with a dash of sweat. Stranger’s sweat. Strangers that I know. Yet, I do not. It’s time to join them. I unzip my sleeping bag and shuffle my body out, while pulling the sleeping bag out from underneath me. Fold it in half, roll it up, shove it in its bag. Routine takes over. I grab my backpack, which is placed at the far end of the single, naked mattress and attach my sleeping bag. I’m already dressed, pajamas don’t exist here. We sleep in tomorrow's clothes. Unzipping my bag, I swap the eye mask and ear plugs for the first aid kit. I know I will need it. I pull off my socks and grimace as I examine my feet. They all look the same now, mine and the stranger’s feet. The balls are hardened, cracked. Toes are blistered and bloody. Nails are bruised. I remove a limp plaster from the underneath of my right big toe. A fluid-filled blister greets me good morning. I sterilize the needle with a flame, knowing that I shouldn’t do what I’m about to. I have no choice; I need to walk. The needle glides in, the fluid oozes out. Wincing, I squeeze the blister with my forefinger and thumb, until it looks like a deflated balloon. I slap a plaster on and pull my socks up, ignoring the pain as I do. I swing my body around and climb backwards down the ladder. The stretch causes my calves to scream. Grabbing my backpack, I reluctantly thread both arms through its straps and let the weight attach itself to my back. Like a growth I cannot remove, I begin to resent it. A constant reminder of my weakness, numbing my shoulders and digging into my hip bones. It has become a burden. Each stranger has one, it appears sooner or later. I follow the lead of the strangers and walk towards the exit. It is time. One by one we make our way towards the aging door, flanked by pairs of dusty, broken boots. I spot mine; they lead the way like light within a dark tunnel. My feet slip in and I pull the laces tight, hugging my boots to my feet. I tie the laces, like sealing my fate with a kiss and open the door. Dawn envelops me, a mystical beauty that is only seen by those who seek. I squint and make out figures on the path before me. The strangers guide the way. I place my foot forward and fall in line, as a stranger opens the door behind me. We walk towards the horizon, watching as the strangers are lit by the rising sun. Together, we walk. Together, we sleep. Together, we guide. We are strangers. We are pilgrims. We are, the way.