The Wave Kristen Crusoe (best life changing books .txt) 📖

‘I see,’ Lopez said, looking up at the sculpture of Christ on the cross. ‘So, why are you following her?’ he asked kindly.

‘I don’t want to be alone,’ Adam replied, just that moment accepting the hard truth. He wasn’t chasing after Clair for her sake. He had to find her for his. Realizing that it took this fear of being alone, to remember how alive he had felt with her.

Father Lopez nodded. ‘Stay as long as you like. I wish you a Buen Camino, whatever you find on your path.’

Adam sat until fatigue overcame him. Rising to his feet, he walked to the altar, lighting a candle for Benzozia, and just for good luck, one for St Jude, remembering from his own catechism during his youth, the good saint of lost causes. Hefting his pack onto his back, he strode purposefully out through the heavy wooden doors into the late evening chill.

He called the first albergue marked on the map and was relieved when he was told that yes, a bunk was available. It was a two-kilometer walk. The light was less than before, and shadows played before his passage along the narrow, cobbled streets. A noise like an approaching train seemed to fill every space. As he walked, he noticed gatherings of people, in store fronts, alongside alleys, talking and gesticulating with passion, voices raised in both laughter and argument. He didn’t sense anger, just the joy of conversation.

He found the hostel, was directed to a dormitory style room, with eight bunk beds, many already filled with both men and women. Finding the communal bathroom at the end of a long hallway, he washed up. The face he saw in the mirror at first seemed strange to him, then familiar. It was his original face, before all the affectations of trying so hard to be someone else created the mask he had long shown the world. It was Devon’s face. The broad forehead, deep set neon blue eyes, and wide, gentle mouth. He touched his eyes, his cheeks, wiping the wetness away.

Then he returned to his bed, to rest ready to begin his own pilgrimage at daybreak, leaving behind everything he had been and walk with new steps towards his unknown future. The snoring and rustling of the other sleepers didn’t keep him awake.

In the morning, cold and stiff, he followed the scent of strong coffee to a communal kitchen. Pilgrims gathered around a long, rectangular table, laden with eggs, cheese, bread, pastries, and an assortment of meats and salted fish. Helping himself, he found a seat next to a couple, sitting together in that way old friends have; a comfortable silence between them.

He showed Clair’s photo, sharing his story, eager for any information. German speakers, they nodded and smiled at her photo but were unable to offer any information. Gathering his pack, he set off, following the bright yellow arrows.

* * *

‘Could she have come another way? Is it possible she skipped you and went ahead, on her own?’ Adam asked when he reached his resting place for the night, twenty-eight kilometers into his first day on the Camino. It had been an arduous climb, mostly uphill through the Pyrenees. His feet, back, shoulders, even his teeth ached. He had reached the albergue just at dusk, along with a few other pilgrims whom he had either passed or been passed by on this first day out. The manager had taken a good long look at the photo then handed it back, his face showing his concern as he told Adam that no, he had not seen this woman.

‘Are there other ways?’ Adam asked, stunned at this unforeseen possibility.

‘Oh yes, there are seven main routes in Spain and Portugal that lead to Santiago de Compostela, and several lesser traveled paths. This one is the longest. She could have begun at any of the other routes.’

Adam cursed himself for not considering this before beginning what was starting to feel like a fool’s journey. Now, he was too far into it to return, begin another route. He would have to continue on. And, he did believe, with his heart, that Clair would have come this route, only because it was the longest, hardest, and by far the most heroic of the routes. She had a lion’s heart. She would not want to take an easy route.

Uplifted by these thoughts, he settled in for the night, depositing his meager belongings on a bottom bunk in a dormitory style room, with several bunks, most already taken. He wondered about leaving his gear unprotected. He took out his passport and wallet, the photo of Clair, and left the rest.

Dinner was being served at a shared table, large carafes of red and white wine being passed around. Voices were jubilant. Words in many languages. He was welcomed as he sat at the end of a long bench. A half-moon shone through an open window, casting shadows along the walls and across the floor. A large white dog lay on a rug by the fireplace, logs burning a slow blaze, casting soft illumination around the table.

He felt like the first time he had taken LSD back in college. Everything blending into one, voices, faces, stories, all part of the whole fabric of life. Like the tapestry hanging on his grandmother’s wall, each thread unique and different. She had once told him that life was like the tapestry, and we can only see the hem. We have to trust that the complete design will be visible to us one day. Was that what this was? He asked himself. Am I seeing the tapestry in its entirety, people coming together with purpose and vision, enjoying the simplest of acts, being human? Bodies fatigued, hearts full, minds clear of worry or lists. He considered passing Clair’s photo around but decided to wait. He didn’t want anything to change this moment, when he felt his aloneness connecting with others, and it was good.

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