The man listening to Vald

I have been walking the Camino de Santiago for several weeks now. I am well broken in by this point: forty kilometres a day, and the next day, you start again.

I am in Galicia, a few days' walk from the end. Late October does not go easy on the region. It rains every day. The wind, the puddles, the water that always finds a way in somewhere.

I have been wet for about a week.

My things do not dry anymore. In the morning, I put my still-soaked shoes back on and set off again. Sometimes I am wet down to my underwear. I do have a rain poncho, but you sweat so much underneath it that you end up damp anyway. At this point, you stop really trying to stay dry.

You keep walking.

One evening, I arrive after dark at a municipal albergue. On the Camino, in Spain, you can sleep for around ten euros. The cheapest I ever paid was nine euros, dinner included: fries, an egg and some pork. After a day of walking, that is more than enough to make me happy.

I settle in and start my little routine: take a shower, wash my clothes in the sink, then sort out something to eat.

That evening, I have something to cook. I go to the kitchen, put water to heat on one hob and my small travel pot on the other.

Bang.

The power goes out across the whole albergue.

I look for the number of whoever I am supposed to call. At the time, I do not speak any Spanish at all, which does not exactly make it easier to explain my achievement.

The woman running the place eventually shows up. I understand that you can only use one hob at a time. Both together draw too much power and trip the fuses.

Fine. One hob at a time.

A little later, while I am still cooking and the woman is still nearby, I hear someone at the entrance.

A young guy, about my age. He speaks Spanish with a strong French accent. He is holding his phone, and I can hear a familiar kind of music coming out of it.

Vald.

He asks if this place is a donativo. On the Camino, those are places to stay where everyone gives what they can for the night, with no fixed price.

The woman tells him no. Here, it is ten euros.

He understands, thanks her, and heads back out into the night.

Me, I am still standing over my pot.

It takes me a few seconds to realise what just happened. A Frenchman about my age, on the same Camino as me, who shows up after dark and leaves again because this is not the place he was looking for.

I think that I could offer to cover his night. Ten euros, and we could eat together, talk about the Camino, about music, about life.

I walk to the door.

Too late.

He is already gone.

I do not know if he did not have the ten euros, if he was simply looking for somewhere else, or if he had some other reason I know nothing about. We never even exchanged a word.

But I wish I had offered.

I have thought about it a lot since. About that minute spent thinking it over above my pot. About the moment I finally made up my mind to move.

I told myself I might see him again the next day on the Camino. That I would recognise his face, or hear Vald coming out of his phone again.

I never saw him again.

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