Walked: 16Km (touristy walk)
I'm sitting on the tram after having visited the beach, 10 Km away from Montpellier. This morning I experienced some regret after what I wrote yesterday, but not enough as to delete it or change it. I was drinking a bottle of wine as I was writing, and I always wonder how valid is my writing if it's influenced by any substance. Wine inflames the passions and looking at it the next day we might judge it overly sentimental.
This morning I wrote to a walker of the way who has a private gite in Montepellier if he would take me in this night, even though I already stayed at St. Roche last night. In camino parlance, it is a faux pas to sleep two days in the same city/town/village unless you are injured. Anybody who stays more than one night is either recovering or a tourist, and even though I have a gnarly blister on my left foot, I'm clearly doing tourism.
Alain (the hospitalero) replied that it was OK, but I had to arrive before 5pm, because he would be going out for the evening. I thanked him and made my way to the beach. I bought three beers and a bag of chips to pass time. Well into my third beer a lifeguard approached me and spoke to me in French. I didn't understand but I already know what she was saying: you are not allowed to drink on the beach. Who knew the French, of all nationalities, where such prudes. But I said none of that, I asked her "should I pour it out?" and she said "just finish it quickly". I said this was my last one, not to worry she wouldn't see me drinking again. We said farewell in good terms.
I went into the mediterranean to pee. It was as cold as a melting glacier. I'm spoiled by the warm waters of the caribbean. But the beach was nice, it had fine golden sand, the waves however were child sized and of no entertainment value to me. I had to walk a long way into the ocean in order to naturally appear with the water under my waist (and not reveal a puddle of yellowness around me). I came out and dried to the air and sun, which didn't take more than five minutes to happen.
[I had to hop off hurriendly from the tram at this point]
Now I'm on a train in the vicinity of Catalonia, making my way back home to Madrid. Alain was a kind host. He's a pilgrim who put up four bunk beds in a spare bedroom of his home and runs a tight ship. Walking has a way of transforming people which is impossible for me to describe, as they don't transform in the same way, they mature their personalities I would say. Like wines of different grapes they have no single flavor but they are unmistakably well-aged.
After showering and having a nap I went out for dinner. I chose the expensive French place I had overlooked in favor of kebab on the day I arrived. This time I wanted a good farewell meal to close my walk. I chatted with my best friend in Mexico who is a foodie, sending him pictures of what I was having. It felt like being in company. For dinner I had steak tartare, pork shoulder with potatoes and salad, and half a litre of wine.
After dinner I went into a CBD store to buy a pre-roll in order to stave off my cannabis cravings, and I smoked it along a walkway with water fountains. I overheard a small commotion behind me: a bull terrier had bit a french bulldog, and wasn't letting go. The bitten dog was crying in a sorrowful and resignated way, never I've heard a dog cry like that and yet I recognized it as profound distress. Soon the owner began crying too, and the owner of the biting dog was unable to open the jaws of his dog to let go the ear of the other dog. I gathered water from the fountain with my hands and did my best to startle the biting dog, but it was useless. A man on a motorcycle stopped and he seemed to know what he was doing, hitting the dog at first despite the protests of the owner, then grabbing its hindlegs and holding it up in the air (my guess is that he was trying to get the dog to try to bite back at him, to no avail). A crowd formed around the scene, I wasn't being of any help and the scene was gut-wrenching, so I left before seeing the outcome.
I went to sit at the same staircase where I had sat down to observe women pass by, this time alleviated by a rub-off the night before, and I compared my urges. I felt a different person, the all consuming desire was no longer there. This outcome was expected, of course, but if these energies can be transmuted—as is claimed by tantric and tao teachers—there's the personal equivalent of a nuclear fission plant inside of us.
Then a Moroccan guy next to me asked me something in French. I excused my lack of French and he said in English "can I borrow your phone?", "what for?" I asked. "I need to call my girlfriend". I chuckled and shook my head vigorously. He insisted. "Mo man I'm not lending you my phone". I was kinda surprised at my denial. It was a very public place and I calculated that his plan wasn't running off with it with me chasing behind, but surely there was probably something fishy going on.
Then a drunk French lady sat between myself and the Moroccan guys. She started chatting with them. Then she turned to me, and also asked me for my phone. I tried to soften things between my companions. I explained that I'm a foreigner with a chip from Mexico. It's gonna cost me a lot of money if you make a phone call from my phone (lies, damn lies) why don't you ask someone else who lives here? And with that they left me alone.
As I was walking back to Alain's I considered two possibilities: that the Moroccan guys also asked this lady for a phone, and she turned to me to fulfill their request, or she was playing the same scam, unaware that they had tried before. Without googling, I suspect the scam involves calling a pay-to-call number and they make the call as long as possible, but this is speculation.
I should give closure to this walk. It felt literally like vacations, perhaps they were and I shouldn't compare it with more spiritual walks. I feel the walk was short and I was too "connected" checking my phone and chatting with friends. Not that I'm disappointed, I had a good time and I can finally say I've been outside Spain for the first time since I arrived.
If there is one conclusion I want to highlight to myself, it's this: it's ok to feel whatever I'm feeling. The reason I'm drinking more is because "I don't want to feel like this". Well, it's perfectly ok to feel like this. Sit with it. It's not the end of the world. Otherwise I'll be perpetually chasing pleasure, that's not the point of life is it?