plate of
lamb chops and greasy Spanish fries, maybe half a carafe of red wine. Javier,
though, wins the day. We sit on a rock beneath a tree on an empty plain, throw
down a fistful of shelled pistachios, gulp a quart of water, and move on.
To Javier, all unnecessary
distractions violate the spirit of the road. I acquiesce in the presence of
someone whose certainty of what he’s doing is so thorough and convincing.
By two p.m. the sun is slaying me. I’m a
redheaded, ruddyfaced six-footer of Viking stock. The unfiltered heat of midday
in a freshly plowed field reacts with my skin like a barbiturate. I am groggy,
unsteady, and weepy. In order to persuade Javier to rest under the occasional
tree, I must nag or cry. He has the tawny skin of a Basque, and his restless
energy allows him to insult me with helpful folklore, such as “The best remedy
for fatigue is to keep walking in the heat.”
Up over a ridge, Estella
appears as winsomely as her name— the Star. Like so many on the road, this city
was founded by French clerics during the Middle Ages. Several French orders
benefited from the road, but first among them all was the Abbey of Cluny, which
built many of the monasteries and cities along the way. The Gallic presence
here was so entrenched and longstanding that until the mid-1700s the street
language of Estella was French.
The yellow arrows for the
last half mile into the city are all visible from a ridge. They point straight
down a deep gorge in the sloped fields behind a farmhouse and then direct the
pilgrim up a zagging route to the edge of town. The asphalt highway, meanwhile,
winds upward gently, following the path of least sweat to the city gates.
Without even thinking, I step onto the highway. Javier calls out.
“The arrows point this way,”
he says.
“Yeah, but this road is a
bit easier, and I am beat.”
“But this is the way of the
yellow arrows.”
“Javier, those yellow arrows
are simply an attempt to keep us off the highway. Look where they go. Down into
the gorge and back up. It’s essentially someone’s driveway.”
There is no question that I
am right. Most of the road suggested by the arrow painters is authentically the
old cart routes between towns. But, very often, one can sense that the arrow
painters are just trying to keep us away from automobile traffic. Normally I
would accept this intention as well meaning and follow them without question.
But not today.
“Javier this is make-work.
Why climb down into a valley and back up a steep hill when we don’t need to?”
“These are the yellow
arrows. This is the road.” He can’t break away from the stern authority of the
arrows.
“Do you believe that this
long driveway is really the old road?” I ask. The thing is, Javier doesn’t want
to walk down there, either. He wants some cold water and a rest. A solid day of
walking and sweating is enough. But he can’t convince himself.
“This is the road,” he says
with a crack in his voice.
“Listen, Javier, do you
really think that this is the road? Or is it more likely that the ancient route
that approached Estella was widened into a merchant’s road and then in the
twentieth century was paved into this highway? I assert, Javier, that the true true road is, in fact, this highway. Medieval pilgrims wouldn’t have just walked
into this gorge. They’d follow the main road into town. From this point into
town, the highway is the true old authentic actual real pilgrim road.”
Javier is tortured by my
logic. On the one hand he knows I am right. Yet somehow my observations are in
conflict with his desire for the true road and the deeper reasons he has for
being here. My logic may be clear, but it makes him feel bad. In the end, he is
too tired, and he yields. Without comment he stomps off up the highway. It’s
almost as if he knew the truth of what I said but would have preferred
that I had never spoken it out loud.
For a moment I feel
righteous with my arguments. I have
lamb chops and greasy Spanish fries, maybe half a carafe of red wine. Javier,
though, wins the day. We sit on a rock beneath a tree on an empty plain, throw
down a fistful of shelled pistachios, gulp a quart of water, and move on.
To Javier, all unnecessary
distractions violate the spirit of the road. I acquiesce in the presence of
someone whose certainty of what he’s doing is so thorough and convincing.
By two p.m. the sun is slaying me. I’m a
redheaded, ruddyfaced six-footer of Viking stock. The unfiltered heat of midday
in a freshly plowed field reacts with my skin like a barbiturate. I am groggy,
unsteady, and weepy. In order to persuade Javier to rest under the occasional
tree, I must nag or cry. He has the tawny skin of a Basque, and his restless
energy allows him to insult me with helpful folklore, such as “The best remedy
for fatigue is to keep walking in the heat.”
Up over a ridge, Estella
appears as winsomely as her name— the Star. Like so many on the road, this city
was founded by French clerics during the Middle Ages. Several French orders
benefited from the road, but first among them all was the Abbey of Cluny, which
built many of the monasteries and cities along the way. The Gallic presence
here was so entrenched and longstanding that until the mid-1700s the street
language of Estella was French.
The yellow arrows for the
last half mile into the city are all visible from a ridge. They point straight
down a deep gorge in the sloped fields behind a farmhouse and then direct the
pilgrim up a zagging route to the edge of town. The asphalt highway, meanwhile,
winds upward gently, following the path of least sweat to the city gates.
Without even thinking, I step onto the highway. Javier calls out.
“The arrows point this way,”
he says.
“Yeah, but this road is a
bit easier, and I am beat.”
“But this is the way of the
yellow arrows.”
“Javier, those yellow arrows
are simply an attempt to keep us off the highway. Look where they go. Down into
the gorge and back up. It’s essentially someone’s driveway.”
There is no question that I
am right. Most of the road suggested by the arrow painters is authentically the
old cart routes between towns. But, very often, one can sense that the arrow
painters are just trying to keep us away from automobile traffic. Normally I
would accept this intention as well meaning and follow them without question.
But not today.
“Javier this is make-work.
Why climb down into a valley and back up a steep hill when we don’t need to?”
“These are the yellow
arrows. This is the road.” He can’t break away from the stern authority of the
arrows.
“Do you believe that this
long driveway is really the old road?” I ask. The thing is, Javier doesn’t want
to walk down there, either. He wants some cold water and a rest. A solid day of
walking and sweating is enough. But he can’t convince himself.
“This is the road,” he says
with a crack in his voice.
“Listen, Javier, do you
really think that this is the road? Or is it more likely that the ancient route
that approached Estella was widened into a merchant’s road and then in the
twentieth century was paved into this highway? I assert, Javier, that the true true road is, in fact, this highway. Medieval pilgrims wouldn’t have just walked
into this gorge. They’d follow the main road into town. From this point into
town, the highway is the true old authentic actual real pilgrim road.”
Javier is tortured by my
logic. On the one hand he knows I am right. Yet somehow my observations are in
conflict with his desire for the true road and the deeper reasons he has for
being here. My logic may be clear, but it makes him feel bad. In the end, he is
too tired, and he yields. Without comment he stomps off up the highway. It’s
almost as if he knew the truth of what I said but would have preferred
that I had never spoken it out loud.
For a moment I feel
righteous with my arguments. I have
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