I am eating a sandwich I got from a vending machine, and I have no idea what is on it. No remote idea. It has two layers and is called Tortilla Marinera. I speak pretty much no Spanish, so this means nothing to me. From looking closely, if I had to guess, it is a piece of bread, followed by a layer of macaroni and cheese, followed by a piece of bread, followed by a spread made from fake crab, topped with a piece of bread. But this seems so strange, I am still maintaining that I have no idea what it is.
This will appall some of my more gourmet friends, but I have eaten my dinners from vending machines the last two nights. Here's the thing. They are cheap, and they are located right beside where I've slept both nights, which means I save money and don't have to walk. Anywhere. This has become important to me in a very short amount of time.
Tonight the vending machines are located in a school yard. Because myself and a few dozen other pilgrims are sleeping in a gymnasium. Unfortunately since I made poor time today, all of the bunk beds were gone. And so were all the mattresses on the floor. Sooo...it's the concrete for me. Which I am ECSTATIC about. And that should indicate how difficult today was for me.
I know, it's just walking. At least that's what I thought. And I'm definitely strong enough. It's just, my feet. I tried to pay attention, be aware when the blisters were threatening so I could put some moleskin over them. But by the time my zoned out brain realized my foot was sore, bam. The back of my heel had already ballooned up. Both heels actually. Yesterday's intense uphill climb and accompanying storm were difficult. But today, walking on the resultant blisters, was tear-your-own-eyes-out disheartening. I covered them in moleskin, then put duct tape over the whole thing, but now, at the end of the day, the back of my heels are missing their skin entirely.
Yesterday, I admitted that I almost cried. Well, today I actually did. It was really pathetic, and actually I had to sort of work at it. After about 10 miles my wimp-ass feet were in so much pain that I was trying to think of anything to distract myself. So I was like, huh, maybe I should try crying.
It didn't help. I made the crying face, and after a while real tears came out along with some whimpers, but it just wasn't working for me. I kept having to look over my shoulder to make sure no one was coming to witness my contrived little pity party. And the tears made it hard to place my feet on the steep downhill trail. So I stopped. Crying, that is. I kept walking. Only to arrive in town to find all of the albergues full. I sat down on the steps, but there were too many people around for more crying. (I have a feeling this may be a theme of my entire journey. When or when not to cry.)
So I am on the concrete gym floor, eating some sort of macaroni crustacean sandwich, putting tiger balm on my feet and shoulders, and it's ok. It's really really going to be ok. My Mexico City friend found me a sleeping pad. I have water. It stopped raining. And tomorrow I will try to get to Pamplona, 22 kilometers, but if my feet are waving me a no signal, then there are several albergues I could stop in on the way. It's hard because now that I've met a few people that started around when I did, I want to stay with them. To follow the same course and times and share the same evenings. But it can't work that way. I can only go the way I must go.
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