Suffering, thou art of my own doing — Trinidad d'Arre, Spain

Women gathered around me, heads shaking, tongues clicking, and I joined them, holding my foot up and sideways. German women. American women. Brazilian women. Danish women. And all with the same cross of brow. 

"How does zis get so bad?" one asked. 

I'm just not sure. The first day, on all those steep hills, my feet felt great up until the last few kilometers. And there was no way I was stopping in all that rain and lightening anyway. The second day, I did wrap each heel with moleskin and bandaids, but by the time I arrived in Zubiri the skin of my left heel had departed its home of origin, and piggybacked the useless moleskin right to the garbage can. Today, I wrapped gauze and an ace bandage around it and walked in my sandals with better results. But when I unwrapped it, the silver dollar size expanse of it began a yellow weeping, resulting in the bounty of advice delivered kindly and with persistence. While I sat pathetically on my bunk bed.  

"Whatever you do, don't let it dry out."

"Let it dry fully, then put second skin on it."

"I'm going to put some arnica on that for you later."

"Arnica? On an open wound?"

"Oh yes, I put it on absolutely everything."

I have the second skin on it now. Which I put on in the dark after the electricity went out, while I was in the shower. The monk running this 11th century monastery hostel said it is very rare for the power to be out here. But all of the pilgrims agreed we liked the candles in the kitchen and the quiet settling into evening. I will walk again tomorrow. I told myself I cannot take a day off until I've walked at least six days. 

(Two days now since I put the second skin on, and this is the weird bio dome of healing that my body has created around said blister. I am aware that this is completely disgusting. But doesn't "bio dome of healing" make it more palatable? No? Still fucking revolting? Yeah. Sorry.)

AND NOW FOR A CONFESSION

Eric of St. Jean Pied de Port was right. 

I have decided to part with some of my things. I bought a beautiful backpack, one size too big. And then filled it. And now I watch people with much smaller loads pass me on the trail. And that is not nearly so bad as the complaints coming from the soles of my feet. I have everything I need, I just have some other stuff as well. 

So if I was so well prepared, how did I not manage to weed out such excess before I left? I have finally realized and fully accepted the reason. Spite. I brought too much stuff out of spite. 

Here is what happened. I was once in a relationship with a person who was a fan of taking long walks. Toward the end of our somewhat tumultuous pairing, there was a three-month span that was completely dominated by the constant researching and purchasing and cataloguing and weighing of every kind of backpacking item one could want. The living room was like an abandoned REI outlet. Stacks of handy tools and gear, all centered around an off-white scale. Items were weighed and listed to the gram. And each evening was spent studiously scouring the internet for more valuable information. This one is lighter. This one is smaller. This one is more durable. The total pack weight got smaller and smaller, each new reduction a glorious success.

It was a fun and interesting activity for him. It was a respectable undertaking. I understand that now. But I had a different reaction at the time. I was just annoyed. Annoyed with the whole trip. The obsessive planning. Our entire situation. Especially annoyed at myself at the time of this relationship. It wasn't a great moment. I think planning for that trip helped him cope with the bad relationship. While I relied on haughtiness and a general disregard for...everything. 

So, two years later, when I decided to walk the Camino de Santiago, I needed to separate myself from that memory as much as possible. So, out of SPITE, I weighed nothing. I did almost no research. I bought what looked good and spent no more than 15 minutes on any single decision about what to bring. And if I decided I wanted it, I put it in the bag. When people asked me, "How much does your pack weigh?" I answered with unreasonable pride, "I have absolutely no idea." 

I still have no idea. I just know, it's too much. And after all my spite, after digging that great moat of ornery separation between myself and a bygone relationship, the joke is absolutely, one hundred percent, on me. But, I stand by my decision. It seemed right at the time. As does the pile of clothes I'm leaving folded at the foot of my bunk bed when I leave in the morning. This was just the way it had to go down. And now, I know better. 

Spite gives you shit-house aching blisters. And it's just not worth it.