It's settled. Irishmen are the funniest most drop dead charming people on the planet. I don't care that I've only met two, or that I'm only the five-billionth person to figure this out. I want to move there and loaf about in pubs with loud companions and laugh until my hopelessly happy tears river-up and carry me bobbing into the Nevernever.
That's how much I enjoyed Bernie and Greg's company this morning as we strolled leisurely from Najera to Azofra.
"Alaska! Fuck me! Now I've got some questions for ya. Tell me can I bike the Dalton Highway from the top of da world down to the coast? I'm looking for sometin' that'll really kick me ass. It's either Alaska or disappearing into the Himalayas with some sherpas and goats for a few monts. I'll tell ya I don't have much interest in visitin the rest of the states — what'ya call 'em, lower 48 eh? — but Alaska. Now der's a place. Here comes Greg. Greg! Over here! Now Hannah, I'm married, so I won't be tryin' to getcha in a bunk bed or no-tin, no worries der, haha! But Greg here isn't. Tell me are ya married? In a long-term relationship or anything like dat? Greg here'll take forever to ask ye. Greg's a spy for the Irish government, aren't ye Greg?"
I could only shake my head. No, not married. Greg laughed and took a big bite of his cheese sandwich.
"Not sure we even have spies, Bernie," he said.
Bernie is a force. A machine of Irish idiom that I want to copy-paste into my brain. It's his fifth Camino and he's traveling this one with his Dad. Also named Bernie. When he gets a bit ahead on the trail he leaves notes for his meandering parent. Sometimes spelled out in rocks, or in red La Rioja dirt spread in the shape of an arrow, with something like, "Dad, Ventosa," below it. He said by the time he stops at his destination to wait for his father, the next 10 people coming along have news to share regarding his companion.
That's the way of it, this shifting, leap-frogging community of thousands of people walking West. After a while we all sort of know similar things, have run across the same curiosities. Many of us had the pleasure of meeting Eric in St. Jean, who told us all to, "Listen to our bodies." We've had the blisters. And the dodgy food. We've heard stories of American Chad, or Crazy Norman, or the Hungarian with the obstinate donkey, or the Irishman walking in the three-piece suit.
Now this guy, I desperately want to see in the flesh. He's wearing a wool pin-stripe suit, and carrying a large briefcase strapped to his back. A man whose entire travel plan is to be ironic for 500 miles. This is perhaps the most hilarious shit I have ever heard in my life. Of course this information is all straight from Bernie, who knows the reportedly strapping fireman from home, but I've heard confirmation from other pilgrims as well. Again, the IRISH.
"Well ya know after a few times dis is all a tad easy for him now. He wanted a bit of a challenge."
As Bernie is telling me this story, we start up a hill outside of Najera. Without even slowing his words, just dropping the pitch slightly, he says, "Now Hannah we've got a bit of a hill here, but it shears off right up der around the bend so just go ahead and suck it up for now and we'll carry on to the top in no time." And again, without pausing, he's right back into the prior story. His pep talk was seemingly built in, perhaps to not lose his listening audience as we started to climb.
As we walked and chatted I learned some new slang as well. My favorite being, "In the Bojangles." Maybe my more worldly or musically inclined friends have heard this, but I hadn't. Apparently it means you're a real train wreck. As in, "Last night I drank my weight in Spanish wine, and lord this morning I'm really in the Bojangles."
In exchange I taught them the Americanisms "faded" (to be drunk or high to a foggy degree) and "three sheets to the wind." Which...means the same thing.
Bernie also told me of the long-faced Canadian he and his father met last night. The man explained to them that he's been in a terrible way since his wife took off and left him.
"So me Da says, 'Oh ya lucky bastard, I can't get mine to leave for no-tin!' Well, right den da poor man starts weeping. Chap cried for an hour. Da felt a bit awkward over de whole ting."
I imagine Bernie and Bernie hooked around their second bottle of wine, accompanied by the long-suffering, weeping Canadian, all of them journeying to Santiago, and I think, there is no reason for me to ever write fiction.
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