It comes to something when the premium pilgrim hostel in Pamplona, a brief respite for foolhardy travellers on the prestigious road to Santiago de Compostela, is overrun with an infestation of bedbugs.
Never fear folks, I’ve made alternative arrangements for the first night of my grand rambling adventure. Essentially, a Spanish equivalent of Travelodge, right next to the airport. Handy, yes; conducive to sleep? Naht so much, taking into account it’s placed on a busy motorway intersection. Nay mind, it’s cheap, hopefully cheerful and beats getting skin sucked by a bunch of parasitic little feckers. Who knows, there might not even be stale poo on the sheets. Maybe the shower will work. My fingers are most definitely crossed in dubious anticipation.
I’m attempting to break out of my natural snootiness over cheap accommodation and, undoubtedly, a near month long adventure through unchartered waters in a foreign country is a hell of a good place to start. Youth hostels and bedbug infestations here we come; the sense of exploration is starting to tingle, resonating somewhere, but I can’t quite fathom whereabouts yet. Is it in my mind? Laden with the realisation that I’m undertaking the most independent, potentially life-changing experience of my short existence thus far? Or perhaps it’s squeaking out from my butt cheeks, knowing that half of the time they’ll be perched on some Spanish rock in a dense, endless forest whilst I weep for my mummy and home comforts. Not sure yet. Whatever it is, I’m excited, inwardly focused whilst still delighted that I’m actually, doing, this.
Will I still possess the same never-say-die, at home with Mother Nature warrior spirit two weeks in? Let’s hope so. Maybe I will, if the bedbugs don’t get their microscopic teeth into my fleshy parts first. Relearning the language has been quite difficult, owing to the lacklustre effort I put into bothering with it. Now I’m stuck with a limited vocabulary of ‘que’, ‘dos cervezas por favor senor’, and ‘donde esta la biblioteca, senorita?’ Hardly the fundamental tools one wants when trying to ingratiate into a new culture. But, I guess, that’s one of the core reasons for setting out on this frankly mad trip in the first place. I want to be out of my comfort zone. I want to get into some mishaps. By mishaps I don’t mean get arrested by the Basque country police for resembling a snoring tramp (though that could be humorous), or getting airlifted to hospital with a broken back. But having to sleep on the beach a couple of nights, gathering my thoughts under a canopy of bright stars? Why not. Having to slay a wild vole before barbequing it for supper? Bring it on.
At least it’ll give me an excuse to get in touch with my basest, most early humanistic instincts. I haven’t washed for two months in anticipation and have taken to communicating in a simple, grunting form of linguistics. This shall serve me in good stead, si? In addition, I’m beginning to live off disposable food like cereal bars and chocolate for quick bursts of easily digestible energy. Fast food in its purest form, surely? Or, as is more likely, subtract the ‘s’ from ‘fast’, and that encapsulates my new diet.
The date looms.
Adios chicos y chicas.
No comments:
Post a Comment