Credencial del Peregrino

Two years after some dear friends walked miles to reach Santiago de Compostela on one of the routes of  “El Camino”, we have decided to join them on another excursion on the road to Compostela

Contents

0905. The before pix. Day minus 4. Rockville, MD. 92° F.

The cast of characters and contributing writers in this expedition are, Manuel, Eric, Lucho, Rudy, Cecilia, Silvia, Isa and Nelvis.

The pilgrims 4 days before their odyssey.

0909. 20:37h. Day 1. At Dulles Airport, Virginia. 90° F.

Lounging before the flight.

We are awaiting our flight talking about compression socks, so the old folks do not get trombosis, pretty, pretty, pretty bad!
Manuel

0910. Day 2. Toulouse, France. 75° F.

Rudy and Nelvis arrived earlier through Paris. The rest of us arrived from Frankfurt at around 6 pm. It took us more than 45 minutes to get on an Uber. Everyone was looking forward to the beginning of the vacation. We were pleasantly surprised to have a 2 star hotel right on the corner of the Capitole Place.
Dinner was at the plaza. The regional specialties include canard (duck) and foie gras. Most of us tried the local delicacy. Wine flowed throughout dinner.
Lucho

0911. Day 3. Toulouse, France. 81° F.

Rue du Taur, Toulouse.

Rue Lafayette, Toulouse.

Carousel, Place Wilson, Toulouse

The second day, we had a full day in Toulouse. The team wandered around aimlessly and some ended spending one hour getting their mobile phones fitted to perform unnecessary calls in France. The rest went to a nice market where you could find a great selection of cheeses, meats and other things you find in markets.
For lunch, everyone had been aiming to try the world renowned Casoulette Toulousien. As is well known by those that know this group, Nelvis had already researched all the restaurants in the Pyrinees Atlantiques and had selected Chez Emile for our expedition into cuisine Toulousien. Tres magnifique! We spent the afternoon trying to recover from what Lucho called feijoada Toulousien by walking around every alley in the old city.
Lucho

Cassoulet Toulousian at Chez Emile ***

Place Roger Salengro

Armagnac

Le penseur?

Color matching.

UEFA

0912. Day 4. Toulouse to Navarrenx. 78° F.

Abbey Road has nothing on this one.

We had a great morning in Toulouse; we went to the market in search of goodies to make the passage train to Orthez more tolerable. The market was wonderful, full of cheeses and cooked meat that were perfect for the occasion. We packed, checked out of our two star Hotel du Taur, called two taxis and arrived at the Matabiau train station with plenty of time to spare. The train arrived on time and boarded with ease. No time was wasted to uncork our first bottle of rose wine, one that has gained popularity with our group.
Manuel

Even though the general perception was that spending an hour fitting our mobiles was a waste of time, my phone became essential later on.
Cecilia

At Matabiau station in Toulouse on our way to Orthez.

On the train to Orthez and beyond.

Picnic sur le train.

At Matabiau station in Toulouse on our way to Orthez.

Orthez train station.

Before our train trip from Toulouse to Orthez, where we would take a taxi to Navarrenx, we all went to buy supplies for a somewhat humble lunch. We only picked up 17 types of cheeses, a variety of hams and sausages, different types of bread, the local delicacy gateau basque and of course some liquid to imbibe. By now the tribe had been sold on the quality of vine rose. Those more traditional had vino rouge.
We went to the train station about three hours ahead of departure to make sure that we got good seats (second class fares). Some team members like to hurry up and wait. All the waiting paid off! We got a private room for the eight of us. It was tight and cozy.
Three and one half hours later, we were at Orthez expecting to get a cab at the train station to go the 14 miles to Navarrenx. Little did we know that taxi drivers take the afternoon off. With the help of the train station attendant, Cecilia called a taxi company who told her they would pick us up at 19:30. Cecilia translated 19:30 into 5:30 pm, so the group decided to kill a little time by walking around Orthez. When we came back close to 5:30, no one showed up. After several calls to many, a van with sufficient room for exactly 8 people showed up.
Lucho

This is when my mobile came in handy. The train station attendant was nice enough to dial the taxi driver but handed it to me to talk. That is when I realized that there was confusion with the time agreed upon. After begging him to come earlier, he agreed to 6:30, one more hour to kill at the lovely Orthez train station, while a big storm with roaring thunder and pouring rain entertained us. The taxi driver did not know where Domaine Lespoune was, so he called the owners on my phone for directions, actually this little hotel was not in Navarrenx proper but at Castetnau-Camblong.
Cecilia

Too much fun.

At our arrival at Orthez, we found that our transport to Navarrenx would arrive an hour later, giving us some time to walk into town to get coffee.
When we returned to the train station, we were met with the sad news that the promised transport, was not arriving as scheduled, according to us, but that it would arrive two hours later, due to our error in interpreting European time standards. A member of our group, that will remain unnamed, thought 19:30 hours meant 5:30 p.m. as apposed to 7:30 p.m. This meant an added experience at the train station at Orthez, coupled with torrential rains, hail and lighting. Lack of spirits made the wait a bit more unpleasant.
Manuel

Navarrenx

0912. Domaine Lespoune.

In 20 minutes we were at Domaine Lespoune. Wonderful B&B! The rooms were very spacious. The hosts were very nice. After an aperitif with other guests that included a couple of French Canadians, Pancho and Blanca, and two other French visitors, we had dinner. Dinner consisted of a tomato salad. There were close to 10 kinds of tomatoes, red, green, orange, purple, yellow, large, small. The second course was a wonderful veal picadillo with a lot of different ingredients, some appetizing and some not as much. dessert was a wonderful grape tart.
Lucho

Domaine Lespoune.

Domaine Lespoune.

Domaine Lespoune. Veal Stew.

After our long interlude at the Orthez train station, we arrived (2 hours late) at the lovely welcoming of Ives and Nicole, owners of the quaint and expansive Domaine Lespoune in the outskirts of Navarrenx, France. The old country house reminded me of visiting my grandfather’s home back in the old country. Ample three storied, solidly built structure was much more of a pleasant surprise inside. The entry hall is simple and humble, the stair case and the bedrooms are so well appointed that I was not sure to envy everyone else’s room, or to think that I got the best room in the house.
Aperitifs were scheduled upon twenty minutes after our much delayed arrival. The call to merriment made us be prompt.
As we entered the living/dining area, we found Pancho and Blanca, two French Canadian persons we had just met at our arrival. We all sat around the living area for an aperitif before our dinner. After meeting all the evening guests, we were summoned to the dinner table. As we chose our seats, Ives brought a large round serving tray with what appeared an array of colorful flowers, reds, greens, purples, yellows and browns, at our dismay, these were varieties of tomatoes grown in their garden, alas, a tomato salad. A boat with the most exquisite vinaigrette that I have tasted in a long time, accompanied appropriately the salad.
Red and white wines were offered with the meal. After the salad, a large covered terrine was unveiled to purvey a homey veal stew, accompanied with what appeared to be sausages, but ended up being boiled potatoes with a variety of colored skins.
Dessert was a grape tart.
After our long day in Toulouse, we retired early to bed, knowing full well that the following day would be twice as challenging, since it would be our first walk, and also a long one, 25 kms. (18 miles) from Navarrenx to Saint Palais.
Manuel

Tomatoes salad. ****

The soon to be pilgrims.

Grape Tart.

0913. Day 5. Navarrenx to Saint Palais. 72° F. 5h 5min. 25 kms.

The day started well, after a restorative sleep in the quite and ample rooms provided at the Domaine Lespoune’s country guesthouse. As we had breakfast we discussed the last details about the daily pack contents and the arrangement with the luggage service to carry our luggage from the guest house to the hotel we were attempting to reach that day in Saint Palais.

Saddled up and ready for our first steps.

Early morning fog.

Hours later.

The morning was glorious, as we started our walk; the cool and crisp morning air accentuated by the lovely countryside and the smell of morning dew was almost intoxicating.
As we made our way through the country lanes, we felt invigorated and confident of our sure step that would carry us to that day’s destination.
As we climbed the weather remained cool and crisp, but our bodies were heating up from the exertion. The terrain was pure light colored rock resembling shale rock that run from side to side. It was not particularly difficult to traverse, but very, very long and steep.
As you may know by now, our group’s mean age is 62 years old. Some of us are in better condition for this type of endeavor than others. Physical complaints abound from time to time, even though acknowledgement of such is at best shared in the outmost secrecy, and at worst dismissed as trivial and easily overcome. Head to toe afflictions may plague pilgrims on their journey. Pre-conditions to note in our group were knee, back and migraine trouble.
The day before, while in Toulouse, we had made plans to have a light snack on our first trek, so we carried with us the provisions needed for such a task. I barely remember that resting moment, what I do remember, is that the walk was longer than I had envisioned, some on lovely trails, some on the shoulder of intercity roads.
On the way we met several fellow pilgrims, one of note was a fortyish man called Jose Manuel from a small town two hours east of Santander, Spain. He had started his walk at Puy, southern France, and was on his way home. Since our group was made up of Hispanic Americans, it seemed to me that he found conversing with us easier than speaking a foreign language.
He engaged almost every member of our troop on this, one of the longest treks we had.
As the hours passed, the miles under our feet, the midday heat, humidity and overall attrition, arrival at our destination became more challenging.

Lunch break.

On the long road again.

Very long day.

The nature with groups is that they tend to coalesces and separate depending on how individuals relate to each other. Leaders, followers and loners tend to make themselves noticed. Also mini groups form many alliances that supposedly engender confidences.
Cecilia, Eric, Silvia, Jose Manuel and myself were spearheading the trek as we reached a Camino sign from the main road we were on, and while distracted and with the absence of our pilot, took the small lane towards our destination. Two kilometers into that direction, doubts of the accuracy of our decision became apparent, our group was nowhere to be seen, and as we recalled, the last portion of that day was to be on the shoulder of the Route National D933. As doubt increased we decided to knock on someone’s door to assess our position.
Jose Manuel volunteered himself for the task. He knocked on the door of one of three houses around us. I had noticed that people had alighted from a car parked on the driveway, not seconds before. He knocked several times without response. Some people say that the French are very French, or maybe just distrustful.
Jose Manuel crossed the street to try a second house. He knocked twice, the door opened; a conversation that we could not hear ensued with a middle aged man with graying hair. Moments later, Jose Manuel and the man came down to talk to us. His name was Jean, he confirmed that we were indeed on the Camino, but that to reach our destination by it, we would have to traverse an additional 20 kms., something we remembered we did not intend on doing according to our recollections of instructions received from the pilot during that morning’s briefing.

A wider view.

It came clear to us that distraction; arrogance and the absence of the pilot had caused us a 4 kms. additional walk and that a correction was de rigor. Jean spoke in a fairly good Spanish and said, I can drive the 2 women to either the main road or to Saint Palais if they preferred. I was taken aback with his kind offer. We of course thanked him, and refused his offer. He insisted, saying that the balance of the walk to Saint Palais would still take another two to three hours.
Our exhausted faces must have prompted his most generous offer. We conferred, and encouraged both girls to accept it and avoid the pain of walking more. Cecilia accepted the ride to Saint Palais.
Silvia, showing her tenacious character stood fast with her man and declared that she would stay the course. This provided an opportunity for someone to take her place, the natural choice was I, and I have to admit was delighted.
We farewell our fellow travelers and walk to the house with Jean. He kindly invited us in, we refused on account of our muddy shoes and personal perfume acquired during the day.
He opened his lovely vehicle for us; Cecilia sat on the passenger seat, while I shared the back seat with one of Jean’s lovely daughters.
As we rode, I thought of his kindness, and was amazed by the extent of it, if I was a religious man, I would have thought that there is a God.
That first day of walking aided me in formulating my opinion of the possible reasons anyone may have to do something like this.
Cecilia and myself checked in at the Hotel Du Midi and moved quickly to our room for a well deserved shower and a bit of rest before the rest of the team arrival. About two and a half hours later the rest of our pilgrim team arrived. Later that afternoon we called a cab to take four of us to the famed St. Jean Pied de Port, only twenty minutes away. The lovely cobblestone walled town greeted with plenty of curiosities, souvenirs and a place to relax and have a snack and a drink before returning to our hotel.
Manuel

Saint Palais

Contemplations on the Camino.

During one of the earliest arduous sections of a day’s walk, I thought that it was mere madness for me to have accepted this invitation to join my friends on this journey. I wondered what kind of person would be inclined to do this. Contemplating my exertion, I pondered as to the original nature of the sojourn, it is called a pilgrimage. Pilgrimage…. According to my understanding, it is a journey made by the pious as penance or atonement for their sins, something similar to taking a vacation to purgatory. Why would any sane person choose to do this? Besides the obvious religious reasons, but why me, I believe there is no God? My reasons are more social, these are my crazy friends on a quest for something, and in the spirit of camaraderie, I am accompany them.
On further thought, something that entertained me on my moments of quiet reflection during the periods that I chose to walk alone, that aside from reasons to do the Camino, many other pre-requisites might apply. Excluding the desire for atonement and pious self punishment, other things come to mind.

Time.

Time.

The Camino walker, whether doing a portion, no matter how short, has to have the means and the time to travel on one of the slowest means of transportation, mere walking. In the time when no one has time to enjoy the journey, wanting to arrive and squeeze every bit from a destination location, who has time to slow down an smell the roses.

Means

About the means, it appears that devoting time to such arcane way of travel, may require some wealth independence. I know that when I was younger, I would have preferred to spend my time and money on fast paced and more self indulgent activities. As I learned by meeting a man an his dog walking the Camino for last for four years, is that means are what you make them. I heard some one retell a saying that, you carry with you the sum of you fears. If you mind getting rained on, carry an umbrella. Philippe, the man with his dog told me that he worked for food and lodging, as well as living of the generosity of others.
In my case, having means to purchase the pricey equipment suggested or needed, according to some, the contracting of luggage porting from hotel to hotel, and the inevitable decompressing vacation location after the Camino, meant that a family in the third world could have met their food needs for six months with what my wife and I spent.

Physique

Physique.

Even though that I had been told, and witnessed myself, age and physical preparedness does not seen, I say seen, a mayor requirement for this enterprise. A fellow traveler, had been encouraged, if not inspired by a handicapped member of his wife’s family that completed the Camino on a type of wheel chair. We saw many walkers of our age and even at least up to two decades older, or so they seemed. We had been training with walks of between seven and twelve miles, one day a week. We walked ten continuous days, with one day between the fourth and fifth day. Some were long, most were arduous walks.

What?

Je ne sais qua.

That thing that makes us do what we do. Call it drive, inspiration, devotion, competitiveness, narcissism, or call it madness, fill in yours. You should decide which would or is yours. For me it was an event, a party, albeit not a conventional one, that I like to attend to enjoy being with others. I have to say that I have been to some crazy parties, suffice to say, none crazier than this one. Going to an event or a party meant, selecting the right attire, check, making sure to be groomed appropriately, check, getting there, check, and enjoying myself, ehhh!
This meant months of training, way too many new clothes and equipment, crossing the Atlantic to get there, and then having almost a forced march for ten days, you tell me, it is utter madness.
Manuel

0914. Day 6. Saint Palais to Larceveau. 3h 15min. 15 kms. 67° F.

After a well deserved sleep and a breakfast at the restaurant of the Hotel Du Midi, we checked out of the hotel, placed our backpacks and on our way to Larceveau we where. This day, we knew it was not going to be as hard as the previous one. With this in mind, I felt relieved and encouraged to fulfill my day’s commitment.

Great morning.

Countryside.

Getting up higher.

Today’s goal was to reach the Hotel Espellet in Larceveau. As we made our way from the urban environment we enjoyed the quite brisk morning air and the countryside was gorgeous. I was hoping that this second day would be much better than the warm and humid previous one.
As we made our way through the country lanes, we felt invigorated and confident of our sure step that would carry us to that day’s destination.

The gang taking a well deserved rest.

Making our way to new heights.

A hard climb.

The walk was quite lovely, the weather was cool and I for one was hoping that it would remain that way. You know when things are going too well, something is going to ruin it, well an hour into our walk in the park, a sign of el camino, pointed upward onto a long and step rocky road. The pilot confirmed our greatest fears. Without much hesitation, the most committed members jumped to the challenge. This seemingly interminable rocky road that reached for the sky, felt more like a loop around one of Dante’s circles of hell.
As we climbed the weather remained cool and crisp, but our bodies were heating up from the exertion. The terrain was a light colored rock resembling shale rock that run from side to side. It was not particularly difficult to traverse, but very, very long and steep.

Country roads.

Accomplishment.

Touching the skies.

As you may know by now, our group’s mean age is 62 years old. Some of us are in better condition for this type of endeavor than others. Physical complaints abound from time to time, even though acknowledgement of such is at best shared in the outmost secrecy, and at worst dismissed as trivial and easily overcome. Head to toe afflictions may plague pilgrims on their journey. Pre-conditions to note in our group were knee, back and migraine trouble.
Atop the hill were encountered a spectacular view of the surrounding valley, our great effort was fully redeemed. The spot was devoid of pilgrims, with the exception of a middle aged man and a dog seated almost as part of the pastoral scene. This made me think that since we had seen sheep, that perhaps he was a shepherd accompanied by his shepherd dog, his looks and attire steered my analytic mind towards that conjecture.
We all dropped our packs to rest and to enjoy the moment. Eric, being Eric, could not restrain himself from striking some sort of conversation with the shepherd. After a while I joined in. Eric was speaking in tongues, he spoke Spanglish, as I heard the shepherd speak, he also spoke in Spanish and French. Feeling that I could also engage, I spoke in the bit of French that I have at my command. The shepherd, was not a shepherd, I found out. Eric retold to me what Philippe had told him. Philippe, had been walking for the last four years. He had left his wife and children after his son had become deathly ill, and had barely survived. He lived like a true pilgrim by accepting the generosity of others and working for food and lodging as needed.

Chapel

Philippe and his dog.

Nourishment.

Open skies.

The way down and the rest of the walk that day was uneventful in comparison with the hill experience. We made it to the hotel by mid afternoon. Some of us decided to call a cab to take us to St. Jean Pied de Port, the official point of departure for the Pyrenees crossing.

Wine love.

Cool weather.

Happy pilgrims.

We called for local transport, the cab showed up, a young lady driver with a very well appointed Volkswagen Passat picked us up. The cost for the 20 minute ride each way cost us 30 euros each way. We walked the lovely town and sat for a drink at a local bar. I thought that it was a worthwhile expenditure of time and money.
Manuel

On the bridge.

Larceveau

0915. Day 7. Larceveau to Hunto. 4h 35min. 20 kms. 70° F.

Hotel Espellet

After a light breakfast at the Hotel Espellet, we got on the road to Hunto via St. Jean Pied de Port. The countryside and weather was similar to the previous day, cool weather and moderate hills awaited us.
As we reached the walled city of St. Jean Pied de Port, we knew that the awaited Pyrenees crossing was close at hand. We entered and briefly visited it, since everyone in our group had been there before. We purchased some snacks for the next day’s major walk.

Vineyard on a hill.

On the road again.

Cappuccino sheep?

Walking out of St. Jean, you start noticing that the terrain becomes increasingly steeper. The weather also started changing, it became cooler and windier, this was pleasant for me, since the exertion of the climb generated body heat that the cool wind refreshed. The climb was long and arduous, not necessarily long in distance but nevertheless tiresome. We saw few pilgrims on the road.

Wardrobe malfunction?

Real lunch time.

Love in unexpected places.

Hours later we reached the Ferme Ithurburia, our last lodging spot before walking into Spain. The lodging looked humble from the outside, entering we found the front desk, immediately after the entrance door, a long table to the right in an all purpose large room. We engaged the service person across us on the front desk, a sixtyish lady that only spoke to us in French. We first enquired about the delivery of our luggage, since two days before they were delivered to the wrong location. The front desk lady told us that no delivery had been done that day, and that her lodging did not use the services of the luggage transport that we had engaged. I understood that she did not put too much faith in our choice of luggage transport service.

Nice sign.

Cloudy skies.

Field of dreams.

I bought a bottle of cider, it was a bit sweet but refreshing, Rudy bought another and while we waited for our luggage we enjoyed the sunset on the balcony.

Dinner at Ferme Ithurburia

Balcony view.

Sunset.

Hours later we found out that our bags had indeed been delivered, not to the front desk, but to an adjacent part of the lodging across the street. To this day, I cannot understand why the front desk lady did not told us to look across the street. Maybe she forgot that this portion of the lodging did not belong to the entire complex, or maybe she was having a bad day, and that we were going to incur her wrath.
After rescuing our bags, we proceeded to showering and preparing for dinner. At dinner time we sat together at the end of a long table accommodating all lodgers, about thirty people. The food was unremarkable.
I felt compelled to use my critic skills with Trip Advisor and have given the Ferme Ithurburia a review that can be read here: Ferme Ithurburia. Bottom line, stay here if you don’t mind unpleasant and discourteous service.

0916. Day 8. Hunto to Roncesvalles. 7h 3min. 26 kms. 64° F. Wind velocity: up to 60 miles per hour.

The important day had finally arrived. We had spent our last night in France and were poised to make the crossing of the Pyrenees on the French route towards Santiago de Compostela. After a light breakfast, settling our hotel bill and arranging for the pick up of our luggage to be carried to Roncesvalles, we were poised outside to gather our forces.
The pilot and his wife wanted to get a jump on the weather leaving one half hour earlier. Our first goal was to reach Orisson, a small refuge just before the barren mountains.

Ferme Ithurburia

Getting windy.

Stronger wnd.

At our arrival at Orisson, we noticed about a dozen of pilgrims prepared to make the crossing. Eric told me later that he met a pilgrim from Turkey that was actually walking back home from Santiago to Turkey. What a spirit. Although, if I had heard that story a year or two earlier, I would have gladly contributed to fund his mental institution’s expenses.

Orisson Refuge

I unburdened myself of my pack and remained outside smoking a cigarette. Across the picnic type table where I sat was an Asian young man. I said, where are you from? He said Korea, and that was the end of that. Moments later he packed up and continued walking towards the mountains. When we packed up, I noticed that a white box was under the area where the Korean man had been, I reached and picked it up, it was a battery charger for any USB electronics. I placed in a pocket of my backpack, hoping that I would find it’s owner somewhere on the route, I didn’t.

Braving the elements.

Some of the more engaging and talkative members of the team spoke to several pilgrims, later some of the conversations became known to me. Two were of note. One person had an accident further up and had returned to the refuge and requested a transport back to St. Jean Pied de Port. The other, was that some pilgrims had tried to make the crossing the day before and were attempting it again, even though the weather forecast for that day predicted even stronger winds than the day earlier, making these particular pilgrims remain on the French side another day. This bit of information was not disseminated among our team, or I was not informed. If I had been aware of the conditions that we were going to encounter, I would have been able to make a better informed decision to cross or not. I guess ignorance is bliss.

So windy, bikers couldn't ride.

The eye of the photographer.

Against all odds.

On our way we were. As we climbed, the winds increased, bringing down the temperature to a chill. Knowing myself, I was wearing a short sleeve moisture wicking tee shirt, long pants, a long sleeve tee shirt, and a white bandana around my neck. In my pack, just for safety, a thin hooded fleece jacket, thin fleece gloves, a hat and a hooded rain jacket. Not even a half an hour went by before we all had to dig into our packs for as much cover as we could muster. The weather was getting nasty. On the other hand we were somewhat encouraged, since there seem to be other pilgrims (fools) on the climb. An hour and a half, or so, into the trek, three motorcycles went passed us. I thought, that the trail was going to get rough for such street type vehicles. Not much later two of them passed on the way down, an hour later we found the third, two guys were walking down their bike, since the wind was so strong that they could not ride it.

Expansive view.

The wind was cutting across the Pyrenees and we where in the middle of it. There were moments when not even standing assured one of stability, getting low to the ground was the only means of not being blown away. Walking became even more difficult because the winds faced us most of the time; this compounded our effort to make the long climb. At times, as we raised one leg to make a stride the wind would unbalance one with a possibility of falling. Fortunately I was not very cold, the effort generated enough body heat.

Rainbow on the Pyrenees.

Hubris.

Local flora.

We decided to stop for nourishment and found a small quarry creating a dune shaped refuge from the wind. Took out our refreshments and proceeded to consume them quickly. Other pilgrims join us in our wind shelter. Two young men seemingly walking solo sat separately and watched us eat. I remembered the bit about the “charity of others” and decided to share my meager ration with them, my fellow team members followed.

Success.

We packed and went out into the elements again for a couple more hours of ascent. When we reached the top, relief was at hand, now we could descend, two options presented themselves. By now Cecilia and I had left the other team members behind, so we had to choose wisely, without the benefit of previous experience had by our team, they had reached this fork on the road before. There was another couple pondering what to do. If I recall well, one sign read, Roncesvalles, long and easy way, 4.5 kms. The other read, Roncesvalles, short and dangerous way, 1.5 kms. The former looked to be a paved open road that descended along the hills at a reasonable grade. The latter, looked almost like going down into some animal’s den. It was steep forest on a hill, enclosed by trees with their roots exposed making it more treacherous for our descent. I thought it appeared that the forest could threaten us by coming alive while the roots would ensnare us and drag us under, never to be seen again. Thanks Hollywood.

A welcome oasis after a long an terrifying crossing.

After some consideration, we decided on the short and hard way. This fits my way of life; I like the concept that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. The woman at the sign warned us not to go down that way. We thanked her, but chose to do it anyway. As we made our descent, our bodies pushed us down; we had to use our legs to slow us down. Cecilia had her poles in hand and seemed to help her. Our steps needed to be placed carefully not to trip or twist our ankles due to the irregularity of the terrain. It reminded me of when I was a child and was walking on a tiled floor trying to avoid stepping on the edges. Forty five minutes later we found a couple walking holding hands. This seemed so out of place that both Cecilia and I commented on it. As the terrain became less steep, it started to rain, took out our ponchos and continued walking. Very soon after the rain we saw edifices, it was Roncesvalles, finally. We had survived the Pyrenees.
Found our way to the Casa de Beneficiados*****, Roncesvalles, Navarra, Spain and loved it. The pilot and his wife were seated by the entrance, after a brief greeting, they divulged that our luggage service had not delivered on their commitment, and that they had been on the phone tracking their whereabouts.

Roncesvalles

I chose to make the best of the moment and went to drop my pack in my room, followed by a drink at the bar. I chose to try the local apple cider, I had two servings. I heard from the bar the voices of the rest of the team arriving together. Went to meet them and to the news that our luggage had been delivered to the wrong place again. The luggage was a block away at the Posada de Roncesvalles. Cecilia and I went to get our bags. Showered and with clean clothes went down to the bar, exchanged horror stories, had one of the best diners of the trip and went to bed.

The Pyrenees

The views, even though not much enjoyed due to the inclement weather are breathtaking and must be gorgeous with ideal conditions.
Manuel

0917. Day 9. Roncesvalles to Castro Urdiales. 68° F.

Hosteria Villa de Castro

This portion of the trip was done by travelling on a van, a day off from walking. We were picked up by Transport Claudine. Maya, our friendly driver gave us an education on the Basque culture that made our 3 hour trip very enjoyable. At our arrival al Castro Urdiales, we located our hotel, Hosteria Villa de Castro, a well located and comfortable small hotel. After a quick check in, we went out to get lunch by the Cantabrian Sea.
On our way to the port we located a small non descript shop were local spirits were sold. Later we revisited it and purchased Orujo, an herb digestive made locally.

A day on the road with wheels.

La iglesia de Santa María de la Asunción. Castro Urdiales.

The port at Castro Urdiales.

What a view!

After lunch we walked the small old part of the town and returned to the hotel to rest a bit before leaving again for dinner. As most people know choosing one restaurant between eight people may be a challenge to say the least. After much deliberation, one was chosen. We occupied most of the dining room, and we were the only ones at 8 p.m. Choosing what to eat can be a challenge to many, specially since some words are foreign to one. Wait the menu was in Spanish, our native tongue, nevertheless there are words for things we still do not know, so the usual questions started flowing. Our waitress was very accommodating, she explained every obscure term we did not know.

Ocean side views.

Ominous.

See Food!

The beach at Castro Urdiales.

It was only until someone asked her to say which of as many as ten appetizers she would order, that things hit the proverbial fan. She said that, she did not eat this because she did not like it, not that because she was allergic to it, or the third because she could not eat that. She abruptly left us.
At her return, she explained that she had been put in a compromising position by being asked such personal questions, specially in view that she suffered from a disabling stomach condition. I thought that the waitress was right, I would never ask anyone for their preferences in choosing food, knowing that we all have different taste, and that mine are very particular. I suppose you could ask what are the most popular or best selling dishes. As usual, not everyone agreed with me.

R.I.P.

All smiles, not walking today.

Awaiting much needed refreshments.

Castro Urdiales

0918. Day 10. Castro Urdiales to Laredo. 70° F.

Details to come.

Leaving Castro Urdiales.

Morning smiles.

Ready to roll.

Cerdigo y la ruta de la costa.

Cantabrian Sea.

Great backdrop.

Open skies.

Surfers dream.

Roadside.

Seaside walk.

Laredo beach.

Laredo

0919. Day 11. Laredo to Noja. 70° F.

Details to come.

Looking for some direction.

Leaving only our shadows.

Poised for another walk.

Morning emptiness.

Chiaro oscuro.

Boat from Laredo to Santoña

Santoña

Santoña.

El paseo maritimo de Santoña.

Beer poster.

Surf, turf and sky.

Another Cantabrian beach.

Great color.

Steep ascent.

Noja

0920. Day 12. Noja to Santander. 69° F.

Details to come.

Early morning bells.

Ready for a new day.

Lovely morning ocean air.

Pan-o-ramica.

Getting to Santander.

On the boat to Santander.

The great council.

Finally Santander!

Done!

Itinerary cancelled due to general attrition.

After just having enough walking, our ranks started to frail. Some members of the expedition had already broken the “sacred trust” of the group by riding on a car, and shortening one day’s walk by completing it by bus. The pilot, while traversing the bay on a ferry to Santander, pronounced words that neither I, nor anyone else would expect. “It seems that we have reached our full of walking, therefore, I propose a cease desist of all pedestrian actions, and plan to enjoy our stay in Spain with two additional days.
This statement was met with a variety of reactions. It would appear that the pilot had had a finger on the pulse of the bunch, and decided that this was as good a moment to utter his proposal. People were stunned, knowing that the pilot is a man of his word, and that breaking this divine contract, must have been difficult. Opinions varied from relief to a sense of mutiny or even treason. After a short discussion between the couples, we all agreed that we had a belly full, and that the pilot’s proposal was reasonable. One couple dissented and expressed their desire to continue with last two days of walking. I sensed a bit of remorse from some of the members by abandoning our team and our “commitment to the quest”. I personally, was relieved since my commitment is firstly to myself, then to the others, call me selfish.
We checked into the Abba Santander hotel and made plans to meet later to go to dinner for our last supper together. The pilot had been talking about having cochinillo (roasted suckling pig) since the early days of planning almost a year earlier. This was his chosen city for such delicacy, since it is not offered everywhere, it requires a restaurant with a “real” wood burning oven for its preparation.
The pilot had chosen a local restaurant not too far a walk from our hotel named Asador Lechazo de Aranda. It resembled other asador type restaurant we had visited. I had the suckling pig, it was delicious with various glasses of rose wine, followed by Orujo, a Galician liqueur made from herbs, and attributed with almost magical powers to ease digestion.
Manuel

Santander

0921. Day 13. Santander. 73° F.

Details to come.

On a train to Santillana del Mar.

Same train, same people.

On the way to Santillana del Mar.

Entering Santillana del Mar

Eating on tables again?

And a glass of white or two.

Parador Gil Blas, Santillana del Mar.

Two old men waiting for theirs wives.

La Colegiata, Santillana del Mar.

No caption needed.

0922. Day 14. Santander. 67° F.

Our group disbanded, two couples flew to Paris, we stayed in Santander, and the diehards continued on to Mogro by train.

Sardinero beach.

Gran Hotel Sardinero.

Sardinero Beach.

El Machi Restaurant****

Details to come.

0923. Day 15. Santander to Barcelona. 71° F.

Details to come.

0924. Day 16. Barcelona. 82° F.

Barcelona

Back to the lovely Catalonian capital of Barcelona. This city has grown to be one of our choice destinations. Personally, I put it only second to the city of light. The weather was great at our arrival and remained gorgeous during our 5-day visit.
Our plan was to take it easy, since this was our fifth or sixth visit. We wanted to visit some of those less visited places and revisit, some of our favorite places. The photos show that we were busy and that you cannot take it easy in that lively city, so much to see.
Ate very well at restaurants that we had visited before. That is my preference, I believe that if you find someone or thing that you like, stick with it, and maybe become a connoisseur. As soon as we checked in into our excellently located and previously visited Hotel Turin, we went out to the Rambla to taste once again the flavor of the city. We were returning after a four year absence. We decided to try to locate the Basque pintxos restaurant we had discovered on our last visit, not far from the hotel. I remembered that it was on one of the non pedestrian small streets of the Barrio Gotico. We crossed the Rambla and entered the maze of little alleyways. I knew that my piloting had a short limit. Cecilia’s hunger for food and impatience with my navigation abilities added unnecessary pressure to my effort to deliver us to the chosen restaurant.
Luckily, we stumble on the wide street were I recalled the restaurant was located. Of course Cecilia, by now, could not believe any word that came out of my mouth. I said, lets turn left, she wanted to go right. I told her to remain there, and I would go up the street, since I thought I might be getting warmer, and did not need her criticism every additional step we took.
Half a block up the street, I found it. With much pride and holding my head up, I came back to report my fortuitous finding.

Orio Restaurant***

As we approached the entrance of Orio, I was almost gloating. We entered, sat down and waited for our waiter to place our drink order. We ordered rose wine; we had been enjoying this wine throughout our trip. I went to the bar, picked up a small plate and collected three pintxos, walked back our communal table and sat down to taste these small portions.
This restaurant uses a novel way for how it works. You have to first find a seat on long and narrow tall communal tables that create rows where guests sit. As soon as you are seated and have placed your drink order, you can get up, pick up a plate and collect the bite size offerings of cold pintxos with toothpicks from the bar. After you finish eating and ask for the bill, they will count the toothpicks and charge you accordingly. Every pintxo must be the same price.
Cecilia did the same when we sampled the ones I had brought. She chose other pintxos and we continued tasting. We enquired about xistorras, our favorite Basque small fried sausages, they usually prepare them on demand, and they are offered to all guests.

Pintxos at Orio***

Xistorra*****

Serious enjoyment.

Gorgeous architecture.

7 Portes Restaurant*****

The following days we visited the sites shown on the photos below. Of note, the Palau de la Musica Catalana, Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia and Casa Batllo on the cultural side. On the gastronomic we returned to the Asador de Aranda for the cochinillo, Cal Pep for tapas and more, and my favorite 7 Portes, where we ate on consecutive days, enjoying the fideua (a vermicelli paella cooked in cuttlefish ink), steamed mussels and black rice (cooked in cuttlefish ink). Very much worth a detour. The old style ambiance and the great service was an added pleasure.

Manuel

Palau de la Musica***

Sagrada Familia.

Great skies.

Organic ceiling.

Geants.

Patiently awaiting...

Cochinillo asado****

Camp Nou. Barça vs. Universidad de Las Palmas.

Palau de la Musica.

Cal Pep Restaurant****

Catalonian hospitality!

Extraño el camino. Sep 13, 2013, at 1:21 PM.

Extraño levantarme temprano
Extraño el café con leche y tostadas
Extraño las croissants y los yogurts de Isa, Silvia y Nelvis
Extraño las subidas y las bajadas y los senderos también
Extraño el olor a mierda….de vaca, oveja, puercos, o una mescla de todos
Extraño el vigor al caminar en las mañanas
Eric

Altiplano Boliviano

Esperando el ómnibus en la estación de Puno miraba a tres jóvenes rubias tomando gaseosas, riendo y conversando en un idioma que me sonaba escandinavo. Un cuarentón solo, vestido con traje obscuro, camisa blanca, corbata, cargando un pequeño cartapacio, un burócrata. Esta seria la ultima parada del ómnibus antes de llegar a La Paz.

Las tres primeras horas transcurrieron sin novedad, acercándose la media noche, la obscuridad que nos rodeaba solo se cortaba con la luces altas del ómnibus y las tenues estrellas en el firmamento negro. A los bordes de las luces se podía ver pasar el icho y el polvo velozmente que las ruedas del ómnibus levantaba al rodar por la larga carretera no asfaltada. De vez en cuando las luces de otro vehículo rompían la monotonía del camino.

Carretera encalaminada

Con el cansancio de un largo día en Puno, el zumbido del motor diesel y el rítmico golpetear del encalaminado, me vencía el sueño. Me despedí del chileno y me acomode lo mejor posible para dormir. Mientras pensaba en como me iría en esa ciudad quede profundamente dormido.

Sentí un apretón en el hombro. Mientras despertaba, note que la cabina estaba totalmente obscura, todavía era de noche. El chileno susurrando dijo, “creo que hay problemas”, esto me completo de despertar, le pregunte que cual era el problema, me respondió que el ómnibus había parado en medio de la puna, que el chofer no estaba en su puesto y que el resto de los pasajeros aun dormían.

El burócrata que estaba sentado detrás del chofer, tampoco estaba en su asiento. Escuche voces venir de la parte de atrás del ómnibus. Trate de incorporarme para tener una mejor vista de lo que sucedía, cuando sentí otro tirón en el antebrazo, el chileno no me dejaba mover. El ómnibus parecía un sepulcro, ni un sonido o movimiento.

Dos voces y el sonido de pasos avanzaban de la cola al frente del ómnibus por el lado opuesto a nuestro asientos, el dialogo incomprensible. Las siluetas brevemente cortaron los destellos de las luces del ómnibus. La puerta delantera del ómnibus se abrió. Dos hombres entraron al frente del ómnibus en silencio, uno se sentó en el asiento del chofer, el otro quedo parado mirando hacia los pasajeros, hasta que el ómnibus reinicio el viaje. El hombre parado, se sentó detrás del chofer. En la obscuridad, no pude identificar al chofer ni al burócrata. Nuevamente el ritmo del ómnibus me arrullo y quede profundamente dormido.

Terminal de Autobuses de La Paz

Un sacudón y el crujir de la carrocería del ómnibus sirvieron para despertarme. Ya era de día y estábamos dentro de la ciudad, vehículos de todos tipos, colores y tamaños rodeaban al ómnibus como peces en migración. El día era brillante, el aire enrarecido por la altura y el ruido infernal de bocinas, ruedas metálicas de carretillas sobre las calles adoquinadas, silbatos de los policías de transito, junto con la música de locales, cada una mas alta, me ayudo a despertar.

Note también la ausencia del burócrata. Los demás pasajeros aparentemente ignorantes del percance durante la travesía recogían sus pertenencias con apremio, deseosos de llegar a su destino final y olvidar el largo viaje. Las rubias, alegres y curiosas manoseaban todo tipo de chucherías mostradas por vendedores.

Sentí un tirón en la manga izquierda, era uno de los tres niños que habían viajado conmigo acompañados de una monja de habito negro que me dijo, que el señor de la primera fila, le pidió que me entregara la nota que me había dejado. Le agradecí, y la leí,

Querido visitante,
Espero goce de una muy buena estadía en nuestra ciudad. Si necesitara asistencia alguna, pregunte por Álvarez en el numero 634 Calle Junín.
Su digno servidor,
Gonzalo M.

Tomé mi valija, mi bolsa y emprendí camino hacia el centro de la ciudad, al caminar, admiraba la arquitectura y la interacción de los pobladores con su ciudad.

Tenía que asegurarme sobre el contenido de mi valija. Busque donde revisar con detenimiento mis pertenencias y poder apaciguar mi justificada paranoia. Vi una iglesia en la esquina, siendo un santuario estaría seguro ahí. Una misa con pocos feligreses llenaba una pequeña capilla. La iglesia era grande y ofrecía muchos sitios vacíos donde podría sentarme a revisar mis cosas. Escogí una banca en un rincón menos iluminado y alejada de las puertas donde me senté y revise mi bolsa y valija con detenimiento. No encontré nada extraño.

Calle Jaen

Me aseguré de salir de la iglesia por otra puerta antes de mirar a ambos lados y después de pedir varias indicaciones, llegue al edificio donde me recibirían y albergarían durante mi estadía. Ingrese al vestíbulo, el portero se acerco y pregunto a quien visitaba. Le dije que visitaba a la familia Rodríguez, su cara cambio, me dijo que la familia había salido súbitamente de la ciudad pero que el Sr. Rodríguez había dejado una nota para mi. El portero fue detrás de su escritorio y me entrego, ella decía así:

Querido Vicente,
Disculpa mucho este inconveniente, hemos tenido que viajar repentinamente al interior. Esperamos volver pasado mañana. Te recibiremos el jueves a partir de las 6:00 p.m.
El portero te indicara donde puedes alojarte hasta el jueves.
Hasta pronto,
Rodríguez

Esa noticia me causo un malestar que me ocasiono un pequeño mareo. Salí del edificio pensando que tenia el resto del día para encontrar albergue. El portero me dijo que dos cuadras abajo y a la izquierda había un hotel donde pudiera quedarme. Camine por las calles centrales indagando los costos de varios hospedajes.

A las dos y media de la tarde almorzaba en un restaurante. Releí la nota del burócrata con detenimiento decidí acercarme. Camine a la dirección escrita pasando por la Plaza Murillo.
Llegue a la esquina donde la calle Junín intersecta la plaza, voltee y a pocos pasos encontré el numero 634, note una bandera nacional izada sobre un portón resguardado por un agente del orden armado con una arma automática. Busque en las paredes a los lados del portón sin encontrar ningún rotulo o emblema que indicara su denominación.

Acercándome al agente armado le pregunte, me miro con sorpresa, y sonriente me pregunto que a quien buscaba, sin contestar mi pregunta. Álvarez, dije, al señor Álvarez. Un momento me dijo, al estar casi apoyado contra el portón, lo golpeo sin inmutarse con los nudillos de su mano izquierda, manteniendo su otra mano sobre el arma y sus ojos fijamente puestos en mi.
Una pequeña ventanilla se abrió, Álvarez, dijo el agente y se cerro la ventanilla. Unos momentos después, el portón izquierdo empezó a crujir y se abrió solo suficientemente para permitir que mi cuerpo pasara. Pase, escuche desde adentro. el ante patio techado tenia piso de adoquines, y estaba casi totalmente obscuro.

Las paredes a mi izquierda y derecha eran idénticas, con una puerta de dos hojas y dos ventanas de dos hojas también a cada lado de las puertas. Sabia que estaba acompañado por el portero, pero mientras mis ojos se ajustaban a la obscuridad, la puerta a mi derecha se abrió dejando escapar una luz blanca y fría.

En el marco de la puerta pude distinguir la silueta de un individuo que con un gesto de una mano, indico al portero que me llevara hacia el. Sentí una mano en la espalda guiándome hacia la puerta abierta, el hombre ya no estaba en el umbral. Después de dos escalones ingrese a una ante sala con dos escritorios a mi derecha e izquierda y nuevamente otra puerta de dos hojas frente a mi. La ante sala estaba iluminada por un par de luces fluorescentes colgando casi a mitad de la distancia del piso al techo, las luces solo iluminaban el tercio mas bajo de la sala, sobre la línea de la luz era difícil saber que pudiera haber. Las altas paredes cubiertas con una pintura verduzca, lavable y algo brillante estaban vacías.

Los antiguos y abusados escritorios tenían cada uno una silla para un visitante. El individuo gesticulo con la cabeza al portero, haciéndolo retirarse, cerrando las puertas tras mi espalda. Durante estos momentos, mi anfitrión y yo nos examinábamos con la mayor discreción. Los dos estábamos parados a cada lado de un escritorio.

Era alto, robusto, de unos cuarenta años, vestido con un traje no ordinario, de tez blanca, el pelo y ojos obscuros, casi negros. ¿A quien busca? pregunto bruscamente después de un largo tiempo en el cual hice un esfuerzo muy grande de no ser el primero en intercambiar palabras. Le dije que buscaba al Sr. Álvarez. Me miro con mayor detenimiento, pregunto, cual es su propósito. Le explique que tenia una nota que había recibido en mi travesía desde el lago Titicaca con ese nombre y dirección.

Saque la nota y se la entregue, la leyó y la guardo en el bolsillo izquierdo de su saco Me dijo que sabia de mi posible llegada y que me podría brindar un modesto hospedaje, que recogiera mis pertenencias y lo siguiera pasando por las puertas al final de esa sala.

Al cruzar el umbral entramos a un patio interior de piedra rodeado con arcadas y tres puertas cerradas de dos hojas en cada lado. El sol ya se había puesto y poca luz natural alumbraba la ciudad. Caminamos bajo la arcada derecha hacia la puerta del medio, al abrir la puerta pude ver tras la ancha espalda de mi acompañante un angosto y largo corredor con varias puertas a los costados. Se detuvo frente a la tercera puerta a la izquierda, lentamente abriéndola como si estuviera cuidando el sueño a alguien.

Al entrar note un cuarto cuadrado sin ventanas, dos camas simples y dos bancas de madera, cada una al pie de las camas. El mismo alumbrado, pintura y ausencia de decoración se repetían en este cuarto. Estirando el brazo izquierdo y con la mano abierta, en un gesto que interprete amistoso y de generosidad, mi guía comunico sin palabras que me ofrecía ese modesto alojamiento. Escuchamos el crujir de una puerta cercana y el golpe seco y fuerte de la misma al cerrar. Mi guía me dijo que espere, y que volvería pronto, salió y cerro la puerta tras el. Decidí acomodar mis cosas para pasar la noche ahí. La puerta del dormitorio se abrió de nuevo y mi guía indico con la mano derecha que lo acompañe. Salimos hacia la izquierda en camino al final del corredor.

El 11

Al llegar, descubrí un nuevo patio con dos filas de grifos de agua incrustados en una sola estructura de lavaderos. Esto me recordó aquellos patios de lavandería de humildes casonas donde varias familias hacían su hogar en mi tierra, a una abadía. Ya había caído la noche.

Mi guía me dijo que podía pasar la noche ahí, con la condición de que restringiera al uso solo de las áreas que me había mostrado y que podía salir y entrar al edificio a mi gusto, excepto que tendría que llegar no mas tarde de la una de la madrugada, ya que pasada esa hora no tendría acceso. Caminamos hacia mi dormitorio donde se despidió deseándome una buena noche.

Ingrese nuevamente al dormitorio, acomode el resto de mis cosas para pasar la noche y pensé en que podría hacer hasta la una de la mañana. Decidí visitar al menos unos de los restaurantes recomendados, ya que se encontraban a corta distancia, dos de ellos los había pasado a mi llegada a la plaza Murillo. Fui al patio de los grifos, me lave la cara, las manos y regrese al dormitorio a recoger mi saco para salir a descubrir la vida nocturna de la capital mas alta del mundo.

La catedral en la Plaza Murillo

Recordando los pasos a mi ingreso del edificio, regrese al portón de entrada. El portero, abrió nuevamente la puerta suficientemente para que mi cuerpo pasara y la cerro rápidamente. El agente del orden armado en el exterior me hizo una venia, como de aprobación. Procedí a caminar hacia la entrada de la plaza por donde había llegado, y por donde estaba seguro encontraría los restaurantes ya vistos.

Mire el menú del primero. Decidí investigar el otro restaurante que había pasado. Al acercarme, note que parecía mas popular, tenia mesas en el exterior con manteles, posiblemente destinadas para cenar, y al otro lado sin manteles, para beber o comer algo ligero.

Gesticule a un mozo para obtener una mesa, me señalo una pequeña cerca de la entrada del restaurante. Me acerque y senté mirando hacia la calle. El menú estaba ya en la mesa. El mozo me pregunto si deseaba algo de beber. Le pregunte si pudiera sugerir alguna bebida alcohólica popular consumida por los locales antes de la cena. Respondió que habían dos muy populares, una era el Singani solo, y el otro era Singani con licor de cerezas. Ordene el Singani con licor de cerezas.

Mientras examinaba nuevamente el menú, también observe a una pareja de señores, bien vestidos, cenando en una mesa aledaña, ambos fumaban y leían revistas. Los cigarrillos de cada uno en ceniceros separados, y dos copas de algún aperitivo frente a cada uno de ellos.
No había intercambiado palabras desde mi llegada. Al llegar sus platos, pusieron sus revistas en el piso al lado de sus sillas, apagaron los cigarrillos y empezaron a comer sin comentario alguno. Ella levanto la cabeza y me miro, aproveche la cercanía de nuestras mesas para desearles buen provecho. Ella respondió diciendo gracias. El la miro como con desapruebo, y entablaron una susurrada conversación, la cual no pude escuchar.

Al terminar su cena, el me pregunto mi procedencia. Ellos eran locales en una de sus salidas semanales a cenar. El era jubilado del servicio diplomático y habían vivido unos años en la capital de mi país.

El resto de nuestra cena la pasamos intercambiando historias de lugares visitados, tan amena fue la noche que el tiempo voló y no tuve oportunidad de examinar al resto de los comensales que nos rodeaban.

Claustro

El país estaba sufriendo de nuevo una resurgente pugna por el poder. Grupos armados e intentos en desestabilizar al gobierno, habían hecho incursiones cuasi militares en varias ciudades importantes, y anunciaban también desafiar al sistema establecido aquí en la capital. La ciudad vivía una paz nerviosa que se notaba en las calles y más aun, en las caras de sus habitantes.

En un momento de silencio con mis conocidos, pude ver a tres personas caminado en la acera del otro lado de la calle. Eran dos hombres y una mujer. Los tres desaparecieron en la obscuridad al doblar la esquina.

La pareja se dirigió a mi indicando su partida, y también su deseo de que mi estadía en su ciudad fuera de mi entero agrado. Respondí deseándoles una muy buenas noches y agradeciéndoles sus gentiles deseos. Recibí, y pague la cuenta mirando mi reloj, vi que eran las diez y cuarto, estaba un poco cansado, pero me dije que al menos caminaría un poco antes de volver al 634 calle Junín.

Se me ocurrió buscar alguno de los sitios de entretenimiento nocturno que tenia en mi lista. Camine por las calles aledañas, descubrí un local de donde salía luz, voces y se podía escuchar el sonido conocido de vasos alegres. Al llegar a la puerta escuche las cuerdas de una guitarra.

Entrando al local note que tenia a un lado un bar lleno de clientes y un numero de mesas pobladas de gente joven de toda procedencia. Al fondo derecho había una tarima pequeña, un micrófono y un banco donde estaba sentado el guitarrista. Logre acercarme y conseguí un sitio en la barra. Pedí una cerveza y mientras trataba con el tabernero, escuche un trio de voces femeninas venir del fondo del recinto.

Al voltear, me sorprendí al ver a las rubias cantando una de las canciones de Abba mas populares. Cantaban en castellano con acento extranjero. Al terminar la canción y después de recibir un fuerte aplauso y agradecer al publico con varias venias, se sentaron en una mesa al pie del escenario. En la mesa habían sentados tres personas cuyas facciones no podía distinguir ya que me daban la espalda. Reían con placer.

El guitarrista toco el solo de una canción andina muy conocida y obtuvo también un gran aplauso. Las luces fueron bajadas y una mujer vestida de largo con guantes hasta los codos se adueño del micrófono, el guitarrista empezó a tocar “A mi manera” de Sinatra, y la mujer la canto en castellano. Antes de que acabara de cantar y con las luces bajas, las rubias y sus tres acompañantes se incorporaron y salieron por la puerta lateral del local. Al dar vuelta y acercarse hacia la puerta vi que los acompañantes eran dos hombres y una mujer. La poca luz me impidió distinguir sus caras, pero sus formas y tamaño me dieron la impresión que pudieran ser las tres personas que había visto en la calle frente al restaurante donde cene esa noche.

Mire mi reloj y eran las doce y diez, ya cansando decidí volver al 634 calle Junín. Salí del local y me fije en su ubicación para regresar. Llegando a la plaza Murillo, sentí mucho frío, estando en la plaza desolada, me acerque al guardia, no era el mismo de la tarde. Le di el nombre, saco un papel de su bolsillo, lo reviso e igualmente que el guardia anterior golpeo la puerta con la mano izquierda. La puerta se entreabrió y el portero me hizo pasar. Camine a través de la antesala y por el angosto corredor hasta llegar a mi dormitorio.

Corredor

Al entrar, vi que en la cama izquierda había una persona postrada, apague inmediatamente la luz para impedir que se despertara. No se movió. En silencio me acosté y quede profundamente dormido. Un gemido me despertó, no sabia de donde había venido, si de mi compañero de cuarto o de otro lado. Quise quedarme despierto por la eventualidad de que se repitiera, nuevamente escuche otro mas fuerte, esta vez estaba seguro que no venia de mi acompañante. Al levantar mi cabeza para usar mis oídos y fijar la procedencia de los gemidos, moví las cobijas haciendo ruido.

Una voz grave procediendo de la otra cama me dijo que mejor no prestara atención a los ruidos y que tampoco comentara esto con nadie. Mi acompañante no movió ni un pelo, fue como si fuera un costal de papas con una grabadora entregándome ese mensaje. Con el cuidado mas grande me volví a recostar evitando el mínimo ruido. Me quede pensando en la razón de los gemidos hasta que otra vez me quede dormido.

Al despertar en la mañana, mire el reloj, eran las ocho cuarenta y nueve, me percate que el saco de papas no estaba en la otra cama, y que no había señas de que nadie hubiera estado en el dormitorio conmigo la noche anterior. Recordé que a mi llegada al cuarto y ver esa persona postrada, apague la luz, y no pude ver si había algo mas, una valija, ni siquiera unos zapatos al pie de la cama. Era extraño, y ahora tendría que considerar si iba a seguir sus advertencias, o indagaría no solo sobre su presencia sino también sobre los gemidos.

Era domingo, día de recogimiento y descanso. Salí al patio de los grifos, me di un baño y al regresar a mi habitación, me vestí con mi mejor ropa dominical. Salí de la misma manera del edificio, eran alrededor de las once, de una mañana brillante. Visite calles desconocidas, parques y plazas, la ciudad era gentil y tranquila. Me acerque a una agencia de viajes para indagar sobre mis opciones de partir a casa. Me entere que los boletos del ómnibus, solo se podían obtener momentos antes de abordar y no anteriormente.

Restaurante

Pase la tarde observando los quehaceres de la población. Al atardecer decidí retornar al restaurante donde había cenado la noche anterior. Las calles del centro antiguo de la ciudad eran angostas de piedra, trazadas a fin del siglo XV por los conquistadores. Los edificios, mayormente de tres pisos construidos al estilo palacio urbano, algunos imponentes, otros algo descuidados.

Al ser domingo, era entendible que las calles estuvieran menos pobladas. Los negocios a puerta cerrada. Los sonidos y olores limitados a lo mínimo abierto. A mi llegada al restaurante, no siendo hora de cena lo encontré casi vacío, además de una pareja de turistas, todas las mesas estaban vacías. Mi cena fue buena. Regrese al 634 calle Junín e ingrese exactamente de la misma manera que la noche previa. Procedí a acostarme y dormí casi inmediatamente. No se si soñaba, sentí mi cama temblar, las puertas crujían, era un temblor, fenómeno común en nuestro continente volcánico.

Volví a dormir o a seguir soñando. Escuche unos gritos, fueron inentendibles y lejanos. Mire el reloj, las dos y dieciocho de la madrugada, me incorpore para mejor escucharlos pero solo pude notar que se acercaban.

Me levante, me vestí rápidamente y fui a la puerta del dormitorio, poniendo una oreja contra ella para tratar de identificar la procedencia de los sonidos. Venían del interior, hacia la izquierda de la puerta, pasando el patio de los grifos. Abrí la puerta unos centímetros. Mire a la derecha del corredor, las tres lámparas estaban prendidas, escasamente iluminando secciones parciales del corredor, quedando otras en total obscuridad. No había ninguna actividad en el corredor y al umbral del patio de grifos, era una boca de lobo.

Salí en esa dirección, sigilosamente esquivando las secciones iluminadas del corredor. Al llegar al patio de los grifos escuche puertas abrir y cerrar, y el arrastrar de sillas.
Cruce el patio por la arcada izquierda sabiendo que bajo su casi total obscuridad no seria descubierto. Al acercarme a la puerta que estando entre abierta, bañaba el corredor de luz desde su interior, vi una sombra de un perfil humano romper la iluminación. Tuve que rápidamente pensar como explicarme.

La sombra crecía, y finalmente vi el cuerpo de un hombre que cruzaba el umbral penetrando el corredor. Puse mi espalda contra la pared en una de las partes obscuras del corredor esperanzado pasar desapercibido. El hombre volteo a su derecha y camino hacia el final del corredor. Sentí un alivio muy grande mientras miraba al hombre alejarse. Todavía inmóvil contra la pared, note que el hombre paro, y dándose la vuelta empezó a regresar, como si se hubiera olvidado algo. Opte por salir de la penumbra y hacer mi presencia visible. Había decidido que diría que había escuchado ruidos y que mi curiosidad me había llevado a indagar, cosa que era verdad.

El hombre me vio, y rápidamente vino hacia mi, avance rápidamente hasta la puerta y mire en el interior, en el instante que tuve antes de su llegada pude observar que había un hombre cabizbajo, sentado y atado en una silla, dos hombres frente a el, y tres sillas ocupadas por tres personas encapuchas. Me grito, “quien es usted, que hace aquí”. Los dos hombres en el interior voltearon rápidamente, y el prisionero levanto la cabeza.

Antes de contestar, los hombres voltearon abruptamente y la luz ilumino sus caras, sus cuerpos bloquearon al prisionero. Uno era el burócrata, el otro había sido el que me había recibido, quizá Álvarez.

No pude reaccionar ni responderle. El burócrata inmediatamente se acerco a la puerta bloqueando mi visión del interior, cerrando la puerta a sus espaldas. Quedamos parados los tres en el corredor. El burócrata dijo, el señor es nuestro invitado, y tomándome del brazo, me dirigió al patio de los grifos. Sin cruzar palabra alguna llegamos al patio y sin dejar mi brazo, dándose vuelta y parándose frente a mi, con su otra mano tomo mi otro brazo, me miro con una mirada paternal y me dijo.

Este local es uno de tantos destinados a la policía secreta de nuestro país, yo soy un funcionario publico dedicado a la lucha anti terrorista. Nuestro país esta pasando por una época difícil. Su voz era suave, educada y gentil, complementaba bien su mirada, casi como la de un sacerdote.

Continuó, diciendo que era mejor que olvidara lo de este episodio, que no seria aconsejable compartirlo y concluyó: “es mejor que regrese a casa lo antes posible porque los días siguientes serán difíciles”. Soltó mis brazos y con un pequeño empujón me dirigió hacia mi habitación.

Camine a mi habitación, me metí a la cama y exhausto quede dormido. Soñé que estaba echado en un riachuelo, el agua fría golpeaba mis cabeza y hombros, las piedra donde descansaba eran lisas y frías, la luz intensa del sol de mediodía bañaba el ambiente. A través de mis parpados veía la luz con tinte rojizo. Estaba en estado de calma, casi no sentía mi cuerpo, como en un trance. Momentos después empecé a sentir dolores musculares sordos que permeaban todo mi cuerpo y que se agudizaban. No quería moverme, la intensidad del dolor me inmovilizo.

Riachuelo

Trate de abrir los ojos, algo lo impedía, era como si estuvieran cocidos o pegados. Empecé a sentir un frío que incrementaba y que termino haciendo temblar bruscamente mi cuerpo hasta que el dolor muscular causo que perdiera el conocimiento. El sueño continuo con la escena de la explicación del burócrata, esta vez, yo era un espectador. No podía escuchar lo que me decía, hasta que por fin escuche, “trata de descansar porque los días siguientes serán difíciles”. Estas palabras me aterraron.

En ese instante descubrí que todo esto era solo un subterfugio de un prisionero desesperado por escapar a su torturador. Era yo el chileno.

A story told me by Rudy Morales. Illustrated and animated in Flash by Manuel Valencia.

Jimmy's grand house

As the holiday season arrived this year, I was sure that after being a good boy, I would get all the presents that I had on my list, was thinking Jimmy while looking out his home window watching some kids playing in the park across the road.

His beautiful home was by now decorated for the festivities, as he had come to expect and relish in year’s passed. The decorations were in place, the large evergreen in the center of the great hall trimmed and ready for the arrival of Father Christmas.

Jimmy would play often in the park across the road from his house, meeting other kids and playing with them. Sometimes he would play with the boy of the chestnut vendor, a large and jolly woman. Pete was about his age and had only one toy, a rough block of wood with what seemed four wheels making it some sort of vehicle. Jimmy always brought one his many shinny toys with him.

The park

Pete would play with his only toy, and in Jimmy’s the eyes, Pete’s toy would do things that none of his toys would. Pete’s toy was strong, would go fast, and over any type of obstacles, it would even fly and go over and under water. Jimmy wanted to play with Pete’s toy.

He decided to ask Pete if he would like to trade his rough toy for Jimmy’s shinny toy, so he asked him. Pete was surprised, the exchange did not seem fair, and he looked perplexed. Jimmy assured him that his parents would not disagree with the transaction, and that if it were agreeable with him, they would trade. Pete, thought a little about it, and decided to make the trade, after all he was getting a shinny toy, something he had never had. Pete stretched out his arm and offered his toy to Jimmy, exchanging toys.

Pete's magical toy

Pete was so excited; he excused himself and went to tell his mother. After hearing the fantastic story, Pete’s mother thought that she should confirm the agreement with Jimmy, and so she did.

Getting the magic

Jimmy, excited to no end, proceeded to put the toy to test, trying to replicate how it was able to perform under Pete’s commands. After a while, he was able to replicate the maneuvers that he his own toys delivered, but sadly not the ones that this toy performed for Pete.

Jimmy had thought that the toy was enchanted with magical powers, and that by obtaining it, he would enjoy its magic, but soon he realized that this was not so. That the magic he thought came not from the toy itself, but from Pete.

Jimmy realized that appearances can be deceiving, and that happiness is within us and not around us.

Flying to Paris

One of the longest trips ever!

Trying once again to outdo each other with horror travel stories at a gathering with friends, one trip that I took a couple of years ago became the one for me to share. I had almost forgotten it altogether. I was to meet my wife in Paris after she had spent two weeks in Israel for work. We had decided to take ten days to visit France.

La Corne d'Or. Nice, Villefranche sur Mer, Monaco.

We were almost newlyweds, each bringing our own dowry to the house that we had just purchased. As with most people that do not travel much, we were a bit thin in the luggage department. In view of our deficiency in this area, before her departure, we agreed that we needed to buy a practical and ideally smart looking new bag, to supplement the only two bags in our procession that she was to take on her business trip. She was taking only work clothes with her, so it rested with me to bring along her clothes for our tour de France.

We agreed to purchase a bag not to exceed $120. I began doing some research, focusing on quality, price, material, weight, etc. Ultimately selecting a medium sized hard bag with locking devices. It only exceeded the allocated budget by a bit.

Villefranche sur Mer

The day before my departure for Paris, I neatly packet my wife’s touring clothes along with mine in our new bag and went to sleep early, knowing very well that the following day would be a long one.

I woke up, got into housework clothes, had breakfast, and finished all the tasks before leaving our house. I placed all the outstanding toiletries in my travel bag, put it into the luggage, and used the provided keys to lock it. I then showered, did not shave and got dressed with the clothes that I had chosen for the overnight trip to Paris. The shuttle vehicle that I had engaged a couple of days earlier drove up the driveway at the previously agreed time. I proceeded to take my new bag to the entrance of my house, then locked the entrance door and got into the van.

I always get excited when I travel, it may be because since I was a child I would love to go the airport. Airports were magical places where people from foreign lands would converge for a brief moment and soon be on their way to even more exotic destinations. When I was a child, only the very fortunate could fly. People would actually dress up to travel on those noisy tin cans. I remember seeing some of my more economically gifted relatives go to the airport, wearing long woolen coats and hats, as if they were going to a night at the opera. Any excuse we had to go to the airport to greet or wish a von voyage was welcome to me. As a child I dreamed of visiting foreign lands, of dressing in fine clothes and becoming one of those select world travelers. Now, I realize that it was a mixture of a desire to visit unknown lands and a bit of snobbishness.

Les Alpes

I was wearing blue jeans, very comfortable shoes, not tennis shoes, since at that time, tennis shoes were a sure giveaway that you were an American tourist, and I did not want to appear as one. I had learned that Europeans usually dress more elegantly than Americans, and I did not want to stick out. I was wearing a long sleeve blue and white striped loose tee shirt, since I was to spend at least seven hours in coach on an overnight flight. When I arrived at the airport, I went through the check in process without any problems, passed through what today’s standards could be considered very minimal security, and got to the departure gate.

As an amateur observer of people, I located a seat in the departure area with the greatest vantage point to observe the comings and goings of everyone I could see. I like to look at physiognomy, clothing, body language, posture, etc. and create personas, and believable stories to fit them. Scanning the surrounding area, I found many subjects for my entertainment, although one stood out more than others. He was a tall and slender white man of between 35 to 55 years of age, with unkept hair and beard. He wore blue jeans, a wrinkled shirt, overused tennis shoes and had a small worn bag with him. My first impression was that he seemed like a homeless person. I studied him for a while, and concluded that he was without a doubt the oddest individual there. By where he was seated, I could assume that he was going to be on my flight to Paris.

Provence

I began formulating a theory for the possible reasons for his trip. Maybe he was an eccentric wealthy person that did not care about his appearance, and he was going to Paris, to then travel to a large mansion in the countryside, were he was going to spend the summer in luxury. Possibly, he was very poor and was traveling to France to receive an inheritance that would set him on easy street for the rest of his life. Perhaps, he was mentally ill, still not dangerous to society, and had always wanted to visit where Vincent Van Gogh cut off his ear. Or even better, he was a terrorist that was going to sacrifice himself in the name of some holy cause, and I was going to become one more casualty in this never-ending holy war. Why me, I don’t even believe in these things. I started worrying and giving more weight to my last theory.

Companie Generale Transatlantique

I was engrossed in the possible life and times of the disheveled man, and noticed that I had spent sometime with him and had neglected the rest of the passengers. I put him aside and began re-scanning the area, and noticed that aside from him, I was probably the closest person in appearance to him, since I was unshaven and wearing very casual clothes. I started to get a bit uncomfortable with the idea that we could be seen as associates. The paranoia began distilling its bitter juices.

Soon came the awaited announcement to board our vessel. As usual with the era of my trip, further instructions were shouted with the usual blurring of speech that only very seasoned travelers understand. Of course the nervous, eager ones, as well as all paranoids jumped to their feet and stampeded to the gate, without having been properly invited into the flying vehicle. I always relish this moment, since it allows me to make additional determinations about my fellow travelers. I know and I suppose that everyone knows that the vessel is loaded according to ever changing and utterly confusing rules. All VIPs of course can load at their leisure. The question comes when dealing with the uncontrolled masses that will have to loaded as if cattle to the slaughterhouse.

Le Mont Saint Michel

This subject is without a doubt a favorite of mine. I contend that waiting until the last sensible moment to board is advisable for the various reasons. Having not to stand in yet another line. Having not to elbow the overweight foreign lady with two unwieldy young children carrying not only her purse but also an array of large and small bags. Having to be comfortably seated and buckled in your assigned, and having to assist the same lady to place the aforementioned array of bags in the overhead compartment.

By boarding when there is no line you have some benefits. Similarly to arriving late to any party, you get everyone’s attention, with possible assumptions of self-importance. You also get to scope out the placement of passengers, and avoid potentially menacing characters, such as snoring individuals, wide body persons impeding access or exit from inside seats, and not to discount misbehaving toddlers and crying infants. By entering later you can also assess the remaining empty seats to be able to capture an empty row to stretch out and sleep during the long sojourn.

Paris-Lyon-Mediterranee

So I waited until there was no line, even though my seat section has been already invited to board. As I entered our transatlantic vessel I was directed by one of the still then courteous flight attendant to use the left side corridor for faster access to my seat. I walked down the long corridor, not without encountering the slow passenger arranging their belongings on the overhead compartment, with no regard to how with their massive body they block the only passageway for me to use to reach my seat. After clearing several of these obstacles, I was getting close to my seat, by way of the efficient numbering system.

All of a sudden I see the disheveled man on a window seat, imagine my surprise, I was seated next to him on a two-seat row. I tried to contain my horror, based on all my theories about him. I proceeded to place my small bag on the closest overhead compartment. I prefer and whenever possible only to carry as small bag that I can either hang on my shoulder since I am a believer in traveling light and do not like to have anything in my hands when walking.

Toulon

I proceeded to sit down and buckle up; I figure that if I am going to be seated I should also remain safely bucked up. I took a moment to collect my thoughts and plan my strategy to deal with the mysterious man next to me. I thought, I will order a stiff drink, relax and see what develops. Knowing a bit about human nature not by any academic study but by personal observation, I figured that like most mortals, given our proximity and the absence of any other person closer, that he would strike up a conversation, specially since were going to spend the night together.

Aix

The flight attendant now not as chipper as earlier, came by handing out a little bag of salty treats, and asking if we would care for a drink, since I was closer to her, I deferred to my seat companion to order first. He ordered a beer, my first real clue, he was an American, it was the accent, and the fact that it was cocktail hour and he ordered beer. I ordered a scotch whiskey. Alcoholic drinks were still free, dating this trip sometime during the last millennium.

I opened the tiny treats bag and begun consuming its contents. Being a patient man, I know that there was plenty of time before sleeping to start conversing. During this time, we were informed about the many safety measures of the aircraft. Only if you have never been on a flight before, this may of interest. But if it is your first time, it would be hard to take in so much information on top of having so many distractions, such as all the buttons on your armrest, the load of marketing material on the back of the seat in front of you, including the empty paper bag neatly folder without any labeling instructions.

Water landing?

I make a point to listen to bits and pieces of the public address system message, to see how the message has changed with the years. My favorite part is when they mention that “in the event of a water landing…” wait a minute, by definition a landing is on land, unless they have come up with landing strips made of water. This vehicle is not equipped with any water landing gear anyway, so why even mention it. After all I want to go to Paris, not the English Channel or even worst the North Sea, my ticket says so explicitly.

Always after this part I start dreaming or imagining what my slim chances would be of survival in case of the aforementioned water landing. I figured, and this I have proved by personal experience, that if I fall on hard ground, such as practically all ground, the damage to my body would be greater than falling on water. I have experienced both.

Since I am in the middle to the rear part of the vessel where the cattle is stored, my chances would be better than the VIPs in front. I have deduced this by my keen observation on the useful and sometimes terrifying “Safety Instructions Card”. The diagram of the possible “Water Landing” shows a generic icon of an airplane on a nose dive towards what seems peaceful rippling water, no landing gear is shown deployed. Therefore no landing is to be had. The real picture is too horrifying to even ponder, but if I was to survive the initial first impact, thanks to my secure waist belt, and be spared by all initial wave of flying objects such as luggage, shoes, meal carts. I would then only have to duck all VIP section debris moving backwards at almost the speed of light accompanied by the rushing water of whatever body of water we happen to have just “Landed” on.

After recovering from this short and unpleasant initial shock, I would have to locate a “Safety Instructions Card” to figure out what to do next since I did not really pay attention to the public address. In desperation, seeing floating around me a myriad of recognizable and unrecognizable items, I would release my seat, remembering something about “Guiding Lights” that would direct me to the nearest exit. I would reasonably disregard that instruction in view that the nearest exit has just providentially materialized by a large break in the cabin located just above my head. My decision to use this exit would also be precipitated by the fact that the cabin in front and behind me would be rapidly sinking into the very dark and of yet unidentified body of water. This horrific experience would resemble most horror films happening at night confirmed by being suddenly woken up in the middle of an otherwise routine overnight transatlantic flight gone bad, as well as, seeing an incredibly gorgeous starry night.

I get myself free from my seat and feel buoyant in the cold water, by now I have my “Life Jacket” securely attached to my torso, I have not given in to pulling the handle that supposedly inflates the “Jacket” as per instructions. The “Light Beacon” attached to the top of one side of the “Jacket” has not yet started flashing even though water has already made ample contact with it. The “Safety Instructions Card” did not specified when or how it would light up, perhaps it needs to submerged for as long as 5 minutes before kicking in, I cannot hold my breath that long!

Enough, I said to myself as I opened my eyes when the lukewarm flight attendant handed me my second tiny bottle of scotch whiskey. Back to my companion, he was reading a magazine not provided by the airline. Contact was still to be made. I had taken some time to let my imagination run wild with the “Unlikely Event of a Water Landing”. Not more than ten minutes had elapsed. The plastic cup for my drink held only held ice covered with a thin film of the Scottish medicinal brew. I drank it, enjoying its smooth taste, and poured half of the contents of the second bottle, so not to dilute the first with the ice.

I could no further restrain my curiosity, and decided to find a way for me to engage my flight companion. Finding not an awkward moment, I casually turned towards him and asked, “Where are you going”. He replied, “to Germany, to be exact to Bonn”, “and you” he asked, I responded to Paris. I continued to keep the conversation going “I am meeting my wife in Paris, she will arrive tomorrow from Israel” I thought he would find this intriguing, maybe the stuff of spy novels. I wanted to divulge more information to extend him an opportunity for dialogue. He said that he was traveling to present a paper at a conference. I asked, are you a scientist? No, he responded, I am a professor.

Now things started to fall into place, of course, how did I not see it, a professor of some field of liberal arts stuck in some sixties time warp, it fitted very well. I asked, what field do you teach? He said English literature; it made sense, an intellectual. I asked, where are you coming from? I live in DC, he said. I was surprised since he seemed somewhat out of place in the very conservative and more formal DC that I knew.

I also live in the DC area, I said. Where about? He asked. I live in Bethesda, and you? I asked, in Silver Spring, but I am not originally from here. I said, nor I, I was born in Lima Peru. He said I am from Brooklyn. So we continued exchanging information. We got to more personal data, he told me that he was Jewish, and that his parents were heavily involved with the communist party back in the forties, that he remembered how they spoke of being spied on by Hoover and the FBI. It was a fascinating story; he seemed to be proud of his parents’ political involvement. Dinner arrived and we continued chatting.

Later came the movie, the lights dimmed, people got as comfortable as possible, and I started to think of how my day was going to be in Paris while I waited for the arrival of my wife. I went through a series of events, disembarkation into Charles de Gaulle airport, presenting the passport to the appropriate authorities, proceeding through customs and possibly having to open my bag for inspection. Removing the keys to our new bag from the back pocket of my blue yeans.

Luggage key

To confirm the location of the keys to the new bag, I passed my right hand trying to feel for the keys on my right back pocket, nothing there. I stuck my hand all the way in the right pocket, to find it empty. Quickly, I switched hands, stuck my left hand into my back left pocket, thinking that maybe it was a simple error of right or left pocket. When my hand reached the bottom of the pocket my blood pressure began to raise, the sign was a throbbing sound in my right ear.

I searched both my front pockets unsuccessfully, now my worst nightmare was beginning to come true. I jumped to my feet, opened the overhead compartment to search for the missing key in my carrying bag. I brought it down, sat down, searched everywhere without any success. A cold sweat coated my skin. I began imagining a best outcome scenario at my arrival at the Paris airport. If I did not get asked to open my bag, I could take it to a locksmith and have it opened before my wife’s arrival. I had 24 hours before her arrival to sort out my miserable predicament. I would not have to tell her that I forgot the key at home, and ensure her wrath. I could possibly come out unscathed.

Les gendarmes

But, what if I was asked to open my bag? This worst case scenario was very dark. I would have to explain in my broken French that I had left the keys at, being the good person that I am, they would immediately believe me. At the time, France had been plagued by a series of terrorist acts, bombings specially. The authorities had deployed a massive force of very menacing black uniformed policemen with automatic weapons throughout city. It was somewhat scary. They may suspect me of having a bomb in my bag, they could throw me to the ground and guns blazing, drag everyone out and bring the bomb squad, remove my bag to a secured location and blow it up with all our belongings in it. How could I then explain this to my wife, this would definitely precipitate her usual wrath. My head was spinning, almost to the point of fainting.

But why was I so worried, to the point of loosing consciousness? Let me explain, my wife is somewhat of a perfectionist, type A. She not only is extremely demanding of herself, which I find at times even hazardous to her health, but as I have learned during my years with her, very demanding of everyone, period. Now, I emphasize it with the word period, because it is her favorite means of ending any discussion, of course at a point to her advantage, not allowing any rebuttal. This singular trait was not there, I did not see it, or was not revealed in the early stages of our relationship. Like most people she only put her best face forward, so did I.

Putting my head between my legs to try to bring back some blood to my scattered brain and recover enough to survive the rest of my trip until meeting my final fortune, I considered my companion. I thought that if I disembarked with him, my presence would be potentially more noticeable, since he and I shared elements in our appearance. I had to find a way to extricate myself from his company, then possibly my chances of not being picked for bag search may decrease. So I started thinking of how to do it.

I also remembered that a friend of ours was living in Paris, thankfully I had her phone number with me. If my bag was not destroyed in the blast, I would call her and ask her if she knew of where to take it to get it opened without even a scratch. Knowing full well that my wife would most likely inspect the bag after its maiden voyage, for sturdiness, structural integrity, locking devices functions, and probably many others that I did not even want to think about at this particular moment.

I formulated a plan to rid myself of the disheveled man. I was going to remain in my seat and let my companion and everyone else in the rows next to me disembarks before me. I would use some idiotic excuse, such as not feeling well, or that my feet did not fit back in my shoes after the long trip, or that I was going to go to the bathroom before getting off the plane. This would also allow me to collect my bag immediately, since it would most likely be going around on the conveyor belt, and try to casually walk after the officials had had their full with most of the passengers on the plane.

I began questioning the second part of my strategy. When I was in high school I found that by seating in the back of the classroom, I was most likely to be caught or blamed for misbehaving. It never failed that when something happened, most teachers looked to the students in the back. I guess that most students felt that being in the back of the room would be shielded by the rest of the students in front of them. I decided to sit in the first row, right in front of the teacher, and take my chances there. It was amazing what I got away with, specially when I whistled without puckering my lips. Inevitably the guys in the back got blamed for it. I suspect this is how camouflage works.

I decided to leave the plane as soon as possible, vetoing my earlier strategy. This is my usual method, I am a fast walker, and I can pass some of the passengers on my way to the first encounter with the local authorities. Achieving this goal, is made possible by the interminable series of corridors, stairs and general obstacles to be found at most international arrivals. I went through the immigration checkpoint without any trouble; I am a holder of a passport from a developed nation. I reached the luggage retrieval location, and noticed that I was the first one there; I must have run in my desperation, I was hoping that this did not arise any suspicion.

There was the chime and the light indicating that the conveyor belt was going to start turning. The first bag appeared, the second and so on. Mine was not yet out. My bag was brand new, of that dark plastic color of all bags of their kind. I could easily single it out, since we had spent more than usual to get it, making it less common. It was also medium sized, not the usual size, I thought. There it appeared, when I went to pull it from the belt, and saw that it had scratches that were not in keeping with its age or use, I realized that it was not mine. I released it, and thought what a coincidence, someone else has the same taste as us. I kept my eye on it to see who would retrieve it. It was a smartly dressed, European businessman. I knew this by his clothes.

He walked away, rolling his bag, the same way I would do with mine. All of a sudden it occurred to me that if by any chance there were other bags like mine on the flight, maybe the passengers would have locked them, in which case they would have the keys to open them. I could spot them, and ask them if they could let me try to use their key to see if it would work on my bag. This theory is based not on any scientific knowledge, but on observation. It seems difficult for me to believe that the small keys and or locks that come with inexpensive to moderately priced luggage could be as unique as say a house key. It is preposterous that if you by a .79-cent lock you probably are actually getting a .39-cent lock with an .11-cent key.

With this new tack, I decided to put my theory to work. My bag appeared, I pulled off the conveyor belt, and stood as if waiting for another bag, hoping not to arise any undue suspicion as to my delay. This allowed be to focus on the remaining bags. I saw two of the same bags appear in sequence, waited until they were retrieved. They belonged to a very smartly dressed, well preserved and good looking middle aged American woman traveling with what appeared to be her teenage daughter. I knew this not because of the mother but because of the daughter; she was dressed like an upscale yet typical private school teen girl.

I approached them and with as much charm as I could muster at that early hour of the morning, asked, “Are these your bags” mom responded, “Yes they are” I said, “I have an identical bags as yours, and I locked them leaving the keys behind in DC”. I did not want to appear anymore the fool that I was by divulging any unnecessary and embarrassing information. My plea needed to touch them to make the time to address my request. I continued, “Maybe you have locked your bags, and you have the keys, and I could try to see if they would open my bag” She looked at me perplexed, thinking possibly, that this had been the best pick up line she had ever heard. It took her a little while to react, suddenly, she said, “I do not lock my bags… but I may have the keys with me” I thought, my line really works, even on this beautiful and affluent middle age women. She could have stopped at “I do not lock my bags” but she was being nice even after the long sojourn.

She put her well-manicured and jeweled hand into her Louis Vouitton bag, and produced an adorned key chain with at least 23 keys of all sizes. She said, “It may be one of these” and handed it to me. I was surprised with her openness. I later thought that we where in a controlled area and that I could not have been a scam artist in search of an easy prey, or was I? I quickly scanned the keys and found small ones that resembled the one for my bag. Her daughter got involved, she came forward and said, “I think I know what they look like” She was also being a Good Samaritan. I said to her “I think these are them” to keep them involved in my misery. I bent down and tried both keys on both locks of my bags unsuccessfully. I almost dropped to the floor, not only my lock and key theory had been shot down, but the impending encounter with the bomb squad seemed more imminent. I recovered as well as expected, and extended my hand to return the keys. She seemed genuinely disappointed, sensing that I had touched her maternal instinct. I needed my mother to come to my rescue in my hour of need. I thanked her, and saw them walk away with a mixture of abandonment and manly desire for the woman that had responded to me in a variety of ways.

I had to pull myself together, during this exchange, several other passengers and more importantly several bags had passed by me undetected. I pulled my bag again toward the bag dispenser, and waited for my next subjects. Not more than two minutes elapsed, when I saw another bag like mine. A stout elderly gentleman from the Indian subcontinent took it, he was accompanied by what appeared to be his wife, they where at the far side on the bag dispenser. I took my bag and approached them with a smile. By now I knew that I had touched mom with the puppy in need line, it had worked. I decided to use the same approach with the wife. She was a bit heavy, had an erect posture and was elegantly dressed; she had a kind face, like the face of a favorite aunt. He was wearing a suit and tie. These were the travelers of my early childhood.

I used the same line on the wife; she responded with even more openness than the gorgeous woman, with a more mature motherly feeling. But before she could say a word, her already sweaty husband that had been collecting their luggage, said “She doesn’t let me lock the bags because I can never find the keys”. I felt relieved, I had found a twin soul, this man had a wife just like mine. Would I look like him if I was unfortunate to reach his age? I guess I was fooled by her gentle appearance. He said “I don’t even carry the keys with me”. I understood very well his meaning, he did not dare even carry the keys, in the unfortunate event that he would without malice lock the bags, then misplace the keys and incur the wrath of the one to be obeyed. He was a wiser man than I.

I recalled why my bags were lock in the first place. During our search for the perfect bag, locks had always been a requisite to my wife. I suppose that her traveling experience has shown the necessity for them. She travels to third world countries where things sometimes disappear, and good locks are an everyday necessity. I thanked the Indians, and they began walking away, she was in front with only her small purse hanging from her right arm, he was pushing a luggage cart topped with bags, and had a large bag strapped across one shoulder.

By now my chances I thought had become very slim, most passengers had collected their bags. While watching the Indians disappear through a sliding door, I noticed on the side a bunch of bags and a couple of luggage handling French employees. One of which, motion to me to come closer, I did, he asked if I had any problem with my bags. It seemed that their job was to make sure bags were pick up, and that unclaimed bags were taken care of. I approach him and said in English “I have forgotten my keys, my bags are locked”. He did not fully understand, but his colleague did. He came forward; looked at my bag closely and said with a French accent something that sounded like “Wait here”.

He turned around, got into a freight elevator behind him and disappeared. His tone was very French, if you know what I mean. I did not know what to expect. I waited about five minutes, during this time I thought that he was going to rat me out to the menacing black uniformed gendarmes with automatic weapons. The elevator doors would open, they would storm out, pull my bag, blow it up with OUR things in it, not to ever recover them. I would be detained as a possible terrorist, questioned for two days, would not be able to meet my wife at the airport, she would kill me!

The elevator door opened, the same employee appeared, approaching me, stretching his arm inserted a key and turned it opening the lock. I almost had a bowel movement. He the handed over the key to me. I unlocked the second lock, then looked at him. With eternal thanks, I said “Merci beaucoup”. He actually spoke some English. He said “Take it” I said “Really… thank you”. He said in his broken English “we have master keys for most of the better luggage brands” Our purchase had been finally validated by a very helpful French luggage handler.

Bon voyage!

Le Voyage de Paris

Colegio Santa Margarita, clase de 4to de primaria. 1962.

Ya que los días pasan las horas se acortan, los minutos vuelan, y las expectativas crecen por la reunión con ustedes, que si no mal recuerdo, es posible no haberles visto por una cifra de 48 añitos, otros algunos menos, como solo 41, por que yo no termine el colegio con ustedes, que perro.

Tengo algunas preguntitas, que espero entiendan dado el largo tiempo transcurrido.

Prueba de que estuve en el SM. Yellow House y Prefect. 1967.

1. Tomada de pelo. No me estarán tomando el pelo, haciéndome viajar a Lima y después me harán el hielo y no se presentaran. Este tipo de temores los vengo desarrollando estos largos años y son difíciles de controlar, como una criatura que cuando chica es dócil y maleable, mas cuando grande se convierte en un monstro de nuestra creación.

2. Hora de llegada. La hora de llegada al almuerzo, es hora peruana? hora inglesa? del meridiano de Greenwich? No quisiera ser el único pavo, parado esperando hora y media al siguiente pavo. Tampoco quisiera llegar tarde porque no me gusta tanta atención, eso que lo hagan otros/as.

3. Vestimenta. Se podrá usar prendas flojas de materiales nobles que respiren y que faciliten la larga sentada (no da para estar parado), el sobre consumo de alimentos, acompañados de las innumerables bebidas alcohólicas. Dejaremos las prendas de moda apretadas de materiales sintéticos, brillantes, stretch que revelan los bellos y no tan bellos cuerpos que están de moda para por seguro el segundo grupo, a menos que el Doctor Bisturí haya sido consultado. Estaremos vestidos de acuerdo a nuestra elevada edad, no?

4. Alimentos. Me imagino que habrá en el menú, porciones geriátricas y alimentos fáciles de ingerir y digerir. Porciones como para niños serian bienvenidas. Me imagino que no seré el único que este rogando por un poco de atención en esta área.

5. Bebidas. Me imagino que un surtido de infusiones, agüitas aromáticas y digestivas serán consumidas por los casi septuagenarios comensales. Un anís del mono o Najar characato, como digestivo seria muy bueno.

6. Música. A estas alturas del partido, me imagino que ustedes allá en el hemisferio sur, sufrirán los mismos achaques que nosotros que habitamos el del norte, me refiero exclusivamente aquí a la perdida del oído. Mi mujer dice que estoy sordo, que nunca la escucho y que no recuerdo lo que me dice, no se si es sordera, Al’s Jaimer o demasiados años de cansado (corrección casado). Recuerdo (por supuesto algo no dicho por mi mujer) que estas veladas son “dansant”. Quiero de ya advertirles que además de los 40 años pasados en Gringolandia, donde el baile es una mariconada para los hombres, sin tener algo contra ellos, algunos de mis mejores amigos lo son, que ya las rodillas, sin mencionar otras partes del cuerpo que eran imprescindibles para el baila, dejan mucho que desear. Agreguémosle, que nunca aprendí, y que después del implante de cabeza de fémur, se me dificulta un poquito el merengue, pero el grind no me deja adolorida, sino que creo tiene cualidades terapéuticas y no me sale tan mal. Me imagino que alguien se encargara de llevar esos dispositivos juveniles que dicen se conectan a los pick-ups y como milagrosamente, se puede escuchar la música que solo momentos antes estaba en una computadora. Que inventaran en el futuro!

7. Estadía. Sabrán que ya no soy tan joven y por consiguiente, no puedo permanecer largo tiempo sentado, o parado, o doblado, o echado, en pocas palabras díganme cuanto tiempo toma este asunto. Quizá me escapo, tomo una siestecita y regreso, esperando que los octogenarios no lo noten. Recuérdenme por favor de tomar mi Valium, Prozac, Solof, vitamina compuesta, y especialmente viagra, que he descubierto que me libera de flujo sanguíneo al cerebro, por consiguiente no escucho bien y no me acuerdo de nada. Favor no decir a mi mujer.

8. After hours 1. Se me ocurre que un grupo reducido de foragiditos (sin insultar, ustedes saben bien quienes son, y yo también), creyéndose jovencitos, harán planes para continuarla. Estas actividades pueden ser muy dañinas para la salud. Se me puede despegar el peluquín, correr el maquillaje, soltar la faja, menguar el efecto de la Viagra. Mujer dice que solo si alguien se hace cargo de mi, por que ella ya no lo hace, que firme un poder para evitar cualquier conflicto domestico. Así que pido voluntarias/os que se ocupen del hijo prodigo y que se aseguren no lo vayan a robar, engañar, o dios nos libre meterle un polvito.

9. After hours 2. Esto ya es mas serio. Si me uno al grupito de forajas, y me llevan consigo, debo saberlo ahora que estoy menos ebrio, que preparativos serán necesarios. Tengo que llevar cepillo de dientes, una muda de ropa, Listerine, pistola, preservativos, corrección preservantes de lentes de contacto, harto dinero, el pañal para dormir y en general tener los papeles en orden por la eventualidad de perderse y nunca mas reintegrarse a la sociedad.

Como verán estas solo son una pocas preguntitas que hace el serrano que vuelve después de varias decenas de anos, y que muestran su preocupación de causar una buena impresión asegurándose de no causar ningún mal tiempo o sinsabor a las queridas chicas ex alumnas del Colegio, que gracias a los avances de la ciencia podre volver a ver.

Esperando sus gentiles respuestas, su amigo infantil o infantil amigo, ya no recuerdo… Rosa!

Manoli Valencia

Algunas escenas del las reuniones maratonales del fin de semana del 4 al 6 de setiembre, 2009.

Lima antigua

Sábado 17 de Junio 2005, 9:33 a.m.

La aventura empezó mal, el muy tempranamente contratado transporte al aeropuerto falló. A ultimo momento conseguimos un taxi. Mi vida peligraba, después de recibir los usuales azotes por mi irresponsabilidad, enrumbamos al aeropuerto. Que alivio.

1:15 p.m.

Salimos a Miami, durante el vuelo nos anuncian que una fuerte tormenta dificulta el aterrizaje y que sobre volaremos hasta conseguirlo. Horas después tuvimos que volar a Orlando para recargar combustible. Salimos nuevamente hacia Miami, llegando solo para esperar dos horas mas en la pista de aterrizaje para desembarcar.

8:47 p.m.

Un vuelo de dos horas se convirtió en uno de siete horas. No un buen augurio para el resto del viaje. Conseguimos conectar con el vuelo a Lima, gracias a que no entraban ni salían aviones del aeropuerto.

Domingo 18, 1:28 a.m.

Miraflores y el Pacifico

Llegamos a Lima a la una de la mañana en vez de a las diez de la noche, y como premiados por nuestra paciencia y buen comportamiento, la aerolínea que no mencionaré, solo decir que tiene el nombre del continente en el cual vivimos, opto por no transportar nuestras maletas. Al descubrir su ausencia, hicimos la requerida fila para llenar los documentos necesarios para poder recobrarlas. Presentando el pasaporte del extranjero escritor, con el propósito de fueran entregadas a domicilio, adjuntando también las llaves, por si acaso, al pasarlas por aduanas, hubiera que abrirlas.

Nota

Los viajeros naturales del país en mención, tendrián que recoger sus maletas en el aeropuerto. Buen viaje.

2:03 a.m.

Llegamos al departamento que alquilamos, cómodo y bien situado, respiramos más tranquilos. Nos acostamos.

El documento de identidad

4:53 a.m.

Dormía, cuando mi querida esposa me despierta, yo soñando que fuera un llamado pasional, y sin notar el tono temeroso, me informa que habíamos o mejor dicho que ella había olvidado mi pasaporte al salir del aeropuerto. Recordarán que entregamos mi pasaporte para sacar una copia para la entrega del equipaje. Pues nos salimos del aeropuerto sin él. Casi se me afloja el estómago, me levanté, después de la usual larga aplicación de culpabilidad, decidí llamar a la aerolínea sin conseguir por supuesto respuesta.

5:25 a.m.

Me vestí, salí y pare un taxi para ir al aeropuerto, a ver si podía recobrar el preciado documento de identidad. Durante la travesía, como es de costumbre, mi imaginación me ofreció varios escenarios, el mejor o peor dependiendo como se mire, era que mi pasaporte había sido vendido por algún representante criminal de esa aerolínea, y ya, a esa temprana hora de la madrugada la foto de un miembro de Al-Queda reemplazaba la mía, y el documento junto con el terrorista se encontraban cómodamente sentados en el asiento 13A del vuelo AA918 de las 7:00 a.m. camino a los EEUU.

5:57 a.m.

Llego al aeropuerto, intento entrar el edificio, me piden mi pasaporte, explico, enseño otro documento, ingreso, me presento al mostrador de la aerolínea y como de costumbre Einstein, No se señor, déjeme ver. El individuo se aleja, habla con otro, por mi izquierda se acerca otro empleado, me dice que me reconoce por mi foto en el pasaporte. Yo pensando, éstos deben haberse muerto de risa viendo el pasaporte del Gringo idiota que lo dejó.

6:08 a.m.

El gentil oficial me lleva a la oficina y me entrega el pasaporte. Ahora, las maletas, el siguiente vuelo había llegado, pedí que me hicieran pasar a la zona restringida para ver si habían llegado. Lo conseguí, creo gracias a la pena que les di por mi condición de retardado mental. Estaban ahí, las subí sobre un carrito y me di cuenta que me faltaban las llaves del equipaje. Aquellas estaban con los documentos dejados más temprano. Con esta preocupación enfrente a la oficial de aduanas, quise obtener una excepción contándole mi dolorosa historia, y evitar someterme al azar de la luz roja o verde sin conseguirlo. Apreté el botón, salió verde, que descanso. Fui y retiré las llaves.

6:22 a.m.

Con el pasaporte, equipaje y llaves, salí del edificio y fui acosado por los usuales taxistas, escogí uno, este me pasó a otro, y éste a otro, terminé con uno que tenía cara de hampón. Me subí atrás, empezamos a caminar, le hice parar, y me subí adelante. Mi paranoia o instinto de supervivencia me hizo recordar que era mas fácil contrarrestar un asalto estando al lado del chofer y no atrás.

10:10 a.m.

Cecilia llamó a Rosa Amelia (mi suegra) para coordinar la primera reunión familiar, iríamos a recogerla para ir a almorzar al José Antonio, restaurante criollo de gran reputación y especial longevidad, donde la costumbre es que los restaurantes entren y salgan de moda como los bailes populares, ejemplo la macarena y el venado.

10:30 a.m.

Volvimos a dormir, sin preocupaciones.

1:27 p.m.

Restaurante Jose Antonio

Recogimos a mi suegra y a Dani (cuñado). Después de los usuales abrazos y comentarios sobre nuestra primera parte del viaje, enrumbamos al restaurante. Consumidos los primeros pisco sours, y con la mente ya en neutro, pedimos la comida, que estuvo al agrado de los todos, excepto mi hija, pero eso es cuento aparte. Hubo anticuchos, chicharrón, y otros platillos, alguien pidió un tacu-tacu con salsa de camarones, yo siendo purista en la comida, me pareció extraño mezclar frijoles con arroz y agregarle una salsa de camarones. Todavía no lo entiendo.

3:24 p.m.

Con idea de bajar el chancho, propuse caminar en el centro comercial Jockey Plaza, aceptación general.

3:60 p.m.

Visitamos la tienda Saga-Falabella, mientras mi hija pedía todo lo que veía, esta vez tuve un movimiento peristáltico.

4:11 p.m.

El primer indicio fue un corto pero agudo dolor en la parte izquierda alta del saco estomacal, seguido por un movimiento similar a una burbuja en una manguera, y pasó.

4:17 p.m.

Gran punzada en la parte baja e interna del estomago, seguido por un intenso deseo de ubicar el baño mas cercano, por si las moscas. Me imagino que no es necesario explicar los eventos a seguir.

4:33 p.m.

Recuperado temporalmente del azote del medio visitado, al que mi cuerpo debería soportar las próximas tres semanas, hice mi reingreso en la zona de ventas de la nombrada tienda. Agradeciendo el suministro de impecables servicios higiénicos requeridos para esa tan especifica emergencia. Mis familiares, sin todavía conocer mi suerte, estuvieron agradados de verme, después de mi inesperada y larga ausencia.
Los siguientes días pasaron entre visitas a parientes y restaurantes, nada sorprendente. Algunos requieren mención, no los parientes sino los restaurantes, y otros que quisiera olvidar. En orden decreciente de importancia, Rodrigo, la Trattoria, José Antonio, da Luciana, Titi, Costa Sur, Sonia, Huo Wha, e incontables otros.

Aparte.

Es mi humilde opinión, esto de la globalización, parece ser un fenómeno universal. No solo afecta la moda, el consumerismo, etc. sino también a aquellos individuos, que por razón de puro lucro, homogenizan el producto, y por consiguiente proveen una adulterada y desabrida muestra de lo que era algo especial y autentico. El ejemplo mas patético de este cambio lo veo en la cerveza. Producto hecho con orgullo regional, sino nacional, y exportado como una muestra de riqueza manufacturada. Pues, ahora todas las cervezas, con pocas excepciones, saben a eso que los grandes hermanos del norte llaman Light. Creo que el que me entiende no necesita más explicaciones, y el que no, tampoco.
También mi paladar me hizo notar este fenómeno en la comida. En el esfuerzo fútil de las masas a seguir, ser, oler, caminar, hablar, etc. como los del norte, la comida sabrosa peruana a sufrido lo de la cerveza. Quedan todavía a Dios gracias unas gratas excepciones.

Sabado 25, 7:08 p.m.

Arequipa, la ciudad blanca

Salimos rumbo a Arequipa, cuidad natal de mi padre. Volamos en Lan Peru o Chile, quien sabe. El vuelo a tiempo, el avión nuevo y limpio, que buena sorpresa. A recibirnos, estuvieron mis primas Ursula y Patricia con esposos e hijos.
Nos alojamos en la vieja casona que mi abuelo construyó en el 1931, y que ahora es el Hostal las Mercedes. Ultimo rezago de mi herencia paternal. El dormitorio amplio, cómodo y limpio, con tres camas, yo en una mi esposa e hija en otra.

Cecilia, Blanquita y Jorge

Domingo 26 de Junio, 10:21 a.m.

Al abrir las cortinas y puertas encontramos una mañana luminosa, saliendo notamos que los nativos nos habían engañado. Nos habían dicho que hacia bastante frío, ÁJA! Hacia como 20 grados con un día glorioso, descubrimos que estábamos muy mal equipados por haber traído ropa gruesa. Use la misma camiseta una semana entera.

11:17 a.m.

Plaza de Armas

Caminamos hacia la Plaza de Armas, sentimos la altura un poco, al llegar escuchamos música marcial, y vimos un desfile militar. También vimos unos grupos danzantes autóctonos, se podría decir, recién bajados. Estuvo muy festiva la mañana, le dije a Andrea que este era mi recibimiento oficial por ser hijo de esta la República Independiente de Arequipa, por favor no me vayan a desmentir.

2:07 p.m.

Llegamos invitados a la casa de Adriana y Paulo Hernán, donde los characatos se habían juntado para presentar un frente unido a estos parientes no solo residentes extranjeros, sino tambien aquellos limeñitos mazamorreros.
Pasamos al comedor para saborear uno de los platos mas típicos de la zona, el muy apreciado Adobo, plato el cual ha sido usado por todos los sectores de la extensa clase arequipeña para recobrar el sentido y poder regresar a casa después de una noche larga en sin numero de actividades. Exquisito asopado de guiso de chancho, que debe ser culminado con el licor regional de anís conocido como Nájar. No intentaré describirlo por aquello de evitar cometer error, y ser recipiente de malos deseos, y posible revocación de mis privilegios como characato a prueba, y la posible expropiación de mi tan querido pasaporte arequipeño.
A seguir, algunas caras presentes:

Las chicas: Dina, Ursula, Juliana, Patricia, la tía Portugal, Lucia y Cecilia

Ricardo y Alfredo Lucioni

Paulo me informa que mis otros primos Alfredo y Ricardo, se habían enterado de nuestra llegada, y que estaban en camino para saludarnos. Donde yo resido, esa movida podría costar la amistad.
Llegaron, Ricardo con dos botellas de pisco hecho por el. Uno ya lo había probado, el otro era Mosto Verde no un nombre muy apetitoso, pero dentro de los presentes conocedores, algo que pudiera ser exquisito. Nota, las botellas estaban destinadas para el transporte al extranjero. No se como ni quien abrió mis botellas, para siempre frustrando su transporte, entonces, pensé si no me las llevo en la maleta, me las llevare puestas.

Lunes 27, 10:13 a.m.

Que dolor de cabeza. Uno de los restantes pilares de los Valencia, conocido en algunos lares como el señor de Sipan, en otros como el churrasco (se cree un churro y es un asco), mi primo Jorge nos recogió con su hijo Daniel para visitar su casa, y su estudio donde trabaja en la producción de la película de la historia familiar.

2: 34 p.m.

Andres, Andrea, Mari, Lucho, Cecilia y Javico

Como acordado este día consumiremos grandes cantidades de nutrientes con mi tío Lucho, mi prima Maria Elena, Javico, y Andrés, nos llevaron a un restaurante típico donde comí chicharrón por tercera vez en el viaje, notaran que me gusta el cerdo, pues es muy sabroso. La comida estuvo buena, la compañía mejor.

6:54 p.m.

Los cjoros.

Día largo, ahora solo un tecito donde Patricia y Jon. Los locales nos cuentan que un paro de transportistas estaba en planes para el día siguiente. Gringo que soy, ya me veía atrapado en la cuidad blanca, sin posibilidad de regresar a mi hogar. Paulo se ofreció llevarnos al aeropuerto, siendo uno de los mas conocedores de rutas y recovecos.

Martes 28, 8:17 a.m.

Después el desayuno, hablando con Ursula, me confirma mis peores temores, el paro era una realidad, las vías importantes estaban bloqueadas con piedras, matones rondaban las calles de la cuidad con palos y todo tipo de instrumento para causar el mas grande dolor corporal. Quizás exagero, le pedí que llame a Paulo para intentar la huida lo antes posible, siempre pensando tener suficiente tiempo para poder corregir, negociar, suplicar, sobornar, etc. y llegar al aeropuerto.
Mi mayor preocupación era que Andrea teniendo solo 9 años y no habiendo estado expuesta a esto impases, desarrollé un malsano pavor a la ciudad blanca por razones circunstanciales. Me imagino que los characatos se habrán matado de risa, y ya nos tienen un cuento hasta con apodos.
Paulo aparece con un Volkswagen de los cincuenta, teníamos una maleta que no entraba en la maletera, la carcocha tenia una parilla sobre la tapa del motor trasero, Paulo saco una soguilla y amarro la maleta, la cara de Cecilia fue inolvidable. Salimos camino al aeropuerto, no dos minutos pasan, y noto que se apaga el motor, Paulo se agacha hacia los pedales, y hace algo, se reincorpora, y con la naturalidad que lo caracteriza me dice, este carro no tiene marcador de gasolina, tiene un tanque de reserva que me dura una semana.

Uno como este

Créanme, yo no necesitaba esta información que en el estado anímico en el que me encontraba, era como agregar la gasolina que no teníamos al fuego. No voltié por no ver la cara de Cecilia. Esto se estaba convirtiendo en misión imposible. Con intención de no mostrar mi terror, y para demostrar mi conocimiento automotriz, le pregunté si era un 1300, no me dijo, era un 1200, el motor que nos impulsaba era mas pequeño que el de mi máquina de afeitar. Paulo dijo que conocía varias vías alternativas en caso de necesidad para llegar a la meta deseada. Hicimos turismo de pueblos jóvenes, no encontramos sino mínima resistencia, algunas rocas en el camino, nada mas.
Finalmente después de momentos muy tensos, los cuales parecieron durar horas, llegamos a nuestra meta. Misión cumplida. Cecilia me dijo que ella mantenía un ojo puesto en la maleta que se samaqueaba cada ver que se hacia una brusca maniobra, mi preocupación era que el vehículo se desarmara en transito, y que tuviéramos que hacer el resto de la huida a campo traviesa.

Que imaginación, no?
El novato autor agradece la paciencia o como lo quieran llamar para soportar este escrito.
Déjenme saber si les gustaría recibir mas de estos, quizás me gano el Nóbel.