I woke up this morning before dawn to Annette packing. I rolled over to go back to sleep. It seems for the last day, everybody has been packing around me. The elaborate stages and lights of the Tarrega shows disappeared in a matter of hours yesterday evening. And all that was left of the camping village were a few tents and overflowing trash cans.
After an hour or so, Annette took the fly off of the tent. I realized the sun had risen and crawled out. "Sorry to wake you, but I need some pain killers or something. I couldn't sleep and I didn't find any in the first aid kit or your bag."
"OK. Let me take a shower," I mutter. By the time I have showered, Annette has everything packed. She is clearly in pain. It started yesterday and has only gotten worse. It's a pain in the gum behind her rear molar. I find the hydrocodone leftover from my sinus surgery a few months ago and hand her the bottle. She takes one and settles into the passenger seat with a map while I drive.
As we drive Northeast from the plains of Tarrega, we discuss what to do about her mouth. We decide to give it until tomorrow and see if it is feeling better or worse. If worse, we will seek medical attention, perhaps with the consultation of Annette's friend Rosa's aunt, who lives in Bilbao.
While Annette dozes, we skirt the ankles of the Pyrenees. My min and eyes follow her busty bosom. As I gently wind my way up her leg, I marvel at her flat sandstone chest. It is sheer, soft rock, maybe a thousand feet tall. I trace semicircles up her inner thigh as I enter a verdant gorge. Beautiful crystal blue waters gush to my right. It is moist and cool.
Annette wakes for a moment, startling me. "Wow. This is beautiful," she mutters, groggy, returning to her drug-enhanced sleep.
The gorge opens into a flat valley. It is decorated with smooth and soft pines. It is dry and bald in parts. Brown and beige. Pools of water, clearly once much larger, remain from wetter times. I roll across her stomach to find the ruins of past men's hopes and dreams. Centuries ago these were castles. Now they are just crumbling stone walls, faded tattoos of the names of former lovers. I pause for a moment to ponder their escapades and why they chose this or that spot in particular.
As I drive on, I realize these ancient men who built castles were not the only ones seeking to conquer the Pyrenees. There is a gash on her stomach, still open and oozing. Huge trucks grind along, leaving deep tracks, clearing the way for a new highway. In parts, new guardrails shimmer in the sun like staples over wounds of dark black asphalt. On the hillside, windmills stand in perfect alignment like stitches in her skin, piercing a natural ridge line over and over and over again.
I now see the label of the pilgrims. It is a scallop turned sideways. Or it could be the emanating rays of a sideways-shining sun. "Camino de Santiago," it says. It has been a path of pilgrims for a thousand years or more. They have shrines, monasteries, churches and sacred sites from her nose to toes.
It is clear many men have been here before. And many more will come. So I move along more quickly around her side to find the rash of Pamplona, a cluster of low high rises irritating their way out of her skin. I wonder about the acts of courage here, displays of manhood, the bulls. But today it just a rash drying in the sun.
I wind around her backside to find the beiges and browns have given way to patches of rose. The valley curves upwards again to breathtaking vistas - Basque Country. Over the next hour, I wind and slide my way down her rosy backside, past her knees, down to San Sebastian. Here, she dips her beautifully painted toes in the Atlantic Ocean. But in the Old Town of San Sebastian, her feet are sticky, tinged with the scent of day-old spilled beer.
I park, wake Annette. We walk a bit. After some pintxos, paella and a couple of beers, we climb up her big toe - Aiete Palace and Park. Here I sit under a huge Sycamore and meditate and write. I walk among Sequioas wondering if they are imported from California, clearly a first cousin of this country. They are big and old. Meanwhile, Annette finds WiFi at a senior center in the park and catches up with the world. Perhaps some True Blood will help her heal. As I wander through a cave, stalagmites dripping from the ceiling, water trickling over the top, I decide that this is one of the most beautiful urban parks I have ever visited.
Tonight, we will camp along the shores of the Atlantic under a full moon. It is our first time seeing this Ocean since New York.
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