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An excerpt:
‘I left the church and found the gîte, which was located near the
monastery of the church itself. Its large heavy alabaster colored oak
door creaked with age as it opened. The large open space inside was
exceptionally clean and functional with its array of bunks, showers
and a small, but functional kitchen. The small man I had seen at the
tourist office was there rummaging through the cabinets for whatever
items may have been left behind by other pilgrims. There were two
other pilgrims there as well. An older man who identified himself
as Laurent from Brittany, and the other man, Guy, who was slightly
younger, hailed from Paris. You could tell Laurent was a seasoned
hiker just by looking at him for he was well tanned and extremely fit
for his age. His facial features had a Marty Feldman like appearance
as his eyes bulged outward as if he was completely astounded and
surprised by everything that was going on around him. Such as
us! He also had an extremely large handlebar moustache that was
as white as new fallen snow. That, along with his thinning hairline,
gave away an age that was senior. ‘Laurent has probably done these
Caminos many times,’ I thought. He may be a “Caminoman” like Jos
Sollet, the asshole Dutchman I had encountered way back on day one
at the Vézelay Abbey. That seems like a different age to me now even
though it was only a few weeks back. Man, so much has happened
since then. So many people and experiences have crossed my path.
Guy, on the other hand, was tall and lanky, wiry even. Anorexic
would be an apt description of him. He was not athletic, having
a very pale, sickly complexion. Yet that may be how he presented
himself after days of slogging on the trail. Don’t know.
Gil
Suddenly, unexpectedly, the spoken French words. Loud and
animated.
“Sacrebleu, Sacrebleu, Mes amis. Mon Dieu, rien ici. Those madmen
French pilgrim men left nothing…nothing here. Mon Dieu.”
“Qu’est-ce que il y a monsieur. What’s up?”
“You can speak English Canadien. I understand.”
“How did you know I spoke English only?”
He looked at me as if he was a mad dervish and said in a deliberate
fashion. “Because monsieur, your French is very, very bad and…
and…” he paused for effect and pointed at my rucksack. “That is a
Canada flag…no?”
“Ah oui monsieur, so it is. My name is James…or Jim. Jim Morrison.”
Before he could retort with the obvious remark I said. “No, no, no
monsieur. He is dead. I am alive. No relation.”
He raised his eyebrows, tilted his head backward and examined
me. It was a comical pose as I was a good head taller than he was.
Hmmm, he said. “Je m’appelle Gil. Gil Tremblanc, avec un “C” et
non un “K” monsieur Jim “light my fire” Morrison.
He chuckled to himself, and then continued. The others ignored
him, but I had to watch.
“No food here. No lentils, no pasta, damn, Mon Dieu Jim “light
my fire” Morrison, nothing. I need some carbs. Pasta – spaghetti
or macaroni. Carbs monsieur. I need carbs if I am to survive…no
flourish, during this march. You can see I am very thin. I am always
hungry. What’s the odds monsieur? What are the odds of this to
occur? To have nothing here in the fridge…in the cupboards? Let
me think about that.” Mumbling to himself for a few seconds, he
looked up to the ceiling and shook his fist. “You, you, yes you, you
righteous pilgrim gawds are all the same to me. No food, no mercy
for us poor pélerins. What are the odds of this? Five to one, I am
sure of dat. Sacrebleu. Mon Dieu.”’
Buen Camino.