Tears on a Mountain

Halfway up Mount Urgull, something strange began to happen. I began to cry. I vigorously fought back the tears as I continued my ascent to the top. Once there, I sat down before the tremendous statue of Jesus Christ and contemplated my feelings. The tears came from an unknown location and I was dumbfounded by their appearance. As I turned to enjoy the vista from this mountain, locally hailed as the greatest view in Europe, I felt both the pain and the joy of my salty emanation.

The joy, of course, spawned from the absolute freedom of my experience. Hopping a bus to the beach just like Kerouac or Hemingway and enjoying some tasty pintxos (finger food, or appertizers) in the shadow of a decades old cathedral, walking home in the twilight as the tide brushes against my sandy feet, drifting asleep in a cramped yet historic and surprisingly comfortable  hotel, waking up to fresh croissants and cafe, and taking a morning run to the top of a mountain is the foundation of my dreams. It can be well understood that I would cry at the beauty of this moment.

The pain, however, is much harder to understand. Upon embarking on this journey, I left behind my life. And the longer the journey continues the more I feel myself changing into someone I don't yet understand. I feel that which I was running from when I boarded the massive Boeing aircraft across the Atlantic. I can see the life I left behind with more clarity than ever. I can see how my search for freedom can destroy those I love. I run away. And I keep running. I run to the top of mountains where no one can find me. My pace quickens in the hope that I never have to look back. My affinity for the road over my home leaves me unsettled. I reach the top and offer my pain to the heavens.

Back down the mountain, enlightened by this experience, I spend a vigorous 8 hours in San Sebastian. I jump in the cool water and swim to the dock. I gaze at the coastline in wonder. I swim back and bathe in the hot Spanish sun. I enjoy some lunch then repeat my swimming and sunbathing ritual. The second time I lay on my back in the water with an inability to hear the outside world; at peace in the tremendous ocean, simply floating. After dozing off on the beach with the burn on my back already being felt, I take to the paddle board and catch the first wave of my life. All these firsts fill me with indescribable joy.

I grab my bag from the hotel then to dinner. I meet two Americans who prep me for the festivities that I plan to attend in Pamplona the following weekend. I buy a red bandanna and jar of traditional Basque peppers and nearly miss my bus. The seats on the bus crowded and I contort myself for optimal comfort. I briefly try to keep up with the conversation of two German women in front of me to no avail, I try to read some, but ultimately, I pop in my headphones and drift in and out of consciousness as the bus weaves through the Spanish countryside.

Back in Madrid, I meet up with Alvaro, who's all too ready to take me to the Disco. It's late, 1 AM, but the city is as alive as ever and I'm not quite ready to throw in the towel. We dance all night to mostly American music in various clubs along the road then meander to the metro as it opens at 6:30 AM. Exhausted, I leave a trail of clothes to my bed and am out, blackness.

Eyes open, 15:30, first thoughts are of food and water. I put the dozens of messages aside for the moment and head downstairs. I consume then wash off the vigorous weekend in the shower. Feeling tired, I opt for a light day and Sunday stroll the magnificent garden of Buen de Retiro. And now as I write this blog, I still taste those tears. And I still ponder their various meanings. I have three more weeks for this sort of contemplation with each successive weekend promises more excitement than the previous, though I will never forget San Sebastian.

More later.....