I Left It on the Mountain: A Memoir (24 page)

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that…” But I couldn’t say anything more. I continued to cry as she rubbed my birdless hand.

5/13/09

Today I didn’t trust the service to deliver my backpack after the panic of thinking I had lost it yesterday, so decided to trudge along with it on my back. I did, though, give the foam pad rolled up on it to the priest who had been so kind to try and track down the backpack yesterday. When the pack finally arrived where Ethne had left me in the vestibule, once my tears had ceased I carefully put my socks and boots back on my blistered feet and walked back to the hostel to give the priest the pad as a token of my thanks. His weathered eyes crinkled even more. He surprised me by giving me a hug. I asked someone standing by him what he was saying in Spanish and the woman told me that the priest had been praying for a pad just like the one I had given him, since the one he had been sleeping on for the last year had disappeared the week before and he had been sleeping on the floor in order to give all the beds to the pilgrims who came through his hostel.

I then ate alone last night but said a prayer of thanks before the meal for being part of an answered prayer for someone else.

This morning, as I strapped on my backpack and headed up the steep mountain outside the village, I put k.d. lang on my iPod and let her rendition of “Hallelujah” help me up the steepness of this part of the path. When I got to the top of the mountain the sun was still rising and it was truly a glorious sight. I felt a tap on my shoulder and it was Ethne, who was now with her sister, Mary. Ethne introduced us.

“Hello,” I said, extending my hand.

“Dia is Muire dhuit,”
Mary said to me in Gaelic, and let out a robust laugh that seemed to shake the mountain beneath my feet as she pumped my hand in hers. “I’m the second most famous Mary!” she then exclaimed. The two women could not look more dissimilar. Ethne is but a slip of a woman. Rather serious in her demeanor. This second-most-famous Mary is quite burly. Ethne’s perfectly pointed nose is … well … like I imagine a nightingale’s beak might appear. Mary’s is bulbous. Ethne was wearing her Irish green hiking attire today and she is so petite she looked like a lovely little sprig of ivy. Mary looks like Burl Ives in drag. What a pair. As instantly as I bonded with Ethne in the vestibule of the hotel, I adored her sister’s Burl-y bonhomie.

“What are you listening to on that wee apparatus you’ve got attached to your ears,
me fae
?” Mary, munching on a bun of some sort, asked me.

“k.d. lang singing Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah,’” I told her.

“Got anything better on there?” she asked.

“Do you like gospel music?” I asked her.

“You mean from the American South?” she said, stuffing the rest of the bun in her mouth. “Oh yes. Very much. Yes.”

I put the Mississippi Mass Choir on the iPod singing “When I Rose This Morning” and put one earpiece into Ethne’s ear and the other into Mary’s. Their eyes widened and they began to jig about. I grabbed their hands and we all three there on top of the mountain danced and laughed as the sun lit the sky and scurried the morning’s clouds away.
“Go raibh maith agat,”
said Mary when the gospel was over and she and Ethne handed me back the earpieces.

“Stop the Gaelic, girl,” Ethne told her.

“That there may good at you,” said Mary. “Thank you, Kevin. Did you know back in our county we have a Saint Kevin?”

“I already told the boy,” said Ethne. “Now let him walk.”

Mary laughed her Burl Ives laugh. “Walk along then. We’ll see you later in the next couple of towns that be over.”

*   *   *

I didn’t see Mary and Ethne at first once I got here to this latest little town along the Camino. But I did meet another Irish lady as I was getting a coffee when I arrived at an outside café. She is much younger and hipper than Ethne and Mary and moved to Australia a few years ago. She was at the next table over. I asked if she had met Ethne and Mary along the Camino. “Oh, my word! Those two!” she said, and rolled her eyes. “They were what I moved to Australia to escape.”

I also spotted two beautiful young boys in the distance—one tall and thin with long blond hair and the other shorter and darker. They each had on gym shorts with striped leggings underneath them. I wondered if the boys were friends or lovers. I couldn’t tell. On my way to the hotel to check in I introduced myself—they were from New Zealand and were eating from a shared bag of lentils. They told me they were trying to save money since they were being sponsored to walk the Camino by donations and they were giving the money to charity. Sweet. I’d guess they’re boyfriends but am not sure.

There were only two restaurants close by my hotel, and luckily I ran into Ethne and Mary outside the one where I was reading the posted menu. I asked them to dine with me. Both sisters are in their sixties. Ethne is a retired secretary and married. Mary—no surprise—has never married. She’s a physical therapist. They told me they are from a family of thirteen children and a few months before they began their pilgrimage their favorite brother, Danny, died. He had “fallen alone in his house,” said Mary. Not sure how that kills someone, but I didn’t ask for details, since they are obviously so heartbroken about it. He was a bachelor and no one found him for a few days. They are walking the path in his memory. It was Ethne’s turn to cry now and my turn to reach out and rub her hand a bit. Mary looked down at her menu until her sister’s tears stopped.

“Tell me about your county back in Ireland where I’m a saint,” I said, trying to steer the conversation away from Danny and their grief.

“We grew up in a place called Hollywood, Ireland. It’s in county Wicklow. Only about a hundred of us villagers left there,” said Mary.

“Do you ladies mind if I write about you if I ever do a book about my pilgrimage on the Camino?” I asked.

Mary: “Just don’t write about the size of my arse.”

“But I love seeing your ‘arse’ out in front of me on the Camino in the morn, Miss Mary,” I said, trying to mimic her Irish lilt.

“Oh, now, Kevin, that’s not very saint-like of you. Our Hollywood is known as Killinkeyvin,” said Mary, laughing. “The Irish for it is ‘Cillin Chaoimhin,’ which means ‘little cell of Kevin.’”

“I think the better translation is ‘Kevin’s little church,’” said Ethne.

Mary shrugged her burly shoulders.

“That’s sort of what Hollywood means to me back in America too,” I said. “It’s always been—for better or worse—my church.”

“Do tell now, me boy,” said Mary.

“I’m just joking,” I said. “I interview movie stars for a living, so this is all just part of the Camino speaking to me I guess,” I told them. “I had no idea about any of this. You ladies are like Irish angels put in my path.”

“We’re no angels,” said Ethne.

“Speak for yourself, Sister,” said Mary.

“Well, I’m certainly no saint—far from it. Is there anything else I should know about the saint I’m named for?” I asked them.

“Well, like the Way of Saint James that we’re all on right now,” said Ethne, “there’s a Saint Kevin’s Way back home. Pilgrims walk that path as well—though it’s only about thirty kilometers from Killinkeyvin—sorry, Hollywood—to Glendalough.”

“It’s a nice little hike compared to this backbreaker we’re on here in Spain,” said Mary. “It’s a lovely, lovely way to see Wicklow Mountains National Park. Did Ethne tell you about Saint Kevin drowning the housekeeper in the lake where he liked to bathe?”

“That doesn’t sound too saint like,” I said.

“You must not be Catholic,” said Mary, laughing.

“He’s Protestant,” whispered Ethne, not wanting anyone in the restaurant to overhear such a thing, and reached out to give my hand another sad little sympathetic pat.

“Our Kevin didn’t like the women very much,” said Mary, giving me a knowing look. It was Ethne’s turn now to stare down uncomfortably at her menu. “There’s even a song about Saint Kevin that begins…” She cleared her throat to sing the lyrics: “‘In Glendalough there lived an auld saint, / Renowned for his learning and piety. / His manners were curious and quaint. / And he looked upon girls with disparity.’” She cocked an eyebrow my way. I said nothing. She continued. “So this housekeeper snuck, she did, into his room one night and attempted to ‘polish his crockery,’ as we say. Well, he was so upset he threw her in the lake and held her there till the bubbles of her breath stopped and the surface of the lake returned to its placid state. Some say he was keeping himself pure for God.”

“Well, I’m far from pure and more sissy than saint,” I said.

“Sissy?” asked Ethne.

“Piteog,”
said Mary. “That’s how we say it in Ireland.
Piteog
, Sister. Pity, that,” she said. “Though I have me thoughts about our own Saint Kevin back in Hollywood being called just that.”

Ethne gave my hand another of her pats.

“You haven’t drowned any housekeepers now, have you?” asked Mary, her shoulders not shrugging now but shaking with laughter.

Ethne, laughing too, rolled up her menu and gave her sister a smack.

I laughed along with them.

5/14/09

I made it to Carrión de los Condes—a lovely little town—today where I’m now writing this late at night in my room at this amazing hotel here, San Zoilo. The hotel was once a monastery. Truly beautiful. Ethne and Mary told me last night that they had also booked a room here to give themselves a break from hostel life. My room is beautifully decorated and looks out on the inner courtyard. The hotel is the oldest Romanesque building in Carrión de los Condes. It was built over the remains of a Roman camp and the first evidence of its existence dates back to the year 948. The abbey has kept the relics of Saint Zoilo since 1047. In the Middle Ages it was one of the most important abbeys in Spain. It was also the seat of the court of the kings of Castile and León and served as a meeting place for several councils.

On the Camino today I met Ken—the shorter and darker of the legging-wearing lentil eaters. Adorable. He mentioned Jesus a couple of times. Par for the course when having a conversation with fellow pilgrims along the Camino. I really didn’t think too much of it. He told me his friend Matt, the taller blond one, was up ahead and they were meeting up here in Carrión.

After I checked into the hotel—it’s just outside of the village over a footbridge—I ran into Ethne and Mary walking over the bridge toward the place.

“What’s the hotel like?” asked Ethne.

“It makes me feel like a monk,” I said.

“And what does a monk feel like?” asked Mary.

“Sexually frustrated?” I asked.

“Now you’re sounding like Saint Coemgen,” said Mary, laughing. “You behave there,
me fae
. Behave. Bad boy. Bad!” she called back, laughing as they walked on to the hotel.

*   *   *

My feet have been aching from the boots I’ve been wearing on the walk. They are the same boots I wore to climb Mount Kilimanjaro and I wanted to wear them across the Camino. I’m discovering though that mountain-climbing boots are not the same as hiking shoes. So I stopped in town after seeing Mary and Ethne on the footbridge and bought a pair of shoes better suited to this pilgrimage I’m on. Hope they help my feet. I’ll tie the boots to my backpack. I’ve been carrying it since I can’t find a service on this last stretch of the Camino to haul it for me.

In the grassy square in front of the hostel in the middle of Carrión, I sat on a bench and watched Ken sleeping on the ground a few feet away. Matt came up and sat by me. Did he notice how I was mooning over his friend? He told me they’re both losing weight because of living off the lentils. And they’re even sharing them with other pilgrims on the path. I offered to take them to dinner tonight—which Matt accepted with alacrity. Was I being manipulated? I didn’t mind. I’d love to sit across from two beautiful hippie boys tonight with New Zealand accents. Ken woke up and saw us and we told him of our plans. I then walked with them over to a group of young people who were sitting in front of the hostel and playing instruments and singing. Matt borrowed a guitar and sang—so beautifully—a song I’d never heard before. It’s by a band called Live, he later told me. The song was titled “Overcome” and I felt a bit overcome listening to him singing it.

*   *   *

Dinner tonight with Matt and Ken turned a bit odd. First of all, they were so hungry they licked their plates. I was shocked when they lifted their plates to their faces and licked them clean. They also began to witness to me about Jesus and wanted to know if he were my Lord and Savior. Their fervor was moving to me and yet a bit freaky as well.

I decided to test their empathy and compassion by telling them I was not only gay but also HIV positive. I then told them I was on the Camino to wean myself from recreational drugs for at least a month and to get back in touch with my spirituality that I had allowed organized religion to steal from me because I am a gay man. I could tell it was their turn to become moved and yet a bit freaked out. It didn’t stop them from ordering dessert.

After dinner as we were walking back down the street, Matt asked, “May we pray for you to ask God to heal you from your sickness?”

I wanted to ask if he meant my being gay or my being HIV positive, but I didn’t. I simply said, “I am not sick.” I looked him straight in the eye and said it once more: “I am not sick, Matt.” I then said, “You can pray for me. I don’t believe in telling someone what they can pray about.”

“Let’s go over here then,” said Ken, pointing to a stone bench by the side of the street.

“Wait,” I said. I stopped walking. They stopped. “You can pray for me anywhere,” I told them. “I don’t have to be there when you pray for me.”

My heart began to race.

“But we have to lay our hands upon you for the prayer of healing to be effective,” said Matt.

Now what? Was this their way of thanking me for dinner? Would I be rude if I turned down their offer to lay their hands upon me and pray? Then I thought: If you can’t have someone lay their hands upon you and pray for you on the Camino, then where on earth can you have it done? I looked on it as a test of the Camino itself. These two young men were put in my path. I had been attracted to them physically initially and now the Camino was offering them to me as prayer partners instead. “Okay,” I said, and gave them a shrug. I walked over to the stone bench. I sat between them. They each placed a hand on one of my shoulders and when they did—as if by reflex—my legs shot up in the air. I giggled. My feet plopped back down on the ground, my legs still spread. I began to slink down on the bench beneath their touch. Ken and Matt shut their eyes and earnestly prayed that whatever God considered my illness to be lifted from me. My giggle stopped. My eyes filled with tears. I was honestly moved by the way they phrased such a prayer, the way they left it up to God to decide what to lift from my body and my spirit. I was overcome.