There's this thing we have started to call the Pilgrim Dance. When we get up from sitting down for longer than ten minutes, we all look like we're 100 years old. We clutch at one hip or the other, stumble for the first few steps, and for the next minute or so we walk like we have sticks up our asses. It's what distinguishes pilgrims from locals, as if the sexy hiking pants and crocs weren't enough of a giveaway.
Ahh, dignity. How I miss you.
There's the Pilgrim Dance, hairy legs, sock tan lines, hanging my delicates next to the tighty-whities of an eighty-year-old German guy, shamelessly sticking needles into my toes, singing in the community showers, and ants in my pants. (Oh, I never told that story? Yeah, don't squat to pee in a field without thoroughly stamping the grass down first.) I walk around these cute European towns, browsing boutiques and drinking coffee in beautiful plazas, in THIS:
Look closer:
There's having scrapes on your knees from trying to pick blackberries, getting a bruise from hitting the same doorknob three fucking times within ten minutes, and walking around for hours without noticing your greasy orange chorizo lipliner. There's attempting to flirt with a cute guy and then realizing your entire back is noticeably covered in sweat from your pack. One time at a cafe, I smiled at a cute local guy on my way out the door. I bent to pick up my pack and imagined myself gracefully swinging it onto my back to make a grand exit, but was completely overtaken by the Pilgrim Dance and ended up tripping over my own walking stick and knocking the chair over with my pack. And every day I commit the greatest fashion faux pas of all time:
The funniest part? Apparently in Venezuela, if you wear socks and sandals it means you have diarrhea.
Stay classy, San Diego.
K
Vega de Valcarce, Spain
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