by J. L. White
I raise my eyebrows. So that explains his earlier comment about not being from anywhere.
“Those were the plans you had for your life?” the French woman asks.
Connor shrugs good-naturedly. “I find the world to be a fascinating place, and I want to see as much of it as I can. I can’t think of anything better. I mean, soon I’ll be heading down that road,” he says with a nod of his head in that direction, “and I’ll be seeing something I’ve never seen before. I’m sitting here talking to people I never would’ve met otherwise.”
He picks up his glass, swoops it in a little circle indicating all of us, and smiles a little broader when he gets to me. He raises his glass in a toast. When he takes a drink, the sunlight winks off the rim.
The waitress comes out and deposits my food and wine in front of me. I ignore it at first. I have so many questions. He just... wanders the world? Doesn’t he need to work? Is he independently wealthy? But that doesn’t seem right, if the family business is a little hotel.
I don’t want to just shoot off all my questions rapid-fire style, but I want to know these things. Turns out, everyone else seems as intrigued as I am. They spend the next several minutes battering him with questions and we all listen to him tell us about bath houses in South Korea, cockroaches the size of turtles in Ecuador, and dancing in Carnival in Rio. Pretty much anywhere he goes, he’ll find someplace to kayak, parasail, surf, or hike. He’s climbed the fucking K2 in Pakistan. It’s mesmerizing.
He doesn’t just talk about what he’s done and where he’s been, though. After a while I notice that whenever he mentions a place, he talks most about the people he’s met there.
Eventually, the French man casts aside good etiquette and rather pointedly asks Connor what he does for a living. We learn he “dabbles in investments” and has occasionally worked a handful of odd jobs—as a salmon fisher in Alaska, a river guide in Brazil, a surfing instructor in Australia. Even when talking about work, he makes it sound like it was all about the experience, and not at all about the money. From the sounds of it, he simply does these things until he decides he’s ready to try something else.
I think about travelling the world like he does, and part of me is crazy jealous. God, I’d love to travel more. It’s been so amazing this entire trip. How cool would it be to be able to see the world to my heart’s content? But on the other hand, the idea of just going from place to place and never having anywhere to go home to afterward? I don’t know. I think it’d be unsettling after a while too.
“Not too many people have the guts to live that kind of life,” the bald man says.
“I can’t even imagine it,” I say.
“Why’s that?” Connor asks, turning slightly so he’s facing me better. He’s been right next to me this entire time, but that little movement makes him feel that much closer. It’s almost intimate.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I think it’d be fun, but I also think it’d be hard not to have a home.”
“For some it would be,” he says nodding. “That’s true.”
“But not for you?”
His eyes light up and he leans in closer, making my heart sprint. “The world is my home.”
I feel like I’m sort of sliding into a vortex. Every time I look at this guy, it seems the effect he has on me gets just a little bit stronger. It’s kind of alarming.
The waitress comes to ask if anyone wants dessert. I’m finished with my lunch by now, as is everyone else. Maggie, Connor, and the bald man eagerly place their orders. The French couple says they’d better be on their way and start gathering their packs from against the wall. I notice Connor’s pack and walking stick are over there as well.
The interruption has been enough for me to back up a little bit and get a glance at this situation from a distance. If we were in a cafe back home, I’d maybe try to get to know him better. I realize I might have made an assumption about him the first time I saw him, but I’d still try to find out what he thought about what those guys were saying, because it was bad enough that it would matter to me.
If I was wrong about him, I’d maybe let myself slide into whatever vortex Connor is. Because it’s been a long, long time since I’ve come across anyone interesting enough to get this tingly over.
But I’m not home. I’m in Spain, and every single person at this table is eventually going to go their separate ways, including Connor. In five days, I’m flying back to San Francisco. Today, I’m walking the last leg into Santiago. I’ve been waiting fourteen days for this. Hell, years. I didn’t come here to crush on this mystery man. I’m here for me. I have a cathedral to see.
The waitress comes to me last, wanting to know if I want dessert or not.
“I think I’ll go,” I say. Now that the words are out of my mouth, my heart deflates a bit with regret, but my mind is firm.
I stand, and sense Connor watching me do it. I grab my pack and heft it over my shoulders. Maggie stands to give me a hug, and we say goodbye like it’s the last time, just as we have every time.
But Connor doesn’t say goodbye. I bid farewell to the others, then finally allow myself to look at him before leaving. He’s wearing a thoughtful, almost serious expression. “See you around, Whitney.”
The way he says it, it sounds like a hope, more than a certainty.
But maybe not.
After all, I’m leaving, and he’s not trying to get me to stay.
“Bye,” I say, and make myself follow through. I head out to the road several steps behind the others. The sound of my name on his lips echoes around in my mind, but I shake it off, and keep going.
The last few miles to the cathedral cut through the large, bustling city of Santiago de Compostela. It’s strange to be completing such a monumental, almost spiritual task while the busy sounds and activities of ordinary city life go on all around you. But when I finally approach the soaring, gothic cathedral, my lingering worries that reality might not live up to expectations disappear.
It’s far, far better than I expected. Standing there in the square looking up at the massive, intricate towers, I’m overwhelmed with joy. The line of pilgrims waiting for their certificate of completion is massive and does, in truth, seem too ordinary a thing for such a momentous occasion. But I’m buzzing anyway.
As I’m waiting, I end up seeing a mother and her son from Toronto, pilgrims I met clear back on day two, and we eagerly congratulate one other on making it. Later, seeing my own certificate, my Compostela, with my name written across the top... I couldn’t stop grinning. I’ve sat through almost an entire Catholic mass now, which I’m finding alternately fascinating and dull, but I am still so light in my heart. And I can’t stop running my fingers over the name on my certificate.
I can’t believe I really did this.
I’m on a hard, ancient, wooden pew, surrounded by other pilgrims. This is the daily afternoon “Pilgrim’s Mass,” so there are plenty of us. As the mass draws closer to the end, I feel the anticipation growing. We’re all eager to see the famous ceremony, the Botafumeiro.
The main part of the cathedral’s interior is laid out like a cross, with pews filling the long bottom end, called the nave, and more pews in each arm of the cross, called the transept. At the center point where the lines of the cross meet, there’s a large stage with an altar toward the rear. Behind the altar, in what would be the top of the cross, it’s floor-to-ceiling decorations that are all gold-covered and so ornate that it’s been enough to keep me entertained during the mass.
Hanging high above the altar is a large, very elaborate incense burner made of silver-plated brass. It’s over a hundred and fifty years old, and I read that when they load it with the coals, it weighs nearly a hundred and forty pounds.
The rope attached to the top of the Botafumeiro goes all the way up to the soaring, arched ceiling, then back down at an angle to a group of priests in red robes. They’re all standing in a circle, and just before it gets to their little group, the massive rope splits into pa
rts so they each have hold of an end.
They slowly lower the Botafumeiro to the altar where two priests in red robes have to hold it still—the massive censer is nearly five feet tall—and other priests in white robes each ceremoniously take a spoonful of the incense and add it to the censer. It starts to emit soft plumes of gray smoke and they all leave the altar, save one priest in a red robe, who is standing next to the giant incense burner.
For a moment, all is still and the congregation seems to hold its breath. My skin pricks with anticipation.
The priests holding on to the rope tug together as one and the censer bounces high once, twice. It comes to a stop, still hanging straight, but with the base now just above the head of the priest at the altar. He grabs hold of the base, pulls back a few steps, then gives the Botafumeiro a strong but graceful push.
It arches out maybe ten feet away from him, as he calmly descends from the altar. He is out of the way well before the censer swings back to where he’d been. It swings through gently. As it comes back down, just as it reaches the center point, the priests pull together on their ropes and the censer jerks upward and down before completing its swing.
I watch it, captivated, as it swings out a little farther this time. Yet again, acting as one, the priests pull their ropes when the censer is at the center point. Again, it seems to bounce in midair and starts swinging much faster now. My heartbeat speeds up watching it.
Only a few more swings back and forth, and it’s going farther out, higher and faster. It’s trailing gray smoke and I catch a whiff of the sweet scent now as it rushes down one arm of the transept, then high up the other arm. It’s traveling in such a wide arc, I have to turn my head to follow its path.
Within seconds, the one-hundred-forty-pound mass of smoking silver is swinging so high, that at its highest point the rope it’s attached to is nearly horizontal. There’s a subtle but audible gasp from the congregation.
I read the censer gets up to forty-two miles per hour in only a minute and a half, but right now, as it speeds along, it seems to be going much faster than that. And here we all are beneath it. I wonder if I’m the only one hoping the rope doesn’t break. My heart is pounding in awe.
The priests are no longer tugging on the rope; instead they’re letting the laws of physics take over. Too soon the Botafumeiro is slowing down. It swings serenely for a few minutes, the arc getting smaller as it goes slower and slower. It’s strangely peaceful, after the powerful acrobatics it’s just performed.
When its arc is some twenty feet across, the red-robed priest calmly steps up to the altar, puts himself just in the path of the Botafumeiro, and grabs on with both hands. Immediately after he catches it, he brings it into a gentle spin, turning himself around with it, as gracefully as any dance team I’ve ever seen, and brings it to a calm stop.
I let my breath out. I didn’t realize I’d been holding it.
I glance around at the people near me. That was amazing! I want to say. I want to applaud! But maybe they know how to behave in church better than I do, because they all look full of reverent approval and not damnable Protestant excitement, like me.
At the conclusion, we file out. The peace I felt at the conclusion of the ceremony is still with me. I wish I could feel this all the time, and am even more resolved to make healthier decisions when I go back home. Maybe if I can try to stay balanced, like the Botafumeiro, I’ll be able to recreate some of this peace for myself.
I hear it’s flying again at the late evening mass tonight, a rare treat. While I’m not keen on sitting through another long service, I’ll not turn down the chance to see it twice. I’ll be back.
Not ready to leave the vicinity of the cathedral just yet, I mill about the square outside. I scan the crowds and the many pilgrims, wondering if I’ll see anyone else I know. I look for curly red hair.
In spite of myself, I look for a green shirt.
I come up short on both accounts, but I do run into Roy from Tennessee again. We compare notes on our Camino journey since we last saw one another a week ago. He’s flying home in the morning, and tells me he’s looking forward to his wife’s home cooked meals (he’s requested cornbread and fried okra). We chat for a while about the finer points of cornbread making (apparently, one must use buttermilk) before we say our final goodbyes and I head to my hotel to check in.
After days of basic accommodations, laundry lines, and thin mattresses, a private room with a real bed is pure luxury. But nothing, nothing, compares to the indulgence of the bath. Oh god, the warm water. The freedom to relax and take my time. I don’t even have to wear shower shoes!
In the interest of full disclosure, I’ll admit that my mind strays to Connor more than once. I’ll blame it on being naked in the tub. And his hotness. And the fact that it’s been way too long since I’ve been with a man. But I really don’t want to fantasize about someone I walked away from, so I force myself to think of other things and reflect on my incredible experiences over the past two weeks instead.
I stay in the tub until the water cools, then use the hotel’s blow dryer to actually dry my hair. Another luxury! I even decide to forgo the hat and ponytail and leave my hair down. Feeling clean and fresh, I head out so I can get some dinner before going back to the cathedral for a second viewing of the Botafumeiro.
I’m waiting for the elevator, wondering if I should ask the front desk for tips or just find a place on my own. Then the doors open to reveal someone standing inside.
My lips part in surprise. Connor does a double take, then gives me a slow, slow smile.
Umm.... okay. This is a whole new ballgame now.
Chapter 4
Whitney
“We meet again,” he says, still smiling. My estrogen starts flowing at the sight of that smile and those eyes. I couldn’t stop it now if I tried.
“Hello again,” I say as I step into the elevator. He looks—and smells—freshly bathed as well and I have a sudden vision of him naked in a tub. God. Between that and the fact that there’s apparently no escaping this guy, I completely forget why I was trying to escape him to start with.
The doors slide closed with a soft thud and the little space grows even smaller. I don’t stand too close, but I certainly would’ve stood farther away if I’d never met him before. The car begins its downward journey and my stomach swoops more than usual.
We start giving each other that wondering look from before. He’s still smiling, and there’s a smile teasing the corners of my mouth too. In spite of being freshly bathed, he didn’t shave. He still has that cute scruff on his jaw.
“You’re staying here, too?” I ask.
He turns toward me a bit and leans one shoulder against the back wall. Oh man. Just like when he turned toward me at the table, this little movement makes things feel more familiar. But this time it’s just us. In this little box. I like it. “I heard this is the best place for the weary Camino pilgrim,” he says.
I adjust slightly so I can lean against the wall as well. I really can’t help it. Because it seems like this is the moment we’ve been building to all along. “That’s what the guidebooks say anyway.”
“Do they?”
“Don’t you have a guidebook?” The car already starts to slow, dammit. I don’t want to walk away this time. I want to linger awhile.
“I’m not the guidebook type,” he answers, as we come to a stop. “I’d rather just ask around. But I think we have more important matters to discuss.”
The elevator dings and the doors open. Neither one of us moves. My heart is thumping in anticipation. “Do we?”
“Yes. You’re about to go your way and I’m about to go mine, but clearly the universe thinks we need to talk some more.”
Thump, thump, thump. Now it’s my turn to give a slow smile. “The universe, huh?”
“Okay,” he says, grinning. “it’s me. I think we should talk more.”
The doors slide closed and we both ignore them. We’re just leaning against the back wall, giv
ing each other smiles that have an edge of heat under them. “So, Whitney,” he says, and damn but I do like the way my name sounds on his lips. “Are you game for dinner?”
I might just be game for anything, I think, but what I say is, “Sure, Connor. I’m game.”
After discussing options with the hotel’s concierge, we settle on a little restaurant that’s just a few blocks away but still off the beaten path. It’s a favorite of the locals, something Connor specifically requested.
We’re walking along a side street, away from the heavy activity of the busy streets we’ve left behind. His nearness is as stimulating as it’s been all along, if not more so. The physical attraction is a little startling, actually. But now that I’m out of the magic bubble of the elevator, my previous reservations come back to me: his involvement in the disturbing conversation I heard, and the fact that this is fleeting, whatever this is.
Part of me just wants to enjoy the flirtation and not worry. What does it matter anyway, if it’s temporary? I can live with temporary.
In fact, I’ll have to. Connor’s already going to be part of my Camino memories. There’s no preventing that now.
But if he’s the kind of guy who has so much disdain for women, do I really want to be doing this? Whatever this is? It’s the last little thing that’s giving me pause.
“So,” I say, trying to sound casual, “those guys I saw you with before. Are they friends of yours?”
“I wouldn’t say that. We met on the trail, but didn’t talk much.”
“But you talked some?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He’s giving me a searching look. I try to keep my expression light. I don’t want to accuse him of anything. I just have to know what he thought about what I heard, and if he was participating.