Defecating the Standing Pool of Thought

"I love drinking now and then. It defecates the standing pool of thought. A man perpetually in the paroxysm and fears of inebriety is like a half drowned wretch, condemned to labour unceasingly in water; but a now-and-then tribute to Bacchus is like the cold bath - bracing and invigorating."

-Robbie Burns (courtesy of our guru John Briarley and read by Alex in a convincing brogue with special emphasis on the words 'defecate' and 'wretch.')


Anadia to Albergaria-a-Vehla 33km

We had walked our last day together as three, passing vineyards and farms, pausing for pastel de Nata and laughter with the locals at a cafe. We stopped in the river town of Águeda, made beautiful by the thousands of bright umbrellas creating shade in the streets. 

"It's early, I would just like a salad," Alex said before ending up with a plate piled high with meat. 

Arrigo was out of time, his flight from Porto back to Milan would leave in just a couple days, but rather than take the train that afternoon to Porto as planned, he decided to meet us once more at the end of our stage and to enjoy the night much the same as we had for the entire proceeding week.

Alex and I set off to conquer the last 16km, over both Roman and highway bridges, past a prostitute with a soft smile on a gravel road, up intimidating hills and finally through endless beautiful eucalyptus forests into the outskirts of Albergaria-a-Vehla. After showers and washed clothes in the perfectly designed brand new municipal albergue, I sat on a picnic table under an orange tree combing and braiding my hair while Arrigo tried to shake out and hang his freakishly large towel in the afternoon sun. 

"Si maa.. Un po' di figaa??" (Some things don't need translation..) it was unfortunate for Arrigo that we had slowly hobbled the few blocks to the city center in searching of an aperitivo only to find ourselves in a bar surrounded by young men. As we sat outside with our fishbowl sized gin and tonics complete with orange slices and coffee beans, a beautiful young girl with glossy black hair walked by.. Arrigo, a playful 20 year old with a dark mop of hair, perfect teeth and an infectious laugh, shifted unsubtly in his seat. (I can only imagine the reactions of some of my older female students were they to meet Arrigo...Julie, Sydney...) We sucked down our drinks on empty stomachs and toddled unsteadily to a dinner complete with a carafe of wine. (And you can't let wine go to waste... It's a sin!)

"I think I might be too drunk to walk to the bathroom!"
"You'll be fine."

As we arrived back to the albergue and settled in on our beds, warm and slightly drunk, we played a little music to ease our way into sleep. Moments later, a large, loud Scotsman burst into our room. "Did I hear music? I thought it was a dream!"

A half hour later, we all sat in comfortable chairs downstairs, Arrigo, Alex, Antonio, a 28 year old from California named Monica and I, as our Scotsman, John ran into town to buy wine. Upon his return, we made music while sipping a rich red and in between each song, we learned John's story. A 70 year old proud Glaswegian and Celtic fan, John had grown up as a foster kid in the system before enlisting in the army and spending 35 years on the police force advocating for children. John was on his last Camino as he was fighting what seemed to be a losing battle with lung cancer, but he would go on his own terms, taking Bacchus for a ride. John had also lost a brother, named Danny, too young and so we sang together "Danny Boy," three separate times as John closed his eyes and joined his voice to ours. 

"I'll be seeing my Danny soon," John said as Alex and Arrigo helped him from his chair and up the stairs to his bed. 

As we three cleaned up and rinsed glasses, Arrigo's eyes shone with new maturity.


"Perspective," we whispered, sobered by a life passing in a flash.