Chapter 7: The Spiritual Fog

Besieged by gnats, I fight like a boxer to keep branches off of my face. Barbie gets a blister pillow. The Pope signs an autograph. I find myself wearing a fake beard. Yay! Day 3!

The couple referred to me through my underground pilgrim railroad meets me in front of the Arles’ office de tourisme. I’m not hard to spot with my red backpack and the pilgrim’s shell on my hat. The elderly couple greet me and clear a space in the back of their modest car. As we drive along, they discuss casual personal matters between themselves. I look out the window as we head over a bridge into a residential neighborhood, only a stone’s throw from Van Gogh’s apartment, the gift shops, and the coliseum tourists.

Even after three days of walking, a ride in a car already feels a touch peculiar, everything at a slight remove, particularly so with complete strangers, an elderly couple no less, a foreign language between us, and a plan to go to their home to eat together and spend the night. By now even the most familiar activities remind me I’m on a curious adventure. Imagine a day where nothing unusual happens, not a single thing, but for some reason you have decided to wear a fake bea…