Chapter 11: Jim Croce & My Tropical Fish

A final visit with my family before the long haul to Finisterre. 250 down. 750 miles to go.

The hotel is at the end of a long boulevard. I step into the lobby. It is clean and modern. Surfaces are trim and shiny. There is a revolving door. There are leather couches and empty espresso cups and businesspeople with their legs crossed speaking in lowered voices.

I must be a sight for the clerks at the desk, not to mention the other guests. I haven’t been in a place this nice the entire trip. One night I stayed in the attic of some parish priests. There was animal – let’s politely call it scat – on the top blankets of the bed where I had to sleep. The Camino isn’t all morning fog and waves from children with missing teeth.

The desk clerk tells me that Melanie and the children haven’t arrived yet. I read her face to see if there is any acknowledgement of my appearance or if she is able to maintain her professional demeanor with her clients no matter what their attire. She is. Wow! I’m impressed! If I was her boss in disguise coming to check on her like Odysseus, I’d be very, very p…