Chapters 1-3 Beautiful Mine

CHAPTER 1

Whitney

I’ve met a lot of people on the Camino del Santiago over the past thirteen days. Some I’ve loved, and some I’ve merely tolerated, but this is the first time I’ve wanted to punch anyone in the nose.

I’m not the punching type, either, to be clear. I’m pretty even-keeled and have never so much as slapped a guy on the face, but oooooh these idiots behind me!

I’ve been walking along a dirt path sheltered by towering trees I can’t identify, enjoying the gently swelling, green hills and eucalyptus forests in the distance, and this group behind me has been slowly catching up.

At first, when I’d hear their occasional burst of laughter, I just figured they were a lively bunch. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve met all types on this trip, and the lively ones have actually been my favorites. They’re the ones that pull me out of my shell and remind me that I’m only twenty-five, and not the old lady I sometimes feel like.

But if you’re going to do something like walk the Camino del Santiago, you should probably try not to be an asshole. Do they really need to compare the nether regions of all the girls they’ve “mounted”? And so damned loudly?

The metal tinging of an empty can scuttles over the dirt road not far behind me. They’re kicking cans down the road. Cans. Here!

I try to block it out. I’m not going to let them, or anybody else, spoil a once-in-a-lifetime experience like walking the Camino del Santiago.  

The Camino is that famous five-hundred-mile walk that cuts across Spain and ends at a cathedral in Santiago de Compostela. It was a popular religious pilgrimage during the Middle Ages, fell into a bit of a lull, then enjoyed a resurgence back in the 1980s. There’s even that movie with Martin Sheen, The Way, where he walks the Camino and takes the ashes of his dead son along with him.

I never thought I’d do anything like this. I mean, here I am, walking hundreds of miles across Spain on foot. Who does that for real?

But I guess everyone here had something that pushed them to do something like this. For many, it still is a deeply spiritual experience. For others, it’s a test of athletic endurance.

For me, it was how I felt when I happened across a blog about the Camino on one of my dark days. I sat hunched over my tablet, silencing my emotions with an entire can of cheese-flavored Pringles, wishing I could tumble into the screen and escape into the peaceful paradise in the picture.

I’d heard of the Camino before, and had always been vaguely and noncommittally intrigued. But that time?

I sat on my sofa with cheesy dust on my fingertips and thought, “I need this.”

So here I am, my frazzled, overloaded self somehow reborn into this one. This me walks with a slow and steady pace that feels in tune with both my body’s natural rhythm and the broad, green fields unfolding peacefully beside me.

Well, what would be peacefully were it not for the unpleasant rumbles of the guys behind me.

But I am determined not to let that ruin things. They’ll move on and I’ll be able to go back to my almost Zen-like state.

My Camino gait is calm and centered, in spite of the ever-present, dull ache in my feet and legs, or the damp heat in my shirt where my massive pack presses against my back.

I am a version of myself I hardly recognize.

I’ve traversed narrow, crumbling roads in old Medieval villages, navigated noisy, bustling Spanish cities all by myself, and drank from public faucets that dispense sweet red wine instead of water.

I’ve allowed myself the luxury of watching a tiny, old woman who looked straight out of the last century as she drove her band of cattle up the Camino pathway. Back in San Francisco, I did not know the cure to my ailments was the scent of sixty-plus dusty, brown cows, their gentle moos resonating through the dewy, early morning air.

As foreign as that experience was, it was just as unfamiliar as being in no particular hurry at all, even though I still had hundreds of miles to go.

I ate my first Camino meal while talking with a middle-aged couple from Germany who are walking the Camino for the third time; Maggie from Ireland (who I keep running into); and Roy from Tennessee (who keeps running into me).

I’ve mastered the ninja art of blister care. (I’ve only had three minor blisters this whole trip, so yeah, ninja.)

I’ve walked past a field of bobbing sunflowers with not another soul in sight. Sometimes the Camino is crowded, and other times it’s like you’re the only pilgrim on it.

Oh, and I get to call myself a pilgrim.

Ninja pilgrim. That’s me.

It’s been incredible.

But the asshole guys behind me are seriously killing my Camino mojo. A partially crumpled Pepsi can goes skittering by, bouncing on the dirt path until it comes skidding to a stop.

I glance back. The group of four is exclusively male, all around my age, and (I think) all American. This is such a rare sight among the potpourri of international travelers on the Camino, I can only assume they’re on this journey together.

After spending the last couple of miles slowly catching up to me, I’m now lucky enough to be able to make out every word of their juvenile conversation over the sound of their heavy boots scuffling along in the dirt behind me.

I feel badly for any female who’s ever dated a single one of them. In between bouts of obnoxious laughter, they’re comparing notes about how many girls they’ve laid, how many cherries they’ve popped, and who’s had the most girls at one time.

Now they’ve moved on to tips about how to “convince an unwilling female.”

One Prince Charming in the bunch says, “All you have to do is tell her she’s beautiful, even if she looks like a hag.”

Someone else groans. “Who wants to do a hag?”

“They’re all the same where it counts. Between the legs.”

Cue more raucous laughter. My skin crawls. There’s no ignoring this anymore. They’re too close, too distasteful.

If it weren’t for the pilgrims about a quarter mile behind us on the path, I’d be scared to be around a group of men like this by myself. As it is, I’m just pissed.

“There’s always a way to get ’em,” the first guy continues. “‘No’ is only for chumps who don’t know how to turn it into a ‘yes’.”

I’m tempted to spin around and give them a few choice words, but that doesn’t seem in the spirit of the Way. Instead I step to the side so I can kneel down to re-lace my hiking boot. It doesn’t need it. I just want them to pass me and get the hell out of my sight. I’m not going to listen to these disgusting boys anymore.

Their conversation has me more rattled than I realized, though, because I somehow forget to mind the massive pack I’m balancing on my back.

Or rather, not balancing.

The whole overstuffed apparatus rocks first to one side, then to the other as I overcorrect to keep it from knocking me over.

This damned thing hasn’t given me this much trouble since I abandoned a bunch of stuff at a hostel five days into the trip. All I have left are the bare essentials and this behemoth is still big enough to waylay me if I’m not careful.

As the entire monstrosity heaves to the side, threatening to take me with it, I drop one knee to the ground and plant two hands in the dirt to try to stabilize myself.

It works, thank god, but now my cheeks are burning with embarrassment and my palms are stinging from their abrupt introduction to the rough path. There’s an accompanying burst of harsh laughter, but that’s been the norm for the last mile, so I can sort of hope they’re not laughing at me.

Desperate to salvage what’s left of my pride, I resume my original charade and reach for the laces on my boot. But I wasn’t as stable as I thought because I have to plant one hand in the dirt again.

There’s a fresh burst of laughter from the boys who are now walking by. I leave my hand on the rocky ground, along with the remnants of my ego, and give a hearty scowl (a ninja scowl!) to the guys in front. They’re sniggering too heartily to notice.

Just as I hear the crunching of a hiking boot on the ground, I see someone come next to me.

“Need help?” a rich, deep voice asks.

I turn just enough to see one of the guys reaching for my elbow. But I don’t need help from the likes of him!

“No, thank you,” I say, jerking my arm away and sending my army green turtle shell swaying again.

This time, I’m in no position to argue when his hand firmly goes to my bicep and easily brings me to my feet. I sense, more than see, that he must have one hand on my pack to help steady it.

While I’m still orienting myself to my new, more stable position, I’m knocked unsteady in a different way.

Much as I hate to admit it, this dude is hot. Like, crazy hot. Soft scruff covers his angled jawline and he’s got blue eyes that are so vivid they’re a little unreal.

He’s not one of those beefcake guys, but has that masculine, athletic build that I find so sexy. He’s wearing a navy-colored shirt, and as the wind rushes through, it presses the soft fabric against his chest.

As the fabric rustles in the breeze, it reveals the firm outlines of hard pecs and broad shoulders. The sleeves are short, leaving bare his tanned skin and taut biceps.

I take him in and our eyes lock. A shiver runs down my back.

It’s hard to imagine any malice behind those brilliant eyes. In truth, it’s a little confusing for a moment. His eyes make me want to trust him, even though I heard what they were saying and know better.

Our feet shuffle slightly, the gravel grating under the hard soles of our boots. I catch a whiff of his scent, a mixture of sweat, dirt, and citrus, as though he’d just peeled and eaten a fresh orange.

I’m aware, too damned aware, of his hand steadying my elbow.

Against my will, my skin heats up under his touch. I don’t want to find this guy attractive, but I do. Which is the very thing this kind of male uses against unsuspecting females. 

Dangerous.

That’s what sexy jerks like him are.

Having determined that I’m now able to stand without toppling over, he releases me. “Are you all right?”

I take a step back, needing some distance from the intensity of his presence. I lift my chin slightly and narrow my eyes. “Fine,” I answer curtly. Or try to answer curtly.

 Okay, yeah, his hotness took the wind out of my scowling sails, I admit, but I can’t help that I’m female. Any straight woman on the planet would soften at the sight of such male perfection. It’s written into our biological code.

But I mentally give myself a shake. I haven’t forgotten the conversation I’d been overhearing against my will.

In fact, from the sounds of it, the rest of the pack has picked up their crude conversation right where they left off. It doesn’t matter how sexy this one is. They just all need to go.

His blue eyes light up with humor, though I don’t know what’s so damned funny, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

He swoops down with one strong hand to pick up the wooden walking stick lying at his feet. I’ve never been one to pay much attention to a man’s hands, but even this detail catches my attention. They look strong. Safe.

Not safe, I remind myself.

I return to my scowling, which is admittedly not quite as ninja, but should be enough to get my point across.

And do you know what he does? 

He grins at me!

That cocky bastard.

But he won’t disarm this woman with that grin. I cross my arms. “You can keep right on walking.”

He glances toward the others and I do the same. I wonder if they’re going to leave without him, and if he’ll leave like I want him to.

Never mind the weak part of me that wants him to stay. The rest of me is stronger, and that’s the part that gets to make the decisions.

“Hey, no problem,” he says with an easy smile. Then he takes his sexy scruff and broad shoulders and strong hands and simply walks away.  

With the wind roaring in my ears, I stand there with my arms crossed and watch them all go. I let my eyes land on the guy in the navy shirt. Or rather, his impressively small backpack.

Yeah, all right, I’m not looking at the pack. I’m taking full advantage of the fact that his pack stops just above the world’s most perfect ass. Wouldn’t you look, too?

But he’s still a cocky bastard.

Good thing I’ll never see him again.

Hours later, I dump my pack onto a narrow bed tightly made with a faded blue blanket, and the springs squeak in protest. “Your turn,” I tell it, feeling no sympathy for its new burden. I plant my hands on my hips and stretch out the aches in my lower back and shoulders.

Next to me, Maggie deposits her backpack on the floor with a heavy thud. One of the things I like about Maggie is her load is even bigger than mine. She drops onto her bed and lies back with a protracted groan of approval.

We’re in the little village of Arca, my stop for the evening, and ran into each other while we were checking in downstairs. Just in time, too, as this place is about full up and we heard that there are more pilgrims than the town can handle. I’ve seen that happen once before. Some people took to setting up camp out in the open.  

“Looks like we got one’a tha last,” Maggie says in her adorable Irish accent. She’s around my age, with sharp green eyes and bright red curly hair she wears pulled into a ponytail. (Ponytails are pretty standard here, what with no hairdryers and all; I wear my long, dark hair up as well, pulled through the back of my baseball cap.)

She’s doing the Camino alone, like me. Over the past several days, we’ve walked together a few times and become friends, but our pace is different so we keep saying goodbye, only to run into each other again later. We’ve figured out that even though she walks faster than I do, she takes more breaks and lingers for lunch longer.

I scan the room, which is on the smaller side. There are only thirty or so beds, which will accommodate both men and women since most Camino hostels are co-ed. But it isn’t so bad. I’ve been in rooms with over a hundred snoring pilgrims. This place doesn’t even resort to bunk beds.

“It’s way better than those triple deckers,” I say, referring to the sleeping conditions of the hostel where we first met. The whole bed would shake and rattle every time anyone moved, and I had to perform some pretty interesting acrobatics to climb in and out of that top bunk.

Maggie laughs, rubbing the top of her head. “I still ha’ the bruises.” She was on the center bed, right beneath me, and two different times I felt the thump when she accidentally sat up too much and hit the board above her.

I drift over to the old, wood-framed window to look into the rear courtyard. Sure enough, there are six pilgrims with their packs, preparing to sleep under the stars.

I tense up a bit when I notice who’s out there. “Maggie,” I hiss, gesturing wildly to come over. “It’s those obnoxious guys I was telling you about.”

Well, three of the four, anyway. Navy Shirt is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’s using the restroom. Or maybe he’s already seduced some Spanish beauty using that terminally charming, mocking smile. I don’t know. And if he has, I don’t want to know.

Maggie heaves herself off the bed and comes up next to me. “Which?” She leans closer to the glass.

She tsks as I point them out. Even her tsking has an accent.

They’re all in a little group, looking sinister to me even though they’re just sitting around talking. There are two other men out there as well, both much older, and one lone woman. She’s in her early thirties, I’d guess, with brown hair in a short bob.

“I’d hate to be that lass,” Maggie says in her slight Irish brogue. “Who’d want to be all alone with so many strange men?”

“Yeah. After all that crap they were saying, I wouldn’t feel safe with those guys.” I turn away from the window and toward my bed. “I wonder if—” but the sight of something stops me.

Navy Shirt is sitting on the edge of the bed on the other side of Maggie’s. His pack is on the ground next to him, his walking stick leaning against the bed’s metal footboard. He’s resting his elbows on his knees, strong hands laced loosely together, and he’s looking right at me with those stunning blue eyes.

There’s no cocky grin, though. In fact, he’s not smiling one bit and there’s not a trace of arrogance. He has a thoughtful look on his face.

I’m startled by the sight of him, and have to remind myself that he’s one of them, even though he doesn’t seem like he is. I frown at him before turning my back. I grab my pack and start digging around.

What was I saying? What am I looking for? My body’s being all female again, and it’s kind of irritating. My heart’s thump, thumping and I can still see his hands and his eyes and that strong, scruffy jawline.

I’m gripping my backpack and digging past rolled up clothes, my headlamp, my guidebook, but I’m distracted. How long has he been there? What did he hear us saying?

I shake the mental image of him sitting there looking at me and decide it’s my shower stuff I need. That’s it. I just need to do my normal thing. Take a shower, change into my tan shorts and red shirt so I can wash my one other pair of clothes (the black shorts and green top I’m wearing now), and hope there are spots left on the no-doubt crowded laundry line.

I don’t need to be thinking about whether or not Navy Shirt is watching me.

I peek over my shoulder to see if he is.

But he’s not. I straighten and turn to watch him hitch that smartly-packed backpack over his shoulder and retrieve his walking stick from its place against the wall.

He faces in our direction but looks directly at me. I curse myself for the little zing my chest gets when our eyes meet. “I’ll take care of it.” 

He’ll take care of it? What the hell does that mean?

Then just like that, Navy Shirt turns and heads for the door. Maggie and I exchange looks that say, ‘What’s with that guy?’ Then we both watch in silence as he disappears.

“Nice arse,” Maggie declares.

“Don’t even,” I say, turning back to the window.

In the next five minutes, we watch as he approaches the woman in the courtyard. Minutes later, that same woman ends up settling into the bed he once inhabited, tucks her short hair behind her ear, and starts reading a beat-up Camino guidebook.

Now I don’t know what to think. I’m unsettled, and don’t like it, so I tell myself to forget it and focus on my own business.

And that blue-eyed man is none of my business.

But later, after my shower, I’m drawn back to the window. It’s an old window with slightly peeling paint on the wooden frame and a crank at the bottom. I turn the crank a few times and the window angles open slightly, letting in some fresh air and the sounds of the group outside.

There are seven pilgrims out there now. The three obnoxious guys are in their own circle, talking. Among the other scattered pilgrims, I find Navy Shirt. He’s sitting on a bedroll, one knee up and one arm resting casually on top. He’s talking with one of the old men I saw earlier. As the man talks, Navy Shirt smiles easily.

God, what a smile.

I see no trace of anything negative about him. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was an easy-going, friendly guy to look at him now. Not that you can always tell by looking.

Was he with those guys? His pack is nowhere near theirs. I think back to the conversation I’d overheard earlier and try to determine if he’d actually been participating. I don’t know for sure. Maybe he’d just been passing them by?

Whatever Navy Shirt and the old man are talking about has amused them both, because they’re both laughing. The sound of it flows through the open window. It’s not the raucous laughter I’d heard from the group of guys before, but the kind of warm, welcoming laughter that makes me want to go outside and see what I’m missing.

I’m not the only one, either. The two pilgrims nearest them look over, smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths. Before I know it, they’ve been drawn into Navy Shirt’s circle, and an easy camaraderie forms.

I watch them until Maggie returns from her shower, and go to bed wondering if I’d been mistaken about him. I don’t have a chance to find out, though.

The next morning, Navy Shirt is gone.

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Chapter 2

Connor

I didn’t mean to walk the Camino del Santiago. It sort of happened by accident. But this isn’t the first accidental adventure I’ve gone on, so it’s not like I’m surprised or anything. And is it really accidental when you’ve purposely arranged your life to allow for such things?

I’d spent a few weeks leisurely boating down the Bay of Biscay and hit San Sebastian, Spain on a Sunday afternoon. It’s a great Basque city with gorgeous beaches and a fun Old Town. The docking fees were reasonable so I decided to drop anchor for a while and see if I could discover what the city was really like.

You know, underneath that top crust where the tourists dwell. “Tourist traps” some would say, usually with derision, but I’ve found some things trap tourists for good reason.

Who doesn’t want to see the Roman Colosseum or the Strait of Gibraltar or the Pyramids? I’d be a pompous ass if I tried to pretend not to be awed by the Eiffel Tower, I don’t care how many photo-happy, cheesy-souvenir-buying tourists are there enjoying it with me. Anyway, I’m not ignorant to the fact that not everyone has the luxury to drop anchor—or pick up and go—at will. So I try not to take it for granted.

Aside from being lured by the tourist trap thing, some places call me to stay for a while. I love to sink deeper into a city, get to know the locals, settle into their rhythm and pace of life. I want to know the scents of their spices and the feel of their cloth. It’s different everywhere, and yet, the same. Despite any cultural differences, underneath we all want the same things: love, safety, a sense of purpose. To be understood.

Not to wax poetic or anything.

I’d been in San Sebastian for something like thirty minutes when I came across my first Camino pilgrim. The Northern Route to Santiago goes right through, and a lot of pilgrims actually start in that city. After a few days, in spite of my original plan to stay for a few months, the pull of the Way won out. I decided, what the hell. Why not?

I refreshed the supplies in my hiking pack, dug out my trusty walking stick Gandolf—yes he has a name, don’t judge me—decided on my end destination (Muxia, on the western coast of Spain), and hired a delivery crew to sail my boat to Muxia’s marina so it’ll be there waiting for me whenever I get there.

There are several routes to Santiago. The “French Way” is the most common, so named because it starts in far western France. Pilgrims spend their first day hiking up one side of the Pyrenees mountains and down the other, before landing in Spain. The rest of the French Way cuts through northern Spain before landing in Santiago.

The Northern Way is even further north, right along the coast. It’s more rugged, which is why fewer pilgrims take it, but man, is it gorgeous. By day four, the Northern Way made the list of my top five favorite hikes ever. I was originally going to take it all the way to Santiago, but about two-thirds of the way along, there’s a fork in the road.

I love forks in the road.

I fucking live for them.

I could either continue on the coast as planned or cut south on the even less-traveled segment of the Camino called the Primitive Way. It joins with the French Way just a couple days from Santiago.

Of course, you know which way I went.

My favorite part about the Primitive Way was its rugged beauty. That, and this seventy-year-old woman from Poland named Agnes who left her home town for the first time in her entire life just to walk the Way. She’d taken the Northern route to the Primitive Way just like I did, but we didn’t meet up until the town of La Mesa. I’d been on the Way several weeks by then, but I’d stopped in several towns for a few days to hang with the locals and explore a bit. So even though she started the path long after I did, our paths still crossed eventually.

Though this is unusual for Camino pilgrims, we walked two entire days together. In a small family bar, we shared a delicious mussel soup on an open-air patio as the rain pounded the clay-tiled roof and the darkened street. On the stretch of muddy trail just outside of town, we petted the wiry coat of a young boy’s goat while Agnes told stories of growing up on her grandfather’s sheep farm. Twice, we made a point to find accommodations at the same alburgues before finally saying goodbye.

Some people just touch you, and there’s no point wondering why.

Countless people come in and out of my life, like sunrises and sunsets, but there are those few who grab me in a different way. Those are the people I stay in touch with from time to time, and she’ll be one of them. It’s like we were meant to know each other.

It’s funny how fate works, isn’t it?

The Primitive Way joined up with the French Way in Melide, and I spent about a day walking it before staying the night at a hostel in Arca. Well, if you consider sleeping in the courtyard staying there. And if you call tossing and turning since two in the morning sleeping.

It wasn’t because I was outside. I actually love sleeping outside. I just get this terrible insomnia from time to time, I don’t know why. Sometimes I’m able to get back to sleep, and other times I flat give up. That’s when I’m up before the sun, on the move. It turns out it was a good thing I wasn’t inside anyway, where I just would’ve been keeping people awake.

I think back to what led me to give up my bed in the first place. I’d barely sat down when I overheard those two women talking about the poor girl stuck outside. I didn’t know the red-headed woman (Irish, no doubt), but I recognized the other one from earlier in the day.

Hers is not the kind of face you forget. Smooth skin even without makeup, full lips, and intelligent, soft brown eyes. Even when she gave the stink eye to me and those guys from Utah, she’d been strikingly beautiful.

My hand still remembers the feel of her arm under my palm. My chest still remembers the way my heart stuttered when our eyes met. My ears still remember the dull roar of the soft wind as I took in the gentle lines of her face.

It wasn’t just her beauty that grabbed me. I had to admire her strength of character. Even wrestling around with that oversized backpack of hers wasn’t enough to make her back down in the face of something she knew was wrong. I couldn’t help but smile at her courage.

But her conversation with the Irish woman concerned me. Even though I didn’t think those guys would do anything—they’re just a bunch of puffed up blowhards, from what I could tell—no way was I going to let a woman sleep outside alone like that when I had a bed to offer. So that’s what I did.

And why not approach the woman with the beautiful scowl, if I found her so appealing? Which I did. As I’ve walked the first few miles of my daily Camino in the dark, watching the sunrise over the hills, I’ve pondered the answer to this question.

I guess it was because she was too interesting. Too appealing. If she’d been the kind of girl who’s up for a fling, that’d be one thing. But she’s the kind of girl you want to get to know better. The kind of girl who isn’t the fling type. I could see that right away.

I’m not good for girls like that. I’ve learned that by now. And I’m not up for leading anyone along.

That’s why I let her blend into the sea of people who go out of my life as quickly as they come into it.

It’s better for everyone that way.

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Chapter 3

Whitney

As I approach yet another little Spanish village, the dirt path crunching under my hiking boots, I can’t believe that sometime this afternoon, I’ll be at the Santiago de Compostela cathedral, the place where all paths meet. I’ve been walking toward this goal for 192 miles. I only have six more miles to Santiago!

Six miles!

I’m excited to get there at last, nervous about what it will really be like, curious about whether or not it will live up to my expectations, and sad that my journey is almost at an end.

It helps that it’s not really the end anymore.

I didn’t know how many miles I’d be able to walk each day, so I went with the low end of the average range I’d read about on the blogs. Turns out, I’m more in the middle.

Once I realized I was going to arrive in Santiago earlier than anticipated, I decided to continue on, as a small number of pilgrims do, to the town of Finisterre. It’s another three days’ walk, is right on the coast, and is what medieval Europeans thought was the end of the earth. Finisterre means end of the land.

And I really want to see it.

Once I’m in town, the dirt path morphs into smooth cobblestone and I soon spot a group of pilgrims having lunch on a café patio. It’s just simple tables and plastic chairs, but there’s shade from an awning and food and the welcoming presence of other pilgrims. Maggie is among them. She spots me and waves me over. We walked together for about forty minutes or so this morning before saying goodbye.

As I pull out the empty chair opposite her, I notice her plate is nothing but bread crumbs now and her wine glass is almost empty. She’s clearly been here awhile.

There are three other people around the table, plus someone who must have stepped away for a moment, because in front of the empty chair next to me is a plate with half a bowl of soup and a full sandwich.

“Everyone, this is Whitney,” Maggie says, by way of introduction. I gratefully unload my pack on the ground, but don’t sit down yet so I can shake hands with people as she goes around the table, telling me their names one by one.

After I shake hands with a young French couple, Maggie gestures next to me and says, “And Connor.” In my peripheral vision, I see someone come up next to me, presumably to reclaim his chair and his lunch.

I extend my hand automatically, at the same time turning to see who it is. Blue eyes. Scruffy jaw.

Holy crap, it’s Navy Shirt. Except he’s in a green shirt now and tan shorts.

His eyebrows raise just slightly at the sight of me, but he offers a friendly smile and takes my hand. My heart stops for half a second. My skin tingles where we touch.

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been taken by surprise or if it’s because my hand is inside his, and those blue eyes are only maybe a foot away from me, and he’s tall, and the green shirt he has on now hugs those broad-shoulders just right, and—

Whoa, girl. Keep your head on.

I try to take my hand away, but he holds on. A slight breeze pushes through, making my ponytail brush the back of my neck.

“And you are?” he asks, still with that smile. His hand is so warm.

“Whitney.”

Still smiling, he gives my hand a little squeeze before saying, “Whitney,” and finally letting me go.

As we take our seats, I give myself a firm talking to. He’s beyond gorgeous and I’m reacting to it, no question. But that’s just biology and I need to use my head. I don’t know him and, if he was participating in the conversation I heard on the road yesterday, I don’t want to.

Not that it matters. It’s not like we’re on a date or something. I don’t have to know him or like him. He’s just one more person I’ll meet here, then never again. Course… this is the third time I’ve seen him in two days.

Our orbits get nearer and nearer to one another each time, too. We’re sitting so close, we’re practically rubbing shoulders.

The man next to Maggie—I already forget his name, but he has a sunburnt bald head—asks me where I’m from. “California,” I answer, grateful for a distraction from sexy hands and shoulders.

“Ah, another American.” He indicates Connor, but I dare not look at him again so soon. I’m still recovering from the last time. “He’s from California, too.”

I can’t help but turn to Connor in surprise. He could live hundreds of miles away in the southern corner of the state, for all I know, but being this far from home, anywhere in California is practically my own backyard. “Really?”

“Used to be,” he says. “I’m not from anywhere anymore, but my family still lives in central California. What part are you in?”

“San Francisco.” I’m about to ask what he means by not being from anywhere anymore, but the waitress comes outside to take my order. I get the typical pilgrim’s meal—a Bocadillo and wine—and by the time I’ve ordered, the conversation around the table has gone on.

Everything I’d read about the fluid social aspect of the Camino was pretty accurate. As you run into people, you might have a light-hearted chat for a few minutes, or end up in a surprisingly deep conversation with someone you’ll likely never see again. 

Unless you’ve seen him three times already. I glance at Connor, who’s chewing a bite of sandwich. He glances at me too. Man, those blue eyes.

I look to Maggie. She’s leaning back in her chair, listening to the conversation at the table. Everyone’s currently comparing notes about where they started on the Camino, one of the favorite topics among pilgrims. (Others are places of origin, why we’re walking the Way, and how many blisters we have.)

The couple at the table tell us they started at the beginning of the French Way in St. Jean Pied de Port. Turns out, they live there and after years of seeing pilgrims come into their city, they finally decided to do the Camino themselves.

As they share their story (the man has a thick French accent, but the woman speaks English almost like a native), I’m suddenly self-conscious that I have no makeup on. I don’t wear much makeup to start with and am usually comfortable enough without it that I’ll just throw on lip gloss some days and be done with it, but right now I’m wishing I looked a little more put together. Not to mention the fact that we pilgrims tend to smell like we’ve just come from the gym. Course, it smells good on him. Not that I’m paying attention to that.

The woman finishes her story and asks Maggie where she started the Camino.

“Burgos,” Maggie says. “If I didn’t have to split my time off with my family’s vacation, I could’ve walked the whole thing.” I’ve heard this story once before, so I know how frustrated she was about the situation. Even if I didn’t already know, her tone says it all. “My family spends a week in Cork every summer and there’s no gettin out’a that one.”

“Not even for this one year?” the French woman asks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Connor take a sip of his wine. I’m more aware of his movements than I want to be.

“Ach, noooo,” Maggie says in her Irish brogue. “It’s tradition, you see. Way back when I was a wee lass my parents decided we’d do it every year and, by golly, that’s the way it’ll be.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Connor says, putting down his glass. “How other people think they get to make decisions that affect the rest of our lives?”

I turn to him, intrigued in spite of myself. “There’s a story behind that comment.”

He smiles, and nods down at his plate. “Yeah, I guess there is.” He takes a bite, but we’re all watching him in anticipation.

He swallows and glances around. His eyes land on me and linger. A sudden heat appears on my cheeks. Damn his handsomeness.

“Well?” the bald man says. “Let’s hear it.”

Connor gives a soft laugh that I feel in my chest. “It’s not that exciting. My parents run a hotel and my older brother and sister both work there. I did too, of course. It was just kind of assumed I’d make that my career, but…”

He lets the word trail away.

Maggie leans in. “You’re a wee rebel child, aren’t ya?”

He laughs. “Sort of. I had different plans for my own life and one day, I finally got up the courage to tell them.”

“How’d that go over?” I ask.

“Like a rock, at first,” he says simply, but when his eyes rest on me again, it feels like there’s something else going on under the surface. It’s that same feeling I get at the beginning of a first date, when by all appearances both parties are just having a casual conversation, but the eyes are trying to go deeper. He’s wondering about you, and you’re wondering about him.

That’s what it feels like right now, here on this patio cafe with all these other pilgrims around and him talking about his family’s reaction to the news that he didn’t want to be in their business. He’s not just looking at me. He’s taking notice. I’m taking notice, too. I don’t know what I think about that.

“Everyone’s okay with it now, though,” he continues. “It’s been almost four years.”

“And your family’s business isn’t suffering?” the French woman asks.

“Oh no. They didn’t need me for free labor, or anything. It wasn’t about that.”

I want to ask what it was about. Instead I ask, “So what are you doing instead?”

“Feeding my wanderlust,” he says with a grin and a wink, and that wink gives me a little flutter, like he physically poked my heart with it. “I go where the wind takes me, and more or less live wherever my boat’s docked.”

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. “The world is 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 nods 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 listen to him tell us about bathhouses 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 traveling the world like he does, and part of me is crazy jealous. 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? On the other hand, the idea of 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 think it’d be fun, but I also think it’d be hard not to have a home.”

He nods. “For some it would be. 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, the effect he has on me gets 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 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 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.

“No thanks. I think I’ll go.” 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 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 parts 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 saw one another a week ago, then 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 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 returning 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 restaurant suggestions 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.

You’ve been reading Beautiful Mine.