They were talking about a music festival. They were both going, and they each listed bands they were hoping to see. Sometimes they nodded respectfully at one another’s preferences, or gave a little admiring toss of speech with their nod, and both had a few nice words about that night’s headliner. But it was clear they were not quite compatible, and were emphasizing their respectful recognition of one another’s preferences without even the wistfulness to wish the other one more like themselves. They would not fall in love, no matter how tantalizing the opportunity of their circumstance might seem. Perhaps they both had lovers back at home.
Instead, they talked about their journeys, which was a better subject to respectfully elaborate on their differences, to feel that they were not at fault for their loss. The man had worked his way there from Portugal, following a trail the woman seemed to know of. After the festival, he would work his way to Greece. The woman, meanwhile, had come from the Camino de Santiago. She had made it to Pamplona and hopped to Barcelona for the weekend; on Monday she would fly to Paris and begin the pilgrimage again from the opposite direction. Joseph found this interesting, but the man did not ask her for her reason for taking the journey, just as she did not seek a logic behind his seemingly random itinerary. They avoided this subject out of a sense, perhaps, that the other person’s answer could hew quite close to an explanation of their very reason for being.
Joseph also, of course, asked them nothing. He had also flown in for the festival; before this he had been in Berlin, after he would go to Paris. At times he found himself wishing he could join in their talk—he had a lot on the surface in common with them, at least as much as they had in common with one another, though with the girl a bit more so, since he was going to see many of the same bands she was. But he felt strongly that he could not add himself to their talk at this point. He had been silent for too long, with his headphones in, which made his listening to their conversation almost duplicitous. And he didn’t have the right kind of backpack like they did, only a few crumpled shirts and underwear stuffed at the bottom of his schoolbag.
The couple’s conversation spiraled outward to include treks they had done in summers past, or wanted to do in the future. Though they seemed to know all of each other’s locations, they never could seem to find a trail for which they both shared a reverence, and perhaps the world was big enough that they would never find one. Joseph turned his music up again slightly, though it was still soft enough for him to hear the Australian’s simple goodbye, “Fare well on your travels,” when his stop came and it was time for him to exit the bus. After which the American woman, turning slightly away from where her companion had been and further toward the front of the bus, looked forward. The side of her face looked fresh, untroubled and blank, as though she had already forgotten him.
When Joseph got to the hostel, he rang the bell and was led upstairs. Though it was midday, the lights were off and the concierge spoke softly as though it were past some kind of curfew, and when he got into his room he discovered that several people inside it were in bed, with sheets tied light curtains over the lower bunks to block light, and from more than one bunk the sounds of sleep were deep and loud. Joseph took a top bunk and climbed to it gingerly, pulling his few belongings out of his bag. He began took off his shirt, and began unbuttoning his pants before halting, listening intently to the snoring around him, before pulling his shirt back on and walking downstairs, where he rented a towel from the concierge for two euros. He then went back upstairs, took a shower, and climbed onto the bunk again to put new clothes on from a supine position. The breathing sounded different now, and there were also the sounds of plastic crinkling and glass clinking against metal. Already it seemed like it was almost evening.
- Lonny L Lake