The First Steps South

A walk out of Madrid, and the lost art of going on foot.

“Are you sure I can’t give you a couple of bucks for the train instead?” Matt asked as he shoved the last of his clothes into his duffel bag. “That’s all right. I’m actually feeling up for the walk, but I appreciate it.” I stared up at the aged white wall, warmly lit by the tall iron lamp in the corner. The bed frame had that same dark iron look, and the light played across the rough wall until faint patterns started to appear in front of my eyes. The velvet seat softened under me every time I shifted. The room was a shelter of comfort bought for the night by my old friend Matt, and it would be the last taste of luxury I expected to have for a while. We were getting ready to go our separate ways. “Hopefully it won’t be so hot today,” he said, peeking through the blackout curtains. “For your sake, at least.” “There’s only one way to find out, I guess. Let’s go check out.” The sun hid behind the clouds that morning as we left the hostel and walked through the small back streets of Madrid. Even in the slight gloom, the apartments above us glowed in white, beige, and peach. Life began to move through the city. Sharply dressed men and women headed off to work in every direction while we continued toward the main street, looking for a subway stop on the route to the airport. “I have some time to kill if you want to grab something quick,” Matt said. We looked over the restaurants along the way until we found a cheap sandwich place. We set our bags down near the front, and I sat under the open canopy table. “What do you want to eat?” “Just get me the cheapest sandwich on the menu.” As he went inside, I moved my bag so it rested comfortably beside me. I no longer worried much about pickpockets or thieves. My bag had grown to nearly sixty pounds from all my travels, making it almost impossible for any man to grab it and run. I had grown accustomed to its size and weight, almost as if it were part of me now. Its coarse, tightly woven green fabric had proven durable this whole time, and I had no doubt it would survive the rest of the trip. Matt came back out with our food and two cups of water. “So explain to me again how you came up with this plan.” “Well, I wrote my dad to let him know everything was fine and that I was still alive. Then I mentioned that I was planning on heading down to Morocco, but the trains seemed pretty expensive. So he suggested, ‘Why don’t you just walk it?’” I laughed again at the sheer simplicity of his solution. “And that’s when I thought, why not? That’s been pretty much my mentality throughout this whole trip. Why not? So I told him I’d take him up on it and try to walk most of the way there.” A look of humorous confusion came across Matt’s face. “Well,” he said, “you’ve made it this far. What’s a couple more months, I guess.” We ate our sandwiches as the sun started to peer out over the buildings. The clouds began to disperse. The sky became visible. The city was fully awake by then, and I sat there savoring every bite. After finishing our food, we continued toward the subway a few blocks away. As we headed down the escalator, Matt looked up at me with a half-unsatisfied smirk. “Well, this is it, my friend. It was great seeing you after all this time.” But when we reached the bottom, there was a photo booth next to the ticket counter. We looked at each other with the same acknowledging smile, as if we both knew exactly what the other was thinking at the moment it appeared. “One for the road?” “Definitely.” We climbed into the small booth and tried to fit all our luggage in with us. Scrolling through the different frame options, we found one with a boy and his yellow dog under the title Hora De Aventuras. It seemed like the most fitting title for the lives we were both walking into. We selected the frame and stood still in front of the camera, both of us making awkward faces. The count dropped from three to one, and the camera snapped. I took the picture from the slot as it printed and held it up for a better look. We both laughed at the ridiculousness of it, but it represented us in every way: two good friends sharing a brief adventure before heading off into different worlds. “You hold on to it,” I said, handing him the photo. “I’d hate to lose it along the way.” He held it up one more time, examined it, and placed it inside his jacket pocket. “So long, dear friend. I’ll see you when I see you.” With those few words, we headed our separate ways. ✦ I was back on the surface streets. In the time we had spent underground, the heat had returned, just as it had in the days before. I took off my jacket and packed it away. Sitting by a bus stop, I unfolded my map of the country and traced the highway lines that would lead me south. If I wanted to reach the highway, I first had to get out of the city. After asking around, I found a local bus that would take me just beyond the city limits. The ride was pleasant because the air conditioning was blasting through the empty bus. The farther we went, the more the beauty of central Madrid faded. The streets became more desolate. The sidewalks were cracked, and solitary locals moved quickly, trying to get out of the heat. The bus came to a full stop, and hot air rushed through the open doors. The few remaining passengers scattered out until I was the last one left on the barren street. I turned my face up toward the sky, traced south with my hand, tightened my straps, and started walking. After a few minutes of wandering, I found the city limits. In front of me was a road surrounded by a golden valley that stretched beyond the horizon. ✦ I stood there for a moment while a slight breeze moved through the thistles and weeds. Along the highway, a lone dirt road moved like a serpent’s back through the dried-up El Dorado. I set my first steps onto the dusty path. Even as it swerved through sporadic turns, it never left the side of its larger paved counterpart. It took some time to find my rhythm. Every step met ditches, stones, and broken ground. My bag lay heavy on my back, and the canteen swung from my belt loop like a rider on a horse. Thistles brushed against my ankles and scratched them raw, but I kept moving. Eventually my mind was no longer fully in my body. It belonged to the road. I took in every breeze from the trucks as they passed and listened to the silence that returned after they were gone. There was a rhythm now. I was not simply repeating the motion or watching each step. I was somewhere in between, moving forward while my eyes wandered through the mysteries around me. I marched on until I reached a small hill where the dirt road curved away from the highway. The path became more unpredictable. Slopes moved up and down without reason. Empty concrete drainage beds cut through the land. I passed a dead tree standing alone in the field, threw my bag beside it, and sat under the little shade it offered. I looked toward the sun, which had not seemed to move since I started, and against better judgment, checked my clock. Shock and desperation rose in me as I realized the deception of time. I was a few minutes short of an hour from when I had started on the path, but my body insisted it had been longer. My legs pulsed as I stretched them into the shade. I took a swig from my canteen, picked the sharp thistles out from under my socks, and pushed on. Eventually, the road led back alongside the highway, and things began moving again. By noon, the sun was beating down on my forehead. I passed a small market and picked up water, bread, and peanut butter for the road. Soon after, an intersecting highway cut across the dirt path and blocked my way. I realized then how much our lives had come to revolve around transportation. Out there in the middle of nowhere, the highways themselves became blockades for the walking traveler. Traffic picked up as I stood there trying to figure out how to cross. I followed the perpendicular highway west for ten minutes through high weeds that scratched at my arms until I found an underpass. There were remnants of somebody’s home inside the tunnel. The shade felt ten degrees cooler, and the cement wall was cold to the touch. Fragments of what had once been a tent lay among scattered clothes and trash. I could not imagine what had happened to the person who had lived there. I only knew the place had been abandoned for some time. I made my way through and returned to the original highway, where the path waited for me like a faithful companion. I had tied on a dark red bandana and changed into a tank top to fight the sun and sweat, but the heat went on. My mouth grew drier as the hours passed. I tried to hold out as long as possible between sips of water, preparing myself for how long the trip could take. It had been two hours since my last stop by the tree, and the weight of the bag was bringing me down. Its rough straps scraped against my bare, sunburned shoulders until I had to hold them in my hands to relieve the pressure. ✦ In the distance, I could see a small truck-stop town with homes and a market. The path took me around the back of a wide storage building and toward a small bar. I went in intending to ask where I was on the map. When I opened the door, I entered an air-conditioned room that, to me, felt no different from the top of a mountain. “Hola,” the woman behind the bar greeted me cheerfully. The room was small and held only a handful of old-timers drinking beer and laughing with one another. “Hola.” I took out my map and continued in Spanish. “Where exactly is this place? And is this still the road to Toledo?” “It certainly is. You should be right around here.” She pointed to a place on the map between Madrid and Toledo called Yuncos. “But really, you are farther down, closer to Yuncler. Where are you coming from?” “I walked here from Madrid. I just needed to take a small break.” “You walked? From Madrid?” she exclaimed, looking at the old-timer next to me. “Why would you do such a thing?” “Well, why not?” I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. She called to the other bartender to repeat what she had just heard. “Yes, I hear you, Lucia,” he laughed. “Well, young man,” the old man beside me said, “let me get you a nice drink.” “Oh, no, you don’t have to do that.” “Nonsense. It’s not every day you see a wanderer pass through these parts.” “I mean, I could stay for one drink. It has been pretty hot out there.” “And I’ll fill up your water bottle while I’m at it,” the bartender said. She had a young, motherly smile. While I sat with the drink in my hand, I explained some of my adventures and how I had ended up there. I told them about the conversation with my dad and about the lost art of walking. We laughed and talked until I had finished the cold beer. “I should probably be off now, but thank you so much for the drink.” “Wait a moment,” the bartender said. “Rafa, can you please take this boy to the truck stop and see that he gets a ride, so he doesn’t have to walk all that way?” “Of course,” said the old-timer. When we stepped out of the bar, the goodbyes disappeared behind the closing door. “All right,” Rafa said. “I’m sure we can find someone going your direction.” I thought about it for a moment. The idea of hitching a ride sounded luxurious, but a new surge of energy had come back into me. I wanted to keep walking. “It’s fine,” I told him. “I can keep going.” “What? How come?” “If I get tired, I’ll wave somebody down. I think I can make it there before sundown.” “I wish I had your energy, kid. Okay then. Good luck with the rest of your journey. If anything happens, you can always come back here.” “Thank you so much.” I tightened the straps again, stepped back toward the road, and kept moving south.