“Between every two pines is a doorway to a new world” - John Muir
I started at midday, anticipating a short distance. The sun was hot. It felt good to sweat sunscreen and huff and puff and carefully fit the rubber tracts of my shoes into roots and rocks.
As I passed the towns on the winding trail, I realized the distance was longer than my short estimate, but I was enjoying every moment.
I refilled my water bottle in public fountains that are aesthetic and practical. The water tasted so fresh.
I started listening to music. At first the songs that came on randomly, until I heard “Reckless Love” by Cory Asbury. I listened to this for almost the whole climb, and when my battery ran low, I sang the simple words as I walked.
I stopped in one town with the remote charm of a mountain village. A brother and sister made up a game in the narrow street I took to walk out of town. Their words echoed through the street, pure nonsense to my ears, but I imagined what it would be like to grow up in this part of the world.
A fork came in the road, and I took the lower path to trace in peace the steps of Napoleon his army.
I found a cool mountain stream soon into this road and imagined Napoleon’s horse stopping to drink.
I saw a very attentive black bull with white horns and stopped taking pictures when it pawed the ground without breaking eye contact.
Orsières came into sight from the road, but I continued to follow the winding trails.
A gospel story was carved in wood over 10 panels spread along the last part of the trail instead of the usual red and white markers. Each panel had a roof designed for snow like the houses here.
At last, the trail emptied into the town. I carefully zig-zagged down the last steep road. The sun was almost setting, but the life of the village was apparent in the soccer game happening in the stadium of mountains.
I crossed a bridge with vibrant flower boxes on either side.
I found the pilgrim accommodation at the parish behind the church, simply decorated with quotes from the saints on construction paper, designs by volunteers, and a photo of Mother Theresa at age 8.
I decided to eat quickly before the cafe closed. I felt a little lonely eating by myself. I used my chair to twist and stretch. I felt a prick on my finger that stung like a splinter. I looked for a shard of fiberglass in my skin or rough edge of the chair in explanation, before realizing I had put my hand on a wasp!
I explained with my hands to man tending the restaurant. Soon a conversation opened between everyone. Between German, Portueguese, Spanish and English and French, no one shared a wide vocabulary with each other. But we all saw the wasp buzzing around and understood.
It turned out everyone sitting there was a foreigner or traveler of sorts, wanting to communicate, however clumsily, and relate. So between google translate, zero regard for grammar, and attempt in five languages at a time, we made small talk for thirty minutes. It was awkward and wonderful.
I realized brushing my teeth this morning, I said about as much in that conversation as any small talk conversation about the weather or traffic I’ve had English/English. Maybe you say nothing so profound or poetic or important, but you give people the light of your attention for a moment, and it’s a really nice thing.