28 feb

0 kilometres walked. That’s right: 0. Stayed at Nasbinals. When we woke up this morning Julie peeked out our windows and declared: ‘It’s a blizzard, you’re staying in.’ When a Nebraska girl calls something a blizzard, you know it’s serious.

The wind had been howling all night, speeding up towards the morning, so I was not looking forward to the day. Especially because my knee was still acting up after yesterday’s extravaganza. A good day to be sensible and take a rest. A good day too to leave Merlin battle the blizzard by itself and seek the comfort of a nice hotel. Shower, bath, electricity, internet access, all these things one takes for granted most of the time sound rather wonderful suddenly.

When we walked into the hotel, two pelerins just walked out the door. Also going to Santiago, but quite a bit more brave than me. They seemed to be more prepared too, with real poncho’s – c’est tres important! – and skiing walking sticks. Well, they were only going to walk to Aubrac, eight kilometres on the way. If all goes well I might see them again one day.

These were the first fellow pilgrims I had seen. There had been some signs of footsteps in the snow, but they were always snowed over. It might have been them. Or maybe they arrived at Nasbinals after me last night.

One of the things I want to think about during this trip is sins. Yesterday I got a little farther with pride, one of the more important sins. I have been stuck in my head with a song from the Belgian singer Jacques Brel. Les Bourgeois, it is called. The Citizens, literally, but he means the conservative middle class (in the European meaning – in America anybody who is white is middle class; To be precise in the Orwellian sense Brel refers to the lower upper middle class, the upper middle middle class and the middle middle middle class). It is full of great lines, this song, but the one I have to think of constantly could be translated as follows: And Pete he thought he was like Dante, while Nick thought he was Casanova himself, and me the being the super arrogant one, I thought I just could be myself.’

Being yourself is a severe form of pride, Brel seems to suggest. And there might be a whole lot of truth in it. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said that ‘all the world’s a stage, and all men and women are merely players’. The dutch poet Vondel (earlier) wrote similar words: De wereld is een schouwtoneel, ieder speelt zijn rol en krijgt zijn deel.

What it indicates is that one has to find out what role one has to play in life and then study how to play it. Just being oneself is assuming that everyone around you will adjust to your impulses and apply to your needs.

I think life can not to treated as an entire entity. There are quite a few separate roles one has to play in life. Let’s say: son, brother, husband, father, friend, journalist, tennis player, and so on. Each role demands its own perfection. Not taking these roles serious – by just being yourself – is arrogant.

And this is how we get through the day. Nice and warm, while the snow outside doesn’t want to stop. I guess I’ll be looking out for a poncho this afternoon. But will also be reading the ‘Camino’ section in the book ‘A sense of direction’. And blessing myself I am not walking, although realizing I am failing in my role as pilgrim.