Page 17 of Every Step She Takes

“I’ve never seen her before, but with that hot-ass face and that hot-ass ass, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was.”

Vera scrunches her face in concentration. “She’s definitely rich.”

“How can you tell?” I ask.

“She paid for everyone’s dinner last night,” Vera says. “Didn’t you notice?”

I was so jet-lagged, I wouldn’t have noticed if Mal did a naked limbo on top of the table.

“And she paid with an AmEx Black card.”

“You’re like a little detective, aren’t you, V?” Ari rubs her hands together mischievously. “Perhaps you shall be my Mal spy.”

“I will not.”

I keep my attention focused on my breakfast, once again praying no one will ask me any more direct questions.

Maybe Mal is famous. Maybe that’s why I had that weird sensation of knowing her when I first saw her on the plane.

Maybe that’s why every time I look at her, my stomach pole-vaults into my rib cage.

Inez stands on her chair and claps her hands together to get our attention.

“Good morning, my beautiful pilgrims!” she sings.

She glances around the room. “Everyone here is beautiful, but this announcement is specifically for the beautiful pilgrims on the Beatrix Tour. This is the last call for toilets and coffee. We’re meeting out front in five minutes! ”

As she finishes her announcement, Mal comes running down the stairs with her bag slung over one shoulder.

Her hair is wet and slicked back, showing off her widow’s peak.

She’s wearing her Hokas, brown hiking pants, and a white T-shirt beneath her open fleece.

She’s distinctly not wearing a bra again.

And she is, regrettably, very hot indeed.

Matosinhos is beautiful in the morning. As we set out for the day, the sun filters between white-washed buildings that reflect the golden light and make the cobblestones sparkle.

There’s a floral smell to the air, perhaps from the purple flowers in the trees, and it mixes with the salty crispness of the sea.

Even though it’s already eight thirty, the city is only starting to wake up.

Old men in aprons sweep the sidewalks outside their storefronts, small delivery trucks unload the day’s fresh meat and produce, and school children in uniforms parade down the street in small clusters, their parents trailing after.

Inez leads us in the direction of the yellow arrows, through sleepy streets and sunshine, as people call “Bom caminho!” to us pilgrims.

Our group adds to the music of the morning too.

The clang of Mal’s water bottle; the anachronistic click of Vera’s camera; Inez’s commentary and Rebecca’s humming and the clang of Ro’s trekking poles; the sound of eight pairs of asynchronistic feet clomping along the Camino.

There is something comforting about being part of this morning routine.

The comfort ends, though, when our pathway along the beach turns from sidewalk to boardwalk.

Each time my hiking boots hit the wooden slats, pain shoots from my ankles to my calves.

I try to cling to the pleasure of the blue sky and the roaring sea, but after an hour on the boardwalk, I’ve lost all optimism.

The group stretches out along the boardwalk as everyone walks at their own pace, and I am the caboose, trudging along miserably. At one point, Stefano jogs back to me and offers to carry my pack the rest of the way.

“But you have your own pack to carry,” I point out.

“I will run ahead and drop my pack off at the hostel, and then run back for your pack,” he says. And the idea of him running with his pack makes me so angry, I almost do let him carry both bags.

Inez has everyone take a photo of our feet fanned around a bronze engraving in the middle of the boardwalk that has the phrase bom caminho in several languages. Buen camino. Good journey.

There is nothing good about this journey.

We don’t take a proper break until we reach a town called Boa Nova a little after ten. There’s a café tucked under a checkered awning, and Inez wrangles two sidewalk tables together so we can rest. Everyone drops their packs in a heap and trickles inside in search of coffee and a bathroom.

I line up behind Rebecca and search for a menu where there seems to be none.

This place is nothing like my local Seattle coffee shop.

The café has the low lighting of a bar, which it might be, given the beer tap in the corner.

A few locals stand at the counter sipping from tiny white espresso cups, and everyone is speaking Portuguese except us.

“Do you want help ordering?” a voice asks close to my ear, and I nearly jump out of my skin at Mal’s sudden closeness.

“Uh, no…” I stammer. “I’ll be okay.”

When I reach the counter, a stern woman rattles off a monologue in Portuguese while I blink dumbly at her. Duolingo didn’t cover this in the first two lessons.

“Hi, um, coffee?” I try. And I throw in a “desculpe” for good measure.

“Café?” she repeats back to me, and I’m not sure if she’s talking about a drink or a building.

“Yes? Please.”

“Café,” she says again, this time performing charades with an imaginary cup of coffee.

“Sí. Or, uh, sim. Por favor.”

“Faz favor,” Mal whispers behind me.

I fumble for a few bills I withdrew at the airport. I have no idea how much a cup of coffee costs, so I hand her a ten euro.

The woman stares at the outstretched money and proceeds to laugh at me. “N?o. N?o.”

We’re playing charades again, and this time, she keeps pressing two pinched fingers into the palm of her hand. “Um,” she says. “Um.”

“Um, what ?”

Mal clears her throat and steps forward, placing a single euro coin on the counter.

“Obrigada!” the woman shouts, sweeping the coin into her apron. She says something else to Mal, but the only word I catch is “Americana.”

“Americana,” Mal echoes, and they both laugh. I feel infinitesimal. Like a silly, stupid American in the presence of Mal’s cool worldliness.

The only thing worse than the laughter is the world’s tiniest cup of espresso that the woman hands me. It tastes like licking freshly ground coffee beans, and I discreetly dump it out before I return to the outside table.

“Café means espresso,” Mal says as she follows me outside.

“Pilgrims!” Inez beams at us as we sit down.

We’re the last two people to rejoin the group, and Inez eagerly launches into one of her spiritual speeches.

“Welcome to our first sharing circle! As we established last night in the WhatsApp chat”—she shoots a pointed look at Ro—“you do not have to share, but I hope you will.” Her gaze shifts to Mal.

“The friends you meet here can become your forever family.”

A gremlin voice in the back of my head wonders if Mal and Inez have a romantic history from back when they met on the Camino all those years ago. I stare at Inez, searching for clues in her cheerful expression.

“Now,” Inez continues. “Today’s trek to Vila do Conde is twenty-one kilometers, or thirteen miles, and it is the first of many long days ahead of us. For our first sharing circle, I want you to consider what scares you most about the Camino.”

“Scares us?” Ro repeats with a tight frown. “Is the Camino scary? I thought it was supposed to be safe.”

Inez offers them a reassuring smile. “It is very safe. I’m talking more about emotional fears.”

Rebecca raises her hand. Today’s tracksuit is an impeccable powder blue. “You don’t have to raise your hand,” Inez says encouragingly.

Rebecca lowers it. “I am scared I won’t be able to do it,” she says with a little tremor in her voice. “I’ve never attempted anything like this before, and I’m worried I won’t be able to walk two hundred miles.”

Rebecca looks like she does Pilates five times a week. She’ll be fine.

“I’m scared that after all these years, the reality of the Camino won’t live up to my expectations,” Vera shares next, and we hopscotch around the loose semicircle.

Ari: “I’m afraid of not being fully present in the moment while I’m here.”

Stefano: “I’m scared of being bored.”

Ro: “I’m scared of these sharing circles.”

Mal: “Blisters.”

“And how about you, Sadie?” Inez asks, swiveling to face me. I thought I’d successfully concealed myself behind Mal, but no such luck, apparently.

“I, uh, um…” I start, very articulately. “I-I thought you said we didn’t have to share.”

C’est La Vi with Me

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Are You Afraid of the Light?

Sadie Wells

May 14, 2025 6 comments

Day two of the Camino had us walking 13 miles from Matosinhos to Vila do Conde, mostly on the boardwalk following the Atlantic coast north of Porto.

The shore permanently at our left was both rocky and green as we started, but it eventually became soft sand.

The ocean absorbed the color of the sky, shifting throughout the day from pale blue to dark gray to blinding azure.

As we trekked along the boardwalk past small towns, always following the yellow scallop shell and arrow, our tour guide asked us to reflect on what scares us the most about the Camino.

Little does she know, all I ever think about are my fears.

A Non-Exhaustive List of Things that Scared Me on the Camino Today:

Walking.

More specifically, having to walk 13 miles while knowing I’ll have to walk 14 miles tomorrow.

The possibility of passing out in the middle of the path from all this walking when it literally would’ve taken twenty minutes to get to Vila do Conde by car.

I was scared of how strong the sun felt by only ten in the morning.

I was scared I was going to visibly sweat through my underwear and yoga pants ( Good news! They both moisture-wicked like their lives depended on it. ).

I was scared someone was going to try to talk to me while I was that sweaty.

I’m scared of the fact that I will have to carry my belongings for the next thirteen days like some kind of pack mule.

I’m scared that I might not be strong enough to carry all my belongings.

I’m scared of our tour guide’s prying personal questions.

I’m scared that every hotel we stay in will be a bleak, colorless void of sad.

I was scared that something truly horrible was happening inside my hiking boots.

From: Wells, Victoria [email protected]

Sent: Wednesday, May 14, 2025 12:24 a.m.

To: Wells, Sadie [email protected]

Subject: Re: Second Blog Post Draft

This is a step in the right direction, but it still doesn’t make Beatrix sound great… remember, you’re supposed to inspire people to want to take this trip. Can you at least pretend like you’re enjoying yourself?

Victoria Wells

Travel Writer

~Not all who wander are lost~