Page 34 of Every Step She Takes

It’s our last day on the Portuguese coast, and I try to concentrate on memorizing the beauty here.

In another mile or so, we’ll take a boat across the border into Spain and find ourselves one giant step closer to Santiago de Compostela.

I’ll miss the tiny, old Portuguese men who hobble past us with their “Bom caminhos!” I’ll miss the unrelenting kindness of everyone we’ve met along our journey.

I’ll miss the sound of Mal effortlessly switching between English and Portuguese at every café and restaurant.

But most of all, I’ll miss pasteis de nata.

I order an entire plateful when we stop for morning tea, and I make sure to savor every bite before they’re gone forever.

The path moves away from the coast and into the woods, taking us along a soft trail of trees for another mile before the path abruptly cuts across a stretch of sand.

We end up on the bank of a river. There’s an inconspicuous dock with a few small boats bobbing in the current beside it and people waiting in disorderly lines.

“All right, my beautiful and/or hungover pilgrims!” Inez announces. “The boats cost six euro! Get on whichever one has room, and we’ll meet up on the other side in Spain!”

I get swept up in the current of people heading toward the boats. Someone takes my cash.

Another man speaking Spanish takes my hand and lifts me into a boat, where I’m surrounded by people I don’t recognize, all singing in Portuguese. I quickly learn they’re all nurses, and they’re doing the Camino as a team-bonding experience.

I look up and see that Mal is next to Inez in a different boat, that the whole group is separated.

The motor churns and the noise drowns out all other sounds as we cruise across the river, water spraying up into the boat, making it impossible for me to see.

I grab on to my hat and hold it in place amid the wind and the waves.

The trip is wild and wonderful, and when my feet are on solid ground again, I’m in a new country.

The town of A Guarda is on a hill overlooking the Atlantic, and we schlep our bags up to our hotel for the night in a chorus of deeply exhausted groans. It’s clear we’re all carrying hangovers in addition to our heavy packs, and the 9 miles it took to get us here were challenging.

It’s a little after one when we arrive, but Inez has a personal relationship with the owner of our hotel, so we’re able to check in early.

Perhaps the greatest joy of my life is discovering our hotel has an elevator.

Granted, it’s only big enough for one person at a time, and you have to open the doors yourself, but everyone except Stefano happily waits their turn to be carted up to the third floor.

“I suspect it’s going to be an early night for most of us,” Inez says before we all part ways.

“You suspect correctly,” Vera tells her as she stifles a sangria-scented burp.

“So, let’s meet up for lunch in an hour, and then we’ll retire early. We can all do our own thing for dinner, if we’re still awake at seven.”

“Deal,” Ro grunts, “but under one condition: no one orders wine at lunch.”

Everyone agrees, and an hour later, we’re together again, walking the few blocks to Restaurante La Casa de la Abuela.

It’s in an unassuming building next to a tattoo parlor, but once inside, we discover a rustically charming place with eclectic furnishings and herbs hanging over the bar.

The restaurant is spread out over several rooms and patios, with old family photos decorating the walls.

It reminds me of my house of ghosts, but warmer and more inviting.

The owner greets Ari like she is family, before guiding us through rooms with stone walls and wood-beam ceilings.

Each space is full of upcycled furniture items. There are wine barrels converted into tables, repurposed chandeliers, and living room furniture functioning as banquette seating.

Seeing the way the pieces work together to create something surprisingly chic makes me miss Nan’s antique store for the first time all trip.

Well, not the store, exactly, but my tiny workshop in the back of the store, the place where I used to reinvent old items the way this restaurant has, honoring the past while also creating something new.

The owner seats us on an expansive patio, and the rest of the group is in the middle of a conversation I missed while daydreaming about furniture restoration.

“I have sixteen, I think,” Ari is saying as we all settle around an old dining room table that’s been dressed up with a pink, woven tablecloth.

“Sixteen what?” I ask.

“Tattoos.” Ari chugs some ice water as she considers this. “No, wait. Seventeen.”

“I have tre .” Stefano winks from his chair where he’s doing seated calf raises. “But they are places your eyes cannot go.”

“How many tattoos do you have?” Ari asks Mal, leaning across the table to stroke the bird tattoo on Mal’s right wrist. The memories of last night rise in the back of my throat like the red wine and brandy. Memories of Ari touching Mal while they danced together; memories of Mal touching me.

“I’ve lost count,” Mal says, before pulling her arm away to reach for her water.

“I’ve always wanted to get a tattoo,” Vera says wistfully. “But I’ve never been able to commit to something that I would want on my body forever.”

“Not me.” I casually reach for a menu, but it’s in Spanish, yet another language I don’t know. “Growing up, I always swore I’d never get one.”

“Well, that sounds like a challenge.” Ari lays down her menu, and when a server comes by, she orders in flawless Spanish.

Then Inez orders tapas for the whole table to get us started—patatas bravas and croquettes, as well as lots and lots of bread to soak up our lingering hangovers—and I get by with just enough Spanish to order myself a Coke.

When it arrives, I take a sip, and oh my damn . Even Coca-Cola tastes better here.

“We could get tattoos,” Ari casually suggests. “There’s a shop next door, and the sign said they accept walk-ins.”

I snort into my mind-blowingly delicious soda. “I don’t think I’m that brave.”

“It’s not about bravery for me,” Mal says, taking a sip from her own Coke, her bowed mouth puckering into an O around her straw. “I just really hate my father.”

“Let’s actually do it!” Vera perks up now that she ingested half a basket of rolls. “Let’s get tattoos together!”

“Darling,” Rebecca drawls, popping an antacid before taking a sip of her herbal tea. “After last night, I think we’ve made enough poor decisions due to peer-pressure and group-think.”

“I would also advise against—” Inez starts, but Vera and Ari grab on to each other’s hands in excitement.

“I’m serious!” Vera insists. “We could all get matching Camino tattoos!”

“Certo! Sì!” Stefano gleefully agrees. He’s already up out of his chair even though the tapas haven’t arrived yet.

“I’m in,” Ro grunts with a surprisingly relaxed shrug.

“I love it .” Ari pumps her fist in the air. Mal reaches over and lowers it back to the table.

“Absolutely not.” Mal returns to her casual perusal of the menu.

The server arrives to take our final orders, and the only thing I want is more potatoes, so I ask for the only other patatas on the menu.

“I love getting impulsive tattoos as much as the next queer, but we don’t know anything about this tattoo shop and its practices, and A Guarda isn’t exactly a sprawling metropolis,” Mal continues.

“Plus, I don’t think our hungover brains are doing their best thinking right now. ”

“It has a 4.5 rating on Google,” Ari notes, staring down at her phone.

“And this is a horrible time of the year to get a tattoo,” Mal adds on. “You can’t expose it to the sun.”

“So we’ll get it somewhere the sun don’t shine.” Ari winks at her.

Mal shakes her head. “And trying to keep the tattoo clean while sweating is going to suck.”

“Come on ,” Vera pleads, pouting in Mal’s direction as if she is the true arbiter of what we do, not Inez. “Aren’t we supposed to challenge ourselves to do things outside our comfort zone? That’s our reflection prompt for today.”

“Hmmm.” Rebecca thoughtfully stirs her tea. “When you put it like that, I suppose I could get a small tattoo, somewhere private, just for me.”

“Fuck yes, Rebecca!” Ari shouts, completely sober and still committed to this reckless decision.

“For liability reasons, I want to emphasize that I was not promoting permanent physical changes to your body,” Inez chirps. Mal studies the worried expression on Inez’s face before she speaks again.

“You all can get tattoos.” Mal leans back in her chair, and it should be illegal how good she looks doing this. “But I’m going to sit this one out.”

“No, no! We’ve all got to do it! The entire Camino Crew! Sadie, you’re in, right?”

I chew on my upper lip. I’m not the kind of person who has tattoos. I wear cardigans and reading glasses; I study the Arts and Crafts movement in architecture for fun ; I genuinely enjoy doing my taxes. I’m asleep every night by nine, and I’m simply not cool enough to get a tattoo.

Except . I reach up and touch the ends of my short hair, feel the slice of bare neck above my shoulders.

Except three days ago, I didn’t think I was the kind of person who would cut off all her hair with kitchen scissors in a foreign country. And I definitely didn’t think I was the kind of person who’d drunkenly kiss a woman on a beach.

What was it Inez said at the sharing circle this morning while I was distracted by the nata? The Camino isn’t about finding yourself; it’s about creating yourself.

“I know that look.” Mal interrupts my thoughts with a low, warning growl. “Don’t do it, Freckles. This is a very bad idea.”

“It is a bad idea,” I agree, “but I think that’s why I have to do it.”

“ Noooo ,” Mal groans at the same time Ari does another fist pump and shouts, “Yes!”

Inez shakes her head repeatedly. “Legally, I can’t have any part in this. I am going back to the hotel.”

I nudge a reluctant Mal with my shoulder. “Part of adolescence is making mistakes, right?”

She shakes her head at me. “I’ve created a monster.”

I reach over the empty basket of bread between us and put my hand on hers. “And Mal?” I wait until she meets my gaze, until her hazel eyes are completely fixed on mine. “You have to get a Camino tattoo with me.”