"The mirrors of Compostela" Finally alone!

Story "The mirrors of Compostela" - Finally alone - Back cover: I wanted to leave. Breathe the warm summer air, smell the rain, sweat through every pore of my skin, confront the storm and see the fall colors pop up before my eyes. Go. I was 41 years old. It must have been October or November, fall anyway, when my decision fell. Irrevocable. I'll go for a walk. Three months. I just had to choose a destination. […] It was not the ideas that were lacking. Mario interrupted me, with his slight South American accent: "Why don't you go to Saint-Chacques-de-Compostela?" - It's not okay, no! To walk with all these idiots ?, I replied. " […] And when Mario had added, with his Latin warmth, "Si tou vas à Compostelle, ché té réchoins for the second part, in Spain." "It definitely won me over. I will go to Compostela. With all these idiots. Extract : At the start of the afternoon, I whistle through the medieval village of Marols, all in stones that are too well cared for. It must be good to live here, too good to live. The rain has stopped falling, my cape is in the bag, the path is wet, my shoes are muddy. I had planned to book my accommodation as we went along, up to Puy-en-Velay anyway. At noon, I went to a phone booth, proving to myself at the same time that I don't need a cell phone ... but to call anyway! I found an address on the Internet with bed and breakfast in Apinac. It's called the "Welcome Center". It's a big building on the main road. It is sunny again when the director receives me in the middle of his papers. He's running a summer camp, if I understand correctly. And it is also supposed to welcome the few passing pilgrims. Tense, visibly overwhelmed by too many responsibilities, he takes up his precious time to get me home in fourth gear. I feel like I'm annoying him with my Santiago de Compostela. I don’t get it all, but he looks like he has to take me home. There is no other way to sleep here. At least I have a bedroom and a shower in a corner of the garage. Calm. After washing, I return to the Reception Center where I am expected for dinner. No doubt I will share it with the animation team and the kids at the summer camp. A joy. But the ladies on duty receive me coldly. One of them immediately takes me to a spooky little room off the kitchen ... and slams the door behind her! Confused, I wait. I am alone. At this moment, it doesn't amuse me at all. Two minutes later, the door opens: the cook, the same one, puts the starter on the table for me, comes out immediately, slams the door! Stronger than the first time. I jump. I eat. I wait. Noises of dishes reach me from the kitchen. Through the curtains of the storage room in which I am, I can make out the children and the camp counselors, settling down on large tables in the courtyard of the establishment. They laugh. They let me wait several minutes. An eternity. The door swings open. The cook returns. The cook sets the main course. I barely have time to spot a few pots in the kitchen. She comes out quickly, the cook. Hard hit. She slams the door now. She took the hand, the cook! I want to cry. I repress the rage that begins to rise. I want to tell them, "But stop being jerks, let me eat with everyone. " I am silent. I just got it. They try to hide me! This is the rule for summer camps: no outside guest, unless you report it to the authorities and fill out dissuasive tons of administrative documents. After a day alone on the roads, I wanted to talk. Missed ! Outside, the summer camp dines at sunset. Me, I chew my apple in the oven. I feel like I'm being punished. Made in France Author: François Koch Illustration: Jack Koch The mirrors of Compostela - Finally alone - Back cover: I wanted to leave. Breathe the warm summer air, smell the rain, sweat through every pore of my skin, confront the storm and see the fall colors pop up before my eyes. Go. I was 41 years old. It must have been October or November, fall anyway, when my decision fell. Irrevocable. I'll go for a walk. Three months. I just had to choose a destination. […] It was not the ideas that were lacking. Mario interrupted me, with his slight South American accent: “Why don't you go to Santiago de Compostela? - It's not okay, no! To walk with all these idiots ?, I replied. "[…] And when Mario had added, with his Latin warmth," Si tou vas à Compostelle, dear rechoins for the second part, in Spain. "It definitely won me over. I will go to Compostela. With all these idiots. Extract: At the start of the afternoon, I whistle through the medieval village of Marols, all in stones that are too well cared for. It must be good to live here, too good to live. The rain has stopped falling, my cape is in the bag, the path is wet, my shoes are muddy. I had planned to book my accommodation as we went along, up to Puy-en-Velay anyway. At noon, I went to a phone booth, proving to myself at the same time that I don't need a cell phone ... but to call anyway! I found an address on the Internet with bed and breakfast in Apinac. It's called the "Welcome Center". It's a big building on the main road. It is sunny again when the director receives me in the middle of his papers. He's running a summer camp, if I understand correctly. And it is also supposed to welcome the few passing pilgrims. Tense, visibly overwhelmed by too many responsibilities, he takes up his precious time to get me home in fourth gear. I feel like I'm annoying him with my Santiago de Compostela. I don’t get it all, but he looks like he has to take me home. There is no other way to sleep here. At least I have a bedroom and a shower in a corner of the garage. Calm. After washing, I return to the Reception Center where I am expected for dinner. No doubt I will share it with the animation team and the kids at the summer camp. A joy. But the ladies on duty receive me coldly. One of them immediately takes me to a spooky little room off the kitchen ... and slams the door behind her! Confused, I wait. I am alone. At this moment, it doesn't amuse me at all. Two minutes later, the door opens: the cook, the same one, puts the starter on the table for me, comes out immediately, slams the door! Stronger than the first time. I jump. I eat. I wait. Noises of dishes reach me from the kitchen. Through the curtains of the storage room in which I am, I can make out the children and the camp counselors, settling down on large tables in the courtyard of the establishment. They laugh. They let me wait several minutes. An eternity. The door swings open. The cook returns. The cook sets the main course. I barely have time to spot a few pots in the kitchen. She comes out quickly, the cook. Hard hit. She slams the door now. She took the hand, the cook! I want to cry. I repress the rage that begins to rise. I want to tell them, "But stop being jerks, let me eat with everyone. " I am silent. I just got it. They try to hide me! This is the rule for summer camps: no outside guest, unless you report it to the authorities and fill out dissuasive tons of administrative documents. After a day alone on the roads, I wanted to talk. Missed ! Outside, the summer camp dines at sunset. Me, I chew my apple in the oven. I feel like I'm being punished.