It’s Monday, which means my day off. I’d planned to visit Burgos, the most nearby city. It was an hour drive, or nine-hour walk. Though I enjoy walking, I figured it’d be more fun to explore the city itself rather than just trekking to it and back to Tosantos. I get dressed and head downstairs to quickly sip some warm tea; the house is freezing.
“You’re my first customer”, Matias tells me (after I made my own tea). Sitting down, warming my hands on the hot cup, I search online when a bus would pass Tosantos. Sylvia had explained to me that there’s no official bus stop, but if I stand by the roadside and wave to the bus driver, he will probably stop. If not, I’ll walk to the next town and take the bus there, though it only comes once every hour or so.
Checking the bus schedule, I only find two options: 16:00 and 18:00. The website is in Spanish, which I don’t understand, so I ask Matias for help. He tells me there should be one at 10:00. There’s still an hour to go, and though I’m tired, I feel a burst of excitement. Not wanting to wait around in the bar, I go outside to the non-existing bus stop and figure I might just wait with my thumb up. There’s only one road, and it leads to Burgos, so maybe a nice stranger lets me join the drive they’re already making.
Less than ten minutes later, said nice stranger stops. However, he’s going the wrong way, so I’m confused why he parks his car and waves at me. In sign language, I think he asks me if I want to go to Burgos – he points the right way. I shout: “Burgos! I need to go to Burgos!” And he gives me a thumbs up and signs to get in his car. Without really thinking about, which is one of my strengths (or weaknesses?), I look left and right and cross the street. “Aren’t you going that way?”, I ask and point the direction he was going in. He answers in Spanish, and I don’t understand a word, but he shakes his head, and I hear him say Burgos. He smiles and I just really want to get to the city, so I get in and put my seatbelt on.
He says something in Spanish, and I tell him I don’t understand. “English”, I say, and he looks at me and back to the road and back at me like I’m crazy. He speaks again—I think listing languages he knows, because I catch the word “French” and curse my lack of language skills. With no language in common, the car turns silent. No music plays, and I’m too shy to ask. For half an hour we drive in complete silence, while I make up possible French conversations in my head that we could have had, but are not going to, because I’m not confident enough in speaking the language. He pushes every speed limit, and at one point, I think we might veer off-road. I’ve noticed that it’s common here in Spain to not take traffic laws too seriously, so I don’t think much of it – the faster we get to Burgos, the better. The silence makes me a little uncomfortable.
With still fifteen minutes to go, he points at himself and says something I don’t understand, but I assume is his name. So, I do the same and say: “I’m Célestine.” Then, I finally understand him say, “Me, Maroc.” Mortified, I realize my mistake. He continues in Spanish, and though I don’t understand the words, I get what he’s saying. Spanish people don’t stop for hitchhikers, Moroccans do. I nod and smile, because he wouldn’t understand anything I say. However, he’s optimistic and keeps saying things in broken Spanish, to which I answer in broken English, mixed with some French vocabulary. Neither of us understands the other, but we act like we do by smiling and nodding after every sentence.
When he drops me off, I understand I’m not in Burgos yet, but that he must go a different way. I look it up on my phone and on foot, I’m an hour away from the city centre. The sun is shining, the streets are filled with people – students even, I think – so I start walking in one straight line, as suggested by Google Maps.
While I’m looking for a café to drink something, I suddenly find myself standing in front of this huge cathedral. It was the one thing I knew about in Burgos, but today it hadn’t crossed my mind. I linger in front of the ticket office for a minute: Do I go in now or later? But it’s a little before noon, too early for lunch, so I walk through in. The entrance fee is 10 euros, and I wonder if I want to spend that, but then I notice the student discount: half-price. In my head I thank the man who stole my wallet a couple of weeks ago, that when he trashed it, he left my Danish student ID. “I’m from Belgium, but I study in Denmark”, I explain. Here, too, just like in Belgium, they never actually check the ID’s (mine clearly states that my studies in Denmark ended in 2023). As a budget traveller and recent graduate, I think I deserve this white lie.
Inside, the cathedral is more beautiful and vaster than I’d expected—I don’t know where to look first. I wander, admiring the paintings, sculptures and ceilings. Though it’s been a few years since I visited a cathedral, I decide this might be the prettiest I’ve ever seen. I am astonished by the beauty and overwhelmed by the details.
About an hour later, I leave the cathedral and hear my stomach rumbling. I retrace my steps, remembering the many restaurants I saw, and soon find one that looks acceptable to eat at by myself. Though the first waitress doesn’t understand me (the lack of English knowledge in Spain keeps surprising me), I quickly get a table and a menu. The menu contains mostly burgers, but I had promised Matias (my co-volunteer) I would eat tapas – though I don’t know how much to order for myself. I settle on three dishes, the first three on the menu, and take out my e-reader to pass the time while waiting. At the next table, three tourist ladies receive their burgers. One look at them makes me slightly regret my order, but I enjoy my food and feel recharged.
Lots and lots of walking later (25.000 steps according to my iPhone), I start to get bored, and long for the coziness of the three blankets on my bed in Tosantos I’ve been photographing the city, and now I feel an urge to play around with the images in Lightroom. Checking bus schedules on my phone, I find nothing for Tosantos, and nothing for Belorado either. I try every nearby town, but the results are the same. Finally, one site shows a message in English: Due to a strike, there are limited buses.
Not fully convinced, I keep looking and looking until I lose hope and opt for a different approach. The sun is setting, and the cold is getting under my sweater, so in a fast pace I start my way towards the highway. On the way, I text Sylvia, and ask if she’s driving back home tonight. She’s not. So, I explain the situation and tell her I will try to catch a ride, to which she answers a firm ‘no’. She offers me the couch at her boyfriend’s apartment, but I feel an urge in my stomach to get back to ‘my room’. I tell her I’ll try hitchhiking first and will keep the couch as a last resort—it’s only 17:30.
Standing at the side of the road, not yet the highway though, I realize the confidence one needs to hitchhike. Awkwardly, with my legs crossed and my lips pressed into a weird and pathetic smile, I stick out my thumb for each passing car. I don’t know what to do with my limbs, how to look or act, and feel the eyes of people passing by on me. My impatience is also of no help and every five minutes, I think it’s no use; I should give up. Then I think of all the girls I follow on Instagram hitchhiking everywhere in the world, stroll to the next spot, and try again.
Despite my earlier determination of getting back to the town (I even calculated what time I’d get there walking. It would take nine hours… so I’d arrive by three in the morning), I suddenly didn’t feel as opposed to that sofa anymore. By 19:00, I check my phone and see messages from Sylvia encouraging me to take her up on the couch offer. We agree to meet at a café, where she’s already planning to read. I begin the walk, enjoying the low light and taking photos with my new f1.8 lens. What should be a forty-minute walk stretches to an hour until I finally reach her.
After drinking tea and talking like old friends about our love lives (sigh and eyeroll), we head to the apartment and consider where we’re going to eat. Eventually we end up in an Italian place, wildly celebrated by my eternal craving for pasta. This place is both a bar and a restaurant, where they serve a slice of pizza with every drink! Sylvia convinces me to get the pasta carbonara and I gladly obey.
On the way back to the apartment we find a bright orange sofa on the side of the road, and Sylvia exclaims she wants to take it home. We laugh about it, but she’s serious too. Since we can’t carry the couch, she settles on taking the pillows, so under each arm, both of us carry big orange pillows. We walk ten steps until she puts them down and decides to get them by car. When we arrive at the apartment, it is Javi, Sylvia’s boyfriend, that offers to drive his minivan and get the whole sofa. “If I don’t see her sitting in it every day”, he starts to say to me, but his English is poor, so after struggling to find the right words, he just ends the sentence laughing and I join him.
With 30.000 steps on my health-app, I collapse into my temporary bed, and quickly fall asleep.
I’m still trying to figure out how often and when I should post, so feel free to give me suggestions!
Only three days remain in my stay in Tosantos. I’m enjoying the calmness, but I’m very excited for Lisbon!
-Cels ❤
CelsAway 
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