The Way the End Begins Page #3

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to Santiago by the end of the year.

He's onto our plan.

But, you know...

I wanted to be a bullfighter.

My father wanted me to be a lawyer.

I became neither.

Coffee is in the common area.

Bonjour, Americano!

I thought you might be staying

at least a few more days here, eh?

Funny.

These European guys are starting

to get a little familiar.

I want to get out of here while they're

still sleeping off their hangover.

Besides, I got all the friends I need.

Don't want any tagalongs, so...

Well, be safe out there.

You too, Boomer.

- Good luck with the quitting.

- Yeah.

Good luck with whatever it is

you're doing out here.

We're all just taking

a really long walk, I suppose.

That's one way to look at it.

Oh!

I do have a cell phone.

Yeah, well,

me, too.

And an iPod.

Sorry for being such an ass last night.

I'm out here to get away from everything

and you just...

Reminded you of it.

Yeah, I get it.

Well...

You're all right, Boomer.

Even if you do like James Taylor.

I'm gonna need you to cancel

all my appointments

for the rest of the month, Doreen.

Oh, no!

Buen Camino.

Tom!

Tom, it's me!

Tom, it's Joost! From Amsterdam!

It's cordero.

Spain is famous for its roast lamb. Mmm!

- Here. You should try some.

- No. Thank you.

Much to my dismay,

Pamplona is just an ordinary Spanish

city when the bulls are not running.

So much for being a party town.

But I've made reservations

to return here in July

during the week of fiestas.

The Sanfermines!

I would like to propose a toast.

'Cause we Dutch love to propose toasts.

That we agree to meet here in July

and run with the bulls, like real men.

Like real crazy men.

Well, I'm gonna come back.

- Wine shots, huh?

- Yeah.

What are your plans?

To move through Pamplona quickly,

and as long as I'm sitting here,

I might just order some tapas.

- Senor!

- They're called pintxos.

I beg your pardon, Joost.

In Pamplona they're called tapas.

Here in Pamplona, it's "tapas".

I just read that.

You see, unlike the Dutch guidebook,

which may be directing you

to the nearest party,

the American guidebook is designed

so that you don't look like a clown

if you order "pintxos" when you

really mean "tapas."

- Senor?

- Tom.

Senor? Algo ms?

Tapas, por favor.

Tapas? Aqu no hay "tapas".

- No hay tapas?

- No, no, no.

"Tapas" es ms de Madrid, del Sur.

Aqu estamos en Navarra,

en Navarra, son los pintxos.

Quiere pintxos?

Oh, look!

It's Tom Quixote and Sancho Panza.

And that would make

you Dulcinea.

Buen Camino, fellow pilgrim.

Buen Camino. My name is Joost.

I'm from Amsterdam.

Dutch, huh? Got any drugs?

- Oh, I love this girl!

- It wears off quick, I promise.

- You know each other?

- Sort of.

- What are you looking to score?

- Something for sleep.

I've had trouble sleeping for the past,

I don't know, couple of years.

Do you folks mind doing this drug deal

while we walk?

I've got some Ambien.

Or something stronger

if that's your pleasure.

I love this guy!

It wears off quick, I promise.

- Come. Come with us.

- Oh!

Tom, wait.

I tried to quit once.

But then I thought, "why?"

My grandmother, she drank

and she smoked her entire life

and she lived to be 103 years old.

Now what does that tell you?

It tells me that everyone

who is trying to quit something

always has an ancient relative they use

as an example of why not to quit.

- I suppose that makes me a clich, then.

- You said it.

But I'm not the one trying

to quit anything.

Yeah, well...

We keep walking at this pace,

quitting isn't gonna be the problem.

Surviving will be.

Doesn't this guy ever stop

to smell the flowers?

- This isn't a race.

- No, it isn't.

Then why does it piss me off so much

that I haven't seen him

stop to take a break?

Why does something that should be

inspirational make me so

angry?

Totally irrational.

The same could be said

for this entire journey.

- Wonder how old he is.

- Older than us.

Hey, Tom!

You think I'll look like this

by the time I get to Santiago?

Yeah, sure, Joost.

Just keep eating that cordero.

Nothing like a few pounds of lamb

to help shed the excess weight.

But it's part of

the Camino experience, no?

I mean, you can't come to Spain

without having their roast lamb.

"Where the path of the wind

crosses that of the stars."

What do you think the waist is

on this guy?

More like a 25 or 26.

Well, a man can dream.

What? You can do this on a bike?

Why the hell are we walking?

Oh, that's ridiculous, man.

Try that. It's super strong.

I brought it from Amsterdam.

It's really good. You do smoke up?

Hey, I'm Frank. New York.

Tom, California.

Nice to meet you, Rabbi.

Oh, actually I'm a priest.

You can understand my confusion.

Yeah, a lot of people make that mistake.

Brain cancer. The surgery left me

with a terrible scar.

I wear this yarmulke to cover it up.

They didn't get it all, you know?

The cancer.

Said it'll probably come back.

Who knows about these kinds of things?

Only God.

Anyway, they say that miracles happen

out here on the Camino de Santiago.

Do you believe in miracles, Father?

I'm a priest. It's kind of my job.

- You a Catholic?

- I don't practise any more.

You know, Mass at Christmas, Easter.

That's about it.

Here. Take this.

- No, I can't take your rosary, Father.

- No, please, take it.

A lot of lapsed Catholics out here

on the Camino, kid.

Besides...

Thank you.

Fore!

Oh, my goodness! Oh, my goodness!

I'm sorry! Sorry!

I didn't mean to do that!

Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

I thought I was out here all alone.

- You thought wrong.

- Oh, yes.

Hello! I'm Jack from Ireland.

I'm Jack from Ireland.

How long you been out here,

Jack from Ireland?

On the Camino

or in this particular spot?

- You pick.

- On the Camino, well, jeez...

It's hard to say. This spot, well...

It's hard to say that, too.

But I think this place means something.

"This place means something"?

This place is brimming

with significance!

That's the problem

with this whole damn road.

- Problem?

- Metaphor, man!

You're out walking all alone and

suddenly in the middle of nowhere

you see a dogfight near a cheese farm.

What does that dogfight mean?

And despite its literalness,

the idea of a pilgrim's journey

on this road is a metaphor bonanza!

Friends, the road itself

is amongst our oldest tropes.

The high road and the low.

The long and winding.

The lonesome. The royal.

The open road and the private.

You have the road to hell.

The tobacco road.

The crooked, the straight

and the narrow.

There's the road stretching

into infinity,

bordered with lacy mists,

favoured by sentimental poets.

There's the more dignified road

of Mr Frost.

And for Yanks, every four years,

there is the road to the White House.

There is the right road.

Then you have the road

which most concerns me today.

The wrong road.

Which I fear I must surely have taken.

Well, Jack, maybe a dogfight

near a cheese farm

is simply a dogfight near a cheese farm.

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