When I arrived in Deba, my stop for the day, I first went to the shop to stock up on food for the next day, since the albergue was still closed. The next stage would start and end in the hills, no shops, no bars, and all uphill. After shopping, I headed to the beach to rest and soak my swollen ankle in the sea. I’m trying to be my own doctor out here. Going to a clinic for something this minor would just waste time. We’ll see how good of a doctor I actually am.
I ended the day pretty early and went to bed to make sure I’d be rested. But sleep was trash — like putting kebab on pizza. The albergue was right next to a traffic light with a beeping pedestrian crossing that went off every damn minute. The air inside was hot, so I ended up crawling out of my sleeping bag just to breathe. In the morning, I headed to the kitchen and opened the fridge to grab my food — but it was gone. Someone decided to make sure I don’t gain weight on this trail and ate my entire breakfast. I wasn’t thrilled. My vision almost blacked out, and when I saw my Coke was gone too, »Brko«[1] from Berlin asked if it was time for action. So I spent the whole day walking on an empty stomach.
And to top it off, I got bedbugs. These tiny fuckers feed on human blood, you don’t even see them, they come out at night. You feel the aftermath the next day on your skin. I had three bites on my left arm in a perfect horizontal line. Now I get why people hate them — they burn, itch, and leave a mark that sticks around for a while. Sweat made it sting even more. And of course, you’re not supposed to scratch, otherwise you risk a bacterial infection. At least my ankle stopped hurting, but now I had a new problem.
Luckily, the pharmacy in the town of Merkina, where I stayed that night, was open, so I got myself some cream. Fingers crossed it helps. From now on, I’m sleeping fully dressed and zipped inside my sleeping bag — even if I wake up in the morning totally marinated.
In Merkina, I met a bunch of new hikers and we later went out for drinks. One beer led to another, and suddenly I noticed a guy at the next table who looked exactly like Fatboy Slim. Of course it wasn’t him, but I went over anyway and explained why I was so excited. I told him Fatboy is the only man I’d ever marry. He liked the attention, bought me a beer, and I pulled up Fatboy fucking Slim on Google and played him a few songs. Then we both walked back to the albergue.
We were sleeping in a church that was supposed to be donativo, meaning you give what you want. But the priests clearly had a fixed idea — 10 euros. For that price, we got piss-stained mattresses from 1910, probably never washed, a cold shower, and judgmental stares from the clergy. Still, I slept like a baby. The place was spacious, the walls were thick, and that meant no sweating during the night.
[1] Brko – referring to Hitler’s moustache
