Our first weekend in Spain we went out. Obviously. It was a great Friday night. But I would not have gone out if I had realized that Saturday would be so torturous. I have bad feet and ankles and due to the constant walking here in Spain my feet were feeling the toll of the first week. That Saturday morning I woke up and my ankle were swollen. But hiking was mandatory. We met at a train station about 20 minutes from my house. I don't know why, but I was under the impression we would meet at the train station take a train to this mountain then hike a little, come back. I was clearly wrong. So walked to the train station, then I walked to the mountain, then we hike the mountain. The first half of the hike we stopped and looked at two historic churches, after that my prof gave us the option to turn back or go all the way to the top to see the Jesus statue waiting with open arms. People told me we were over half way (I shouldn't have listened to them). Others said I could come back and hike it another day (I wasn't going to do that). So I decided to go to the top. I should have turned back.
We were given the choice of the steeper quicker route, or the longer less steep route. I don't know who was in charge, but they took the steeper route. WHY?! That was a two hour hike I can never forget. One the way up I asked my prof how many times he had done this. "Never." Never he said. That should have been my red flag. Because the way down was....well I'll get there. When I got to the top I was so tired I didn't even want to take a picture with the statue and it was so cloudy my view was terrible. I was a little cranky. Keep in mind my ankles are still swollen and my feet hurt.
On top of the mountain we ate lunch and proceeded down. I'm not sure why, I will never know why, but we did not go down the way we came. My prof. (who had never done this before) led us down the opposite side of the mountain. And like most of my stories in Spain play out we got lost. For 3.5 hours. FOR THREE AND A HALF HOURS! At one point I told the group to leave me on the mountain that was the closet that I had been to Jesus, in a couple different very literal ways. Somehow, (by the grace of God), we made it down. And as we trekked down the country side a smaller group of us got separated from the lager group and when we came to a fork in the road we went the wrong way. We got lost again.
So, ankles still swollen feet still sore we headed towards the city. We were passed by two taxies that could have gotten us home. When we got to an actual street, we couldn't find the street name on the map. Of course! With a whole range of emotions, but mostly tired we stopped in a cafe for 15-20 minutes to get Churros and Chocolate. After that we each somehow managed to find our way home within the hour. We were supposed to get home at 5pm. We got home at 7pm.
I see that mountain everyday on my way to school. And the five of us who got lost twice now laugh when we say, "Hey, you remember that one time..."
Que Será Será.
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