The Tragedy of Words Unsaid
And an unforgettable exhalation from Fate
It was a deliciously crisp, sunny late afternoon in Logroño—one of the few stops on the Camino de Santiago whose bustling urban pulse felt out of sync with the cobblestoned quietude that characterizes most of this 500-mile trek across northern Spain. This incongruous stop would be forever etched in my memory, as a few hours later, I’d be audibly cackling to myself from a well-timed cosmic joke that delivered a lasting dose of humor-infused insight.
I arrived earlier that day, weary in mind, body, and spirit. The long weekend hikes I trained for instilled a naive confidence in my physical fitness. As I quickly learned, it’s one thing to hike 20 miles; it’s a whole other to do so day in and day out with 25 lbs on your back. What began as quiet suggestions from my body—a pang of soreness here, a drop of fatigue there—soon escalated into louder, more assertive demands of throbbing knee pain and absolute corporeal exhaustion
The last few days were also particularly social. One moment you're waiting in line for your café con leche, the next you’re walking five hours with the person you met behind you, as you take turns regaling each other with your deepest hopes, dreams, fears, and desires. This is exactly the type of raw human connection I was looking for during this unique period of time that offers an almost sacred disconnect with the outside world, a gritty, off-the-grid vagabonding experience, and a close-knit communal dynamic that’s mostly transient, yet often penetratingly sincere. However, as I arrived in Logroño, I just wanted to eat my pinchos in peace.
I was staying on the outskirts of the city, intentionally. I hoped to eliminate the possibility of encounters with familiar faces as I simply did not have the energy for conversation. I walked into the singular restaurant near my hostel and was promptly told the kitchen didn’t open until 8 pm. Rather than try my luck further into the city, I opted to kill time in a park.
In the distance, the spewing geysers and well-manicured foliage of Parque de la Ribera called my name. As I crossed the bridge, lulled by the amber hush of early evening, my serenity was abruptly halted—barreling towards me was a full-grown man carrying a small object in his raised hand, laughing in a full-bodied, breathless way that teeters on the edge of unrestrained joy or clinical insanity. He must be deranged, filled with glee at the prospect of causing me harm with his grenade, I thought to myself; that, or mid-flight, fleeing the scene of a heinous crime, clutching the incriminating artifact as some kind of twisted memento. Either way, ample cause for concern.
My fear soon dissipated when I noticed a young girl of about four, standing at his side, wearing a pink helmet that matched her little bike with training wheels. The purported maniacal attacker/fugitive terrorist was actually a delighted father recording this Kodak moment of his daughter learning to ride a bike. I grinned once at the hilarity of my misconstrued representation and once more at how thoroughly wholesome and charming it was.
It was one of those moments that make you proud of being human, a species capable of such deep enjoyment of our time here on earth. I also felt a nascent excitement brewing from deep within, the excitement to one day make those memories of my own with a family. As a single 29-year-old, I’ve envisioned this future, but without the prospect in front of me, it hasn’t seemed tangible. Yet, in this fleeting moment, I felt for a second like I was living out what it’s like to create memories with little ones who share your DNA.
I continued my slow jaunt around the park before finding the right bench to be my companion until I could satiate my hunger. I glanced around aimlessly, observing the various characters in the park, until I realized the one seated on the bench next to me was none other than the happy father, looking down at his phone, probably admiring his cherished new footage.
I then had a strong urge to say something to him—to let him know that I was there on the bridge and that it brought a wide grin to my face and to convey how beautiful and happy they both seemed and how excited it made me to one day have kids of my own. I paused for a second to formulate my words in Spanish. My thoughts were then starkly interrupted by an all-too-familiar inner voice telling me why I shouldn’t say what I felt in my heart was worth saying.
“Why bother this man? Let him enjoy his time reflecting.”
“You know, a mistranslation might come off creepy, imagine hearing ‘I loved watching your young daughter’”
I’ve become closely acquainted with this voice over the years. I find he’s well-intentioned, but at the same time apprehensive and overprotective. His recommendations, cloaked in concern, rarely serve my best interest. More often, it sabotages them, sowing seeds of doubt, stoking unnecessary mental strife, and halting conversations before they begin. As I very clearly detected what he was up to, I became overcome with grief as to the tragedy of words left unsaid.
Like a rapid flashback movie scene playing at 3x speed, I saw innumerable situations where I wanted to say something but was talked out of it by this convincing voice. How many compliments were left trapped in my head, concerned with how they’d come off? How many jokes never surfaced, potential laughs that never were, all a result of needless worry? What about romances? Imagine the ones that were left to materialize in some alternate universe because a few lines of internal dialogue persuaded me it wasn’t worth the cost of rejection. The breadth and depth of unlived human experience became a sorrow-filled avalanche burying me beneath its anguish.
I looked over once more at the man—the unsuspecting avatar of my lifetime’s worth of missed opportunities that litter my past like the blister packs on hostel floors—and I swore with a surge of emotional resolve that I would not add another. I would not fall victim to words unsaid. I turned towards him, suggesting an imminent approach, mouth primed with the words “permiso señor,” ready to grab his attention. And in that exact moment, the man looked up from his phone, gently leaned over to one side, collapsing his side ribs in a manner that telegraphed exactly what was coming next, and let out the most unashamed, bench-rattling butt-trumpet I have ever heard in my life and then walked away.
Shoutout and for excellent feedback
…some winds of opportunity you just have to let pass…
What a great memory of your trip, Jack. This father was unabashedly enjoying his time there -and so were you!