Our day had ended with two wonderful meals. One with another American couple who somehow made taking photos of their Navarre Aspargus not ridiculous, and then an Albergue meal with twelve people from everywhere and all over with every reason under the sun for walking the Camino . . .

But’s that’s not why I called you here today. Today I want to tell about a word. The word is “hot”.

Webster’s defines a person who uses definitions from Webster’s in their writings as a Word Wienie. And when it comes to what ‘Hot’ means, context is everything.

As I’ve said before and will say again because it makes me happy to say it, I was raised in South Texas, so when it comes to hot weather, I know what I’m talking about. It’s my Jam. That’s my home turf. Like the back of my hand. I have a considerably accurate frame of reference. I know hot like you know great blogs. Been there, done that, bought the shirt, sweat my ass off in it, and then went tubing in the Guadelupe river with a tube full of beer towed behind me. Yup. I’ve been hot a lot. And hold it right there, you nay-sayer, my Helios Knowledge is not America Cenrtered, oh no! When it comes to other forms of Hot climates and weather, I have been to the Panama Rain forest, the Jungles of Cambodia, the deserts of California and Texas and consider my frequent visits to New Orleans my best memories.

You wanna talk about snow, ask a Chicagoan. But if you want to bring the heat, you come to ole’ Mr. Poole. Well, that is make an appointment between m-f, 5-10 pm, you bring the bourbon.

But the Camino de Santiago has a knack of giving you new superlatives in ways you never wanted to be bested. World’s Biggest Blister. World’s Smelliest Socks. World’s Loudest Snore. Yeah, thanks, but I got those covered. How about, just once, we could have a World’s Biggest Free Albergue Room Upgrade? But character is not built with comfort and ease. It’s built with pain, suffering, French Cyclists, poor ventilation, bad timing and weird windows: essential elements for my Hottest Sleepless Night ever.

That evening, after the Les Miserable hike, Alto el Perdon, Fascist mass graves markers, Californians filming asparagus and a United Nations After-dinner, I was on the top bunk in our 14 person room, ready to try to get myself to sleep.

For people who hate to be noticed when they don’t want to be noticed, bunk beds on the Camino can be a nightmare. Because I am a gentleman, I usually took the top bunk. Or because Stacy told me to, I took the top bunk. These things get hazy in a marriage. Either way, there wasn’t a fight about it. The bunk beds from albergue to albergue were rarely the same, and each seemed to delight in hiding the place you should put your foot to mount the top. It feels just like mounting a horse, except the horse has hidden the stirrups up in it’s ass. There is always noise as you mount your Bed-Steed, rarely is there but a little. Sometimes a Symphonic cacophony of squeaks and groans careen forth, filling the silent room with a sound only eclipsed by Jean-Claude’s snoring.

No, I did not know if the Frenchman’s name was actually Jean-Claude. But 1 in 6 Anglo Frenchmen are named Jean- Claude. Also 1 in 6 white guys in America are named Steve/Mike. And before you accuse me of profiling, I’m a John, so it’s okay for me to say all this.

So, the scene is a large room with 14 sleeping people, all French Cyclists save me and Stacy, with a closed door on one end and two tall firmly shuttered windows on the other. We are bunked on the far wall, near the windows, and I am on the top bunk, having happily adroitly climbed up the ‘Steed with almost no noise, and also achieving for the first time the accomplishment of having everything I needed in my bunk on the first trip! Morning clothes, earplugs, phone, plugged in phone charger, and all other stuff stowed away properly! Hell to the Yeah, I’m a Camino Boss!

Then I felt the heat on my face. It only took about thirty seconds for it the settle in. As it did, I knew I was in big trouble. This heat that buried my face and body was the result of trapped warm air enclosed in a space with no room for it to escape. It was a Death bubble born of sweaty French cyclists and a dayfull of Spanish sun, and maintained in it’s position over my bunk by the happenstance of the room’s construction.

It was intolerable. I dropped to the ground to confirm that the air was indeed cooler on the floor level, by at least 11 degrees, and there was a small current of air down there as well. As I staggered as quietly as I could through the darkened room, I saw that it was the large wooden beams on the ceiling that kept the air from circulating over my bunk, and by a trick of the room’s geography, only my bunk. Everyone else was fine, sleeping away. Adjusting the room’s door was not a solution, and to even attempt to mess with the windows I would have to reach across the bed of one of the French cyclists with the snoring French Cyclist in it: not happening ( also the next morning I saw the windows were cemented in position, so it would have been feckless to try).

Albergues have rules about sleeping in the common areas, so it wasn’t just a case of moving out to the courtyard and crashing on a picnic table. Also, I knew they were sold out with any extra beds available so…what do I do?

There’s guys out there reading this going, “Dude, screw that room, Bro! Go crash anywhere, and if they give you shit, tell ’em they owe you a Decent room! There’s no way they don’t know about that room , Bro!”

Then there’s the sensible Wife version of the Bro Voice’s message: “If you don’t like it, go see if they can change it for you. There’s no harm in checking.”

Also, of course, there’s Siddhartha sitting in a thorn bush with the ascetics saying, “Life is suffering, be where you are, if you are meant to sweat like Jabba The Hut all night long, then seek the Dharma in it.”

And Because Buddhism hates me, there’s also the Buddha himself saying, “Being hot for no reason is dumb. Go get comfortable, sitting in a thorn bush sucks and the only thing it teaches you is that sitting in a thorn bush feels just like sitting in a damn thorn bush.”

At the moment, all those voices and more were suggesting possible options, and none of them were coming from within. My decision would be a performance for all those voices, and I would choose one of them to please, the voice I wanted to please the most or be the most. This is a place I live in constantly. It used to be my job. It’s a very unhealthy place to be when you are not on stage.

After about an hour of all that, I climbed back up into my bunk, and settled in to the heat.

Stultifying. I decided that ‘stultifying’ was the best adjective for it. I lay there, and wallowed in the horrible air, and worked through every mental coping mechanism I could come up with, from Buddha to Batman. In Texas you learn to not fight the heat; it’s hot, get over it. But they also believe in not tolerating something that’s wrong, proprieties be damned. There’s Nature, and there’s assholes. Both cause problems. But sometimes, problems come from a place between Nature and assholes, and that was the problem I unslept with the entire night.

I wonder if I would qualify as Nature, or Asshole? Flip a coin.

Buen Camino.