Finding solace with old friend
I WAS at one of those major crossroads in life.
I had just hiked the entire gruelling 880km of the Camino de Santiago to help clear my head after my marriage ended.
The month-long trek started with me climbing over the French Pyrenees into Spain, and I didn’t stop until my aching feet took me to the famous lighthouse in Finisterre.
Many pilgrims speak about the journey being cathartic. But I didn’t feel like there was a light at the end of the tunnel.
I couldn’t see a bright future as I stood on the cliff believed in Roman times to be the “end of the earth” and gazed out at the sunrise slowly lighting up the spectacular views of the North Atlantic coastline.
After running out of road, I spontaneously hopped on a plane to Madrid to roam the streets there while I figured out my future.
I needed a shoulder to lean on – but who?
While the youngster sitting beside me made the sign of the cross as the Ryanair flight barrelled down the runway, I had my own personal Miracle of Madrid moment.
It suddenly dawned on me that I had an old childhood pen pal from the Spanish capital.
On landing I got my mother to dig out my old letters. At that moment I felt just as battered as the old cardboard suitcase that stored my childhood memories.
Unfortunately, there was no return address on my amigo’s letter and, even worse, it only had his first surname. Yet Spaniards usually have two, or even three last names.
And the only one I could recall was as popular as Smith, which meant it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack amongst six million Madrilenians.
But he had a very usual first name, Fausto – coincidentally meaning “fortune” or “lucky”.
Somehow I found his profile at the top of my first Facebook search.
This Fausto’s photo corresponded with my childhood memory of a natural blonde boy, which is not your usual look in that neck of the woods.
We had palled around as kids when we both stayed each summer during the mid-1980s in Drimnagh, Dublin – me at my grandparents, and Fausto with his host family.
Fausto was pleasantly surprised
It dawned on me I had an old childhood pen pal in the capital
when he got my email, but confessed that he couldn’t remember me – even after I showed him a scan of his letter.
I was crestfallen. I’d been convinced Fausto would have immediately recalled me, seeing as the first thing he did on arriving in Dublin that second summer was to dash across the street to knock for me.
But Fausto’s wife, his childhood sweetheart, encouraged him to meet up. I was as nervous as
someone going on a blind date, but we soon got on like a house on fire.
I laughed with relief when Fausto remembered yours truly as we chewed the fat over some tapas and vino.
At least I wasn’t that forgettable. Yet it made me realise that some people hold onto past memories much tighter than others – good, bad or indifferent.
Our catch-up had given my spirits a much-needed lift.
Perhaps my own memories of
Fausto would have faded if I hadn’t held onto his letters.
Younger generations will never look back on texts with the same affection as something as tangible as a handwritten letter. At least letters cannot be accidentally deleted or lost forever when a phone is replaced.
At the start of Covid, Fausto was one of the first to get in touch to make sure everything was fine.
It was comforting to know we still speak the same language.
We had palled around as kids when we both stayed each summer