The German, The Hungarian, and The French Diablo

Still in the Cafe Monterrey bar in Belorado, 3:09 pm

We met a German on the Road,
whose racism we did not goad,
She hated the Turks,
"ones without perks,"
And now we run from her load.

There was this 19-year-old German girl that we met a couple of days back who is spending two more years in high school to try to get her IB test to pass (German permission to study in a college abroad). When we asked her why she wanted to study she says, "Well, I'm not racist but"--which is perhaps the worst way to start a sentence EVER--"I hate all the Turks that are in Germany. There are 87 hundred thousand people in Germany and 70 hundred thousand of them are Turks and the way they talk and--it just really bothers me, you know?" No, I don't know. When asked where she wanted to study, she responds, "I think Oxford would be nice." Please, Oxford, let this be a plea from the rational forward thinkers of the world--DON'T ACCEPT HER! My Camino Family and I now constantly tease each other that if we linger too long in one place, the "German girl"--also known as the "German racist"-- might catch up. It's been 3 days since we've seen her and that's quite enough.

We met a man that's Hungarian,
who wasn't a bit a barbarian,
we asked his name,
it was all the same,
but we know that he's a proletarian.

Two days ago, we were walking and talking about descent, genealogy, and ancestry. Unfortunately, I don't know much of mine, beyond knowing that I'm a mix of many different European breeds. What I did know, that I pointed out, is that my male line comes from Hungary. That night, in the hostel, we met a man from Hungary (he slept in the bed adjacent to Lisa and below mine) but none of us caught his name. As I was falling asleep, I kept thinking, perhaps he is related to me. Perhaps, by some sprawling family tree, we are cousins of sort. I'll never know (and the odds are so slim anyway), but I've now vowed that I am going to document the family tree as it stands now that I know about, and pass it on to my children. It won't start with Adam and Eve, but it's a start.

We met a caminante from France,
who didn't even merit a glance,
his hair was funny,
his nose was runny,
and I think he did the devil dance.

Toward the beginning of the Road, Lida, Lisa and I met a man from France whose shape might best be described as a muffin. His head, by contrast, was spherical, with a halo of gray hair surrounding a massive bald spot. On night three, after Lida complained about her feet hurting, he offered her a foot massage. Perhaps French, perhaps hopeful. All the same, he was someone to giggle about. But then, on the fourth day, we came to a stretch where there were arrows pointing the three of us in both directions at once. How could someone do this--confuse a person on the Road with two sets of arrows? My imagined response? The devil--El Diablo--must have done it to trick us. But, for whatever reason--granted it was 7:30 am--into my head popped an image of this french muffin man in a bright red spandex full body suit wearing devil horns on his head prancing around the Camino painting trick arrows and making false signs. I shared this creative image with the girls and we all shared a good laugh. It's now the first image each of us has whenever any of us chooses to reference "El Diablo." It's perfect.

I knew an old cad named Matt,
whose feet went pat pat pat,
his limericks were bad,
the attempts were just sad,
so no more tries at that!