poor me . . .

. . . at the Puente la Reina albergue
yesterday, a young American arrived . . . I only have €60 to get to Santiago, he tells the woman in charge . . . can I sleep on the floor? . . . this albuerge is church run, the priest looks in each evening to ask: todo buen? . . . the woman says, you can have a bed . . . she goes away, comes back with a sandwich, some fruit for him . . . he is grateful . . . later, when Alberto is cooking Carbonera and the Koreans their speciality, he says, I am going to look for food . . . he comes back when everyone is tucking in to the shared meal . . . looking mournful . . . sit down, they say, eat . . . are you sure there is enough, he asks, ever so humble . . . plenty, here you are . . . well, if you are sure . . .

. . . there was something inauthentic going on for me . . . Albon was travelling without money . . . Juan getting by somehow . . . this bloke (I never found out his name) had €60 . . . the bed was €5 . . . bread, cheese, fruit another €5 . . . after that he would still have more in his pocket than most people in the world . . . and after Santiago? What then? Anyway, he was playing the poor me role as best he could . . . this part of the audience found his performance unconvincing . . .