24/09/2025 - Nuns & self-pleasure.

Today has been rough. Twenty-five kilometers in my legs, and not enough food these past few days to fuel me. I already felt it when I opened my eyes this morning, low, heavy, empty, and it stayed with me almost the whole morning, like a cloud I had to carry along.

The highlight, though, was meeting Hans at a café along the way. He’s 68, from the Netherlands, and has this peaceful, steady energy about him. I ended up at his table because there were no other seats left in the cramped room, chewing on the driest croissant of my life, when I asked him how he was. We started talking, and it clicked instantly. Two introspective beings recognizing each other, exchanging the kind of insights that only seem to come out while walking the Camino… but also laughing, complaining a little about the number of people on the path, the scramble for beds, and how it forces us to step out of the “pilgrim state” we’d both prefer to stay in.

At one point, as we were talking, a single shaft of sunlight pierced through the trees outside and landed directly on my face. It almost blinded me, but I didn’t move. I let it touch me. It sounds simple, maybe even stupid, but I felt grace in that moment. I felt seen. By Hans, yes, but also by something else: life, the elements, the divine, the universe… or maybe by myself in another form, watching from the other side.

When I continued my walk, I kept thinking about how lost I feel at this stage of the Camino. Like the aim is still out of reach, hard to hold on to. I’ve left behind my comfort, my identity, my life long enough to feel like I’m no longer that person. I’m in between, in transformation, not knowing where it’s leading me. Strange, uncomfortable, but necessary. And what is coming out of me is beautiful: these meetings, these conversations, the way people look at me. I feel seen again, for who I am, and sometimes even more clearly than I see myself.

The last five kilometers were brutal. A long, straight stretch of road beside trucks roaring past. I put on my AirPods and played some house beats. My steps found rhythm again, and suddenly I longed for a party. I imagined myself in a club, sweating, high on mushrooms (or other drugs), dissolving into music and lights. It was the first time in months I felt the desire to lose myself like that again. I guess that part of me will always exist, drawn to a night where body and soul collide on the dancefloor.

I hadn’t booked anything for tonight, but yesterday a man at dinner spoke about an albergue run by nuns, so I walked there, and luckily I got a bed immediately. Too tired to talk much, I went through my little routine: shower, laundry, unpacking, and then collapsed into bed. I managed an hour of sleep before hunger pulled me out again.

At the supermarket I was a mess, cold and empty, strolling the chocolate aisle like a crazy woman. I finally settled on a hazelnut milk bar, a tomato-mozzarella pastry, and a blue Gatorade. I ate most of it walking back, the sun warming my body as my stomach slowly filled. My body reminded me sharply that food isn’t optional here, I’m burning too much.

Back in the dorm, I noticed a young guy I’ve seen a couple of times before. Half-hidden in his sleeping bag, watching something on his phone, and… yes, movements under the fabric. At first I thought maybe I was imagining, but no, he was touching himself. I could have been disturbed, but honestly, I found it sweet. Tender even. Maybe it’s strange, but in a place where comfort and pleasure are scarce, the body craves release. And I haven’t touched myself or been touched by anyone in what feels too long now. Maybe that’s why it turned me on a little too.

I could tell you it wasn’t correct, and maybe it wasn’t. But based on which morals are we talking about? I didn’t mind, so why pretend I did. If he had been standing in the middle of the room, jerking off in front of everyone, of course I would have been bothered. But I was the only one on the top bunks, and I don’t think he even realized I saw. In the end, or maybe in the beginning, we are all born from sex. It is not taboo by nature, it only became taboo through the way society frames it. To me, it wasn’t disgusting. It was almost innocent. Again, I found it sweet.

I sat outside in the sun, drawing on a little rock that I’ll lay down somewhere as an offering. While coloring it, I remembered how much I love art. Drawing, painting, creating just for the joy of it. I used to be good at it in school, and I owe it to myself to make space for it again, the same way I dream of giving time to the guitar.

Around 6, the nuns gathered us in the living room and the singing session began, the room softened into something luminous. We each introduced ourselves with our names, where we’re from, and why we chose to walk. I told the truth: I don’t really have a why. I just knew it would bring something out of me. The nuns handed out song sheets, strummed guitars, tapped timbales. Their voices weren’t polished, but they sang with heart. Soon other pilgrims joined in, adding instruments and songs of their own. I sang too, even surprised myself at how good my voice sounded. The Korean next to me tried to push me into a solo, but I wasn’t ready. One day, I know I’ll do it, I just have to.

Later we went to the church for Mass. I didn’t understand much, and the rituals felt strange, the kneeling, the drinking, the repeated prayers. But I respected the effort to sacralize life, to reach for the divine. When the priest blessed us pilgrims, I felt warmth in my chest. And when a nun traced a cross on my forehead with both hands, thanking and protecting me for the rest of my pilgrimage, I truly felt it. Women carry something different, the heart of creation, the ability to bring spirit into the room.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice the contrast. These rituals try to grasp the divine, but for me it was earlier, when we sang together. That felt more real, more alive, more divine. The collective voices, imperfect and free, were closer to God than the rigid repetition of the Mass. And maybe also in another moment, when I saw that man pleasuring himself. We call it sin, yet I saw tenderness. Morals live in the heart of the beholder, and I often question what I was taught to feel against what I truly feel. Sometimes, the raw, human, imperfect feels closer to God than the sacred itself. Does this make me a freak?

We ate dinner afterwards, and now I’m in bed, beyond exhausted. Using my last scraps of energy to write this. I still need to post last week’s article, but editing will have to wait. Good night. Tomorrow, another step.

With love, Loune.