My husband, who is almost never late for anything, is startled when I break our nervous conversation to remark that the bus is fifteen minutes late already. We are sitting in his car, and he is trying to get me to tell him again why I want to walk 500 miles alone on the Camino in northern Spain. In the summer heat, no less. His sudden change of heart about my imminent departure is rather startling as he has been an enthusiastic supporter from the time, I made up my mind about the journey. Yet now, at the last minute, he is sounding like he needs to convince himself that I am not walking out on our marriage on the pretext of a Camino walk in a foreign country whose language I do not speak. We wait for the bus in Fribourg another ten minutes, and the waiting just heightens the tension in the car. This is Switzerland, after all. Clock time is a near religion here. A call to the bus company’s customer service lets us know that the bus was cancelled because there were too few people traveling on that route that day. I am incredulous. My darling husband has a mix of incredulity and relief on his face, but we quickly reorient and drive to the train station in downtown Fribourg to see if I can catch a train to the southwest of France where I will begin my solitude for a month. We arrive in a huff, lugging my way-too-heavy backpack.

The last train for the day just left. No other train to France until tomorrow morning. It is Sunday in Switzerland, Madame, the ticket officer says. I try to plead with the man to look if there is anything else. Nothing, he says, enjoying this Americanized woman’s incredulity at the idea that there is “no way” to travel to France today. Unless you drive yourself there, of course. In the car on the way home, I am reeling. My husband’s relief turns to worry as he sees me pouting while trying to be cheerful. We get home. I am restless and an energy-rise in me will not let me sit still on the stairs. I remember to breathe. Ah, breath, and in that moment, a thought crosses my mind. Go online and check for buses to Switzerland from Spain. And just like that a shaft of light parts the fog in my heart and mind. I buy a ticket for a bus, the last one, departing from Geneva at 8:00 pm on the way to Bilbao, Spain, through France. It is about 6:55 pm, and Geneva is a good hour’s drive on a Sunday. Driving like a German on the autobahn is not possible in Switzerland. There are speed radars along the way, and you don’t know what sticker shock feels like till you get one of those traffic tickets. As insurance, I call the new bus company to see if it is true that there is, indeed, a bus leaving Geneva at 8:00 pm. My husband listens in, and without talking, both of our moods lift as the person on the other end of the phone says, Oh, that bus is always 5-10 minutes late. Wow, those are my people! I almost shout my thank you to the guy on the phone. He is surprised at my joy, but happy to help. I wish more customers could be so cheerful, he says. I do not tell him I was pouting and anxious before I called.

The drive to the bus station an hour south of us is part adrenaline for my beloved-turned-ninja-driver; and part tummy crunch and giggles for me as we cannot drive any faster than 120 km/per, except pushing it to 140 km/h, or pinching above that every now and then. I have to suppress my nervous giggles, else my beloved loses his focus and blow past a watchful radar, blowing open his wallet for a traffic ticket he does not need. Besides, that would strike a sour note on my already eventful journey that has almost begun. It is 7:30 pm and we are not quite there, but we are cruising.

It is a wonder to live and grow with another human being each day, I think to myself as he drives. Love is the gravity that keeps not just the earth and the sun afloat, but this marriage, too. I am grateful beyond measure. My eyes water. I hold his hand. We drive in silence, hoping to make it in time for the always-five-to-ten minutes late bus. How lucky can one get in a day?!

~To be continued.