Just got an e-mail from my friend David in Spain:

Soon after my sixtieth birthday, I decided I should go on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. I can´t explain the decision--I´m not a religious person--other than to say I suddenly wanted to give expression to a feeling of gratitude for having been allowed to live for so long, and an inner voice said, "Better do it now."

So it was that on the late afternoon of May 9th, I met my friend Carlos near Gate 45 at JFK airport. We were both dressed in our hiking outfits; I was carrying a black overnight bag, Carlos a small paper bag containing two pieces of cake.

"Today´s my birthday," he said. He held up the paper bag. "My daughter made some cake."

We got coffees at Starbuck´s and sat at a counter. Carlos produced the cake, two paper plates, and two white plastic forks. He explained that today was a propitious day for him to travel. He had just turned 54, and we were leaving from Gate 45. "Four plus five equals nine," he said. "And today´s the 9th of May."

Outside, it was raining. I worried that my knapsack was too heavy. But, surely, I could share in Carlos´s good luck?

Takeoff was delayed. Our plane took its place in a line that inched forward in the rain. Television minitors bolted to the ceiling showed us our situation. We were more than 3,500 miles from our destination. Our altitude was six feet. Our speed was one mile an hour.

Perhaps to cheer us up, the airline showed a clip from the Dave Letterman show. Two college kids came onto the set with an overnight bag not much bigger than the one I was carrying. The kids exchanged humorous banter with Dave. Then, one of the kids, of course the taller one, squeezed himself into the overnight bag. His friend zipped the bag shut, and then, to great applause, lugged the overnight bag off the set. Dave smiled and clapped. He said, "Now they´ll only need one ticket to go on vacation."

I´ve begun the walk. The trek over the Pyrenees from France to Spain and the monastery of Roncevalles was beautiful and very, very difficult for me. It was easier for Carlos, and small groups of middle-aged women kept passing me on the slopes. I paid them no mind. All I was thinking about was the next sip of water and calling a taxi.