Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (4 page)

We
arrive in Roncesvalles after roughly 11 hours of walking and my feet
are absolutely on fire. I collapse at the first bar and grab two
beers
as
we survey the damage. One blister on Amy’s left foot and both of my
feet are aching. Despite the pain, I am loving this adventure! We sit
outside enjoying two
pinxos,
or small plates, and chatting with fellow pilgrims who all have the
same look on their faces as we do: tired bliss.

I
notice my left knee is really hurting. I have never experienced this
type of pain in my left knee, and the feeling of regret slowly creeps
into my mind. I wish we would have taken today more slowly. Amy
shares with me her lesson of the day, “I am not invincible, even
though I try to be. Humility is key.
”

“
My knee really hurts,” I
say, trying to dismiss my worry.

“
I am sure it will be better
tomorrow,” Amy replies.

As a
Colorado native who grew up hiking in the Rocky Mountains I assumed
that this trek would be completely possible with no training at all.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have trained. This might be harder
than we both thought.

“
Ouch!”
Amy painfully winces as she takes off her shoes and socks, tending to
her blister.

“
Need
the blister kit?” I ask.

“
I
guess,” she replies in frustration. “Seriously! I can’t believe
I have to use the kit already.” She quickly gets to work on her new
little friend.

The
albergue for the night is an enormous stone building with 183 beds
divided into four rooms. We pay our 10 euros apiece and hand over our
pilgrim passports to receive our first stamp. We start to head
upstairs to find our beds when one of the workers yells at us.

“
Shoes
off!” he scolds us.

“
Oh.
Sorry I didn’t know,” I reply. “Where do we put them?”

We
are shown a large room full of hundreds of pairs of shoes. “Just
don’t forget where you put them!” the man jokes.

Upstairs
the bunks are separated into cubicles of four and as we set down our
packs, we meet our cube mates. John from New Orleans and a kind older
German man who does not speak any English or Spanish, so we
communicate through gestures and smiles. He speaks to us a lot in
German over the course of the evening even though we have no idea
what he is saying. It always amazes me that you really can have a
conversation without having a clue what exactly the other person is
saying.

“
We
have a problem,” Amy says returning from the greeting area
downstairs. “Remember how our shampoo got tossed by TSA at the
airport? Well, the people downstairs say that the closest place to
buy shampoo is about a day
’
s
walk away. Since we planned to use the shampoo for soap as well, we
don
’
t have anything to clean off
today
’
s yuck.”

“
There
is hand soap in the bathrooms. I guess we can use that,” I joke.
“We are roughing it now!”

After
a hand soap shower, we head out to dine on our first
menú
del peregrino,
or pilgrim menu, at one of the two restaurants in town. For 9 euros,
we eat a simple but delicious meal. A pilgrim menu is basically a
special meal for pilgrims that most restaurants offer along the Way.
It is similar to the normal
menú del dia,
or menu of the day, you find all over Spain but usually is a little
cheaper. It typically consists of a first course, second course,
bread and dessert, and usually includes a bottle of wine. The cost is
typi
cally
only 7 to 10 euros so the price for the much needed high calorie
meals is quite good.

The
dinner is communal style and starts with simple pasta and chorizo,
followed by fresh river trout, dessert, bread and a bottle of red
wine. We sit with a group from Italy and France who have all done the
Camino de Santiago before and assured us,
“
This
will
change
your life!” I tell them our plan of walking further than the
recommended stage tomorrow, and they beg us to reconsider.

“
I
am serious, Gabe,” a concerned Italian man tells me as everyone
nods in agreement. “Don
’
t walk
too far tomorrow. Why are you walking the Camino anyway?”

“
It
’
s
stupid I guess,” I reply, feeling a bit sheepish sharing something
so personal with people I have known for less than an hour. “I need
focus. I need to know what my purpose is. I need to know what career
I should pursue. I need to know why I am here. Here on Earth, that
is.”

“
This
is not stupid,” the Italian man replies with a slight smile. “We
are all here for different reasons. Be open to the lessons you will
discover on your way to Santiago. Don’t force the answers, and
don
’
t forget this is not a race
so take it slow.” I nod in agreement.

Church
bells ring loudly from somewhere outside and another woman from Italy
asks, “Time for Mass. Would you like to come?”

“
No
thanks, not today,” I politely decline.

We
say our goodbyes as the entire table heads outside, leaving Amy and
me alone. The concern on their faces has planted a seed of doubt and
fear in my mind. I have only pretended to consider their requests to
walk less tomorrow. I would soon learn that we should have listened
to their advice.

Trail
Days 2—3

It
has been a while since I have slept on the top bunk of a bunk bed,
and I am beginning to see that sleep deprivation may lead to possible
hallucinations on this trek. My un-needed alarm goes off at 5:00
a.m., and I look around to see many pilgrims already heading out the
door. Amy and I stuff our sleeping bags quietly into our packs and
slip outside before dawn. We are greeted by a dark, damp sky and a
wet path as it has rained all night. I spot a sign on the way out of
town,
Santiago de Compostela - 765 km
. I glance at Amy and
point to the sign. She is not amused. We both clearly need coffee. We
sleep walk for hours through a thick forest as the day slowly turns
from dark to light. Finally we see a bar and grab our first
café
con leche
of the day, coffee with steamed milk.

The
caffeine starts to wake me and I start to become aware of my body. My
left knee is still killing me. I try to squash a bit of panic as I
think about how far we still have left to go. This is only day two of
30!

After
breakfast, we stumble onward and keep seeing a group of four guys we
briefly met the first day in St. Jean. They were staying at our first
albergue, and we recognize each other. They are from Hungary and
decided a few weeks ago to walk the Camino de Santiago. We say “Buen
Camino” and end up talking to them as we walk for a few hours. I
immediately connect with one in particular as I am quickly realizing
that the people you meet on the Way are a huge part of this
international experience. So many people from so many walks of life
walk the Camino for a myriad of reasons.

His
friends jokingly call him The Barista, and I find out why as we end
up talking about coffee for about an hour. He is passionate about the
topic and is also a youth pastor in a church back home. He just had
his first child (we are the same age) and is clearly a proud new
father.

“
So,
why are you here walking the Camino de Santiago?” I ask as we walk.

“
I
have a big decision in life,” he explains slowly in English, his
second language. “I am a youth pastor in Hungary. I also love
coffee. My dream is to have a coffee shop with books and to speak
with people from all over the world as they drink my delicious
brews.”

“
That
sounds amazing,” I reply as we continue on a wide dirt trail
through a thick oak forest. Amy is a ways back chatting with the rest
of the group.

“
Yes,
but I am a pastor and I don’t know if I can do both,” he
explains.

“
So
you are looking for your answer out here in the woods?” I ask.

“
I
want God to tell me what to do,” he replies with a big smile.

“
Maybe
you can do both?” I suggest. “Be a pastor and have a coffee
shop.”

“
Maybe.
Maybe. I don
’
t know,” he
replies as we enter a clearing and take in a big blue sky. There is
not a cloud in sight. The June summer sun beats down on us all, and
both The Barista and I take a second to wipe the sweat from
underneath our large straw hats.
I can tell that he is really struggling with this decision, somehow
stuck between what he wants to do and what he is supposed to do.

“
What
do you do?” he asks.

“
Nothing
important,” I reply. “I am trying to figure things out.” We
pause for a sip of water. The Barista kneels down and stirs the dirt
on the trail with a stick as if digging for an answer.

“
Nothing
important huh. You know the human ego is a funny thing,” he says.
“Everyone has a purpose. If you ask me, Americans are too focused
on becoming better than their friends. It is human nature of course.
In Hungary we do the same. But be careful with thinking like this.”

“
Why
do you want a coffee shop?” I ask.

“
Because
I know I will enjoy it, and I am in love with coffee. The smell of
the dark brown beans roasting, brewing and dripping into a perfect
cup. The white steam rising from a mug on a cold morning. Holding the
hot cup in your hands, letting it warm up your soul. It is not easy
to make a good cup of coffee you know. It is an art form. You
Americans have bad coffee!”

“
Hey
now!” I protest.

“
I
especially love good, um, what is the word in English? Fim. No. Fime.
Foam! Milk foam! Good milk foam on the coffee, steamed to perfection.
I love that. I want this not because it will make me a success in the
eyes of others you see, but because it brings me joy. To remain a
pastor also gives me a sense of helping and joy. But you must be
careful. I am no better than those who ask me for spiritual advice,”
he explains. “What do your parents do for work?”

“
My
mom cleans houses, and my dad was a carpenter. He also had a
restaurant at one time. He named it after me,” I reply. “But he
has been struggling lately. He was sober for 20 years and well, not
anymore. He has been homeless for the last few years. He lives in his
truck.” I search The Barista
’
s
face and am surprised by his response.

“
Your
dad is a, what is the word in English? A renegade. Yes, a renegade,
no?” he replies with a smile. “You clearly love them both. I can
see pain, though, in your eyes.”

“
Yeah
I guess. It is an odd thing to watch your parents struggle. I just
want them to be happy, you know,” I reply. “They are both good
people. They both sort of shun society. Hippies, I guess, but I
appreciate that a lot now. It is funny. Growing up my dad looked like
ZZ Top. He had a huge beard, and sometimes it would embarrass me. I
guess all kids are embarrassed by their parents growing up. For me,
it was just because other dads were clean-shaven and more by the
book. Now that I am older, I hate cookie cutter. I love people who
are different and have interesting stories to tell. People who have
failed, overcome or gone through challenging experiences.”

“
It
sounds like they taught you a great lesson about life,” he replies.
“Different is good. It is so funny how people always want to be
superior though you know. I read a book about this recently. It
simply teaches you a simple lesson about wanting to be better than
others. You know, employees and their bosses, politicians and average
citizens, bus drivers and passengers, or even the person bagging your
groceries. People who have homes and people who don
’
t,”
he jokes.

“
So
what was the lesson of the book?” I ask.