Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (6 page)

“
Bee
pollen,” he explains. “It is good for the immune system.”

He
follows this with some homemade sausage and peach seeds. I didn
’
t
even know you could eat peach seeds. I devour the small brown nuts,
which are a bit smaller than an almond and delicious! The sausage is
good, too, and I ask with my mouth full, “What kind of meat is
this? It is so good!”

One
of The Barista’s friends replies with a straight face, “Horse
meat.” My chewing slows, and I shoot Amy a look of barely concealed
panic. They all bust into laughter as I realize the joke is on me.

“
So,”
The Barista says. “Your knee doesn
’
t
look too good.”

The
Barista
’
s
pack is full of supplies, and he and his friends quickly get to work.
He pulls out an extra knee brace, ibuprofen cream, and a magnesium
drink tablet. His friend starts to crack me up as he tells Amy,
“Don
’
t
worry, we are Hungarian doctors,
”
which we already know they clearly are not. It is amazing how the
Camino provides exactly what you need right when you need it. This
was the first of many serendipitous moments that I won
’
t
soon forget.

“
Things
are about to get weird,” one says to the group and grabs my leg. He
elevates it and rubs the pain cream into my knee.

“
Did
you train for the Camino de Santiago?
”
I
ask with a bit of regret since I did not.

They
continue to keep me laughing as one replies,
“
Yes
of course, I started taking the stairs at work!
”

After
10 minutes, they say goodbye and leave me reeling. The kindness of
new friends. My spirits are lifted, and we begin to gingerly hobble
on again. One step at a time. The knee brace and pain cream
combination helps tremendously as we continue through Pamplona. The
lesson of the day is clear. It is OK to let people help you. The
Camino will provide.

Pamplona
is a beautiful bustling city of 200,000 people.
²
We take our time winding through the narrow streets, weaving through
locals busily going about their day, and eventually we make our way
out of town.
As
the afternoon sun bears down, sweat starts to drip down my
sunglasses. It is incredibly hot. We enter brown fields of wheat with
no shade in sight and trudge on and on over the dry dirt path
.

As
we walk, I immediately notice the bugs. Tiny black shiny squiggling
bugs keep sticking to the sweat on our arms as we walk. No matter how
much we try to brush them off they just kept coming, hour after hour
as we forge ahead. It is safe to say that I am pissed off again. Hot,
tired, and covered in disgusting gnats from the fields, which seem to
be getting worse as we go. I give up trying to get them off and just
let them multiply.

“
Well,
this is a romantic walk today, isn
’
t
it?” I yell to Amy who is far ahead on the trail.

We
pass by some ancient ruins and make our way up the final ascent of
the day to our new destination. We had planned to walk much further
but it is clear I cannot. We spot our Hungarian friends for the
second time today resting next to a water fountain up ahead. One
makes his way back from the village to offer to carry my pack. I am
again caught off guard by this kindness and feel like a weakling.
Backtracking on the Camino is a big deal. We check into our albergue
for the night, and I am looking forward to washing off the bugs in a
nice hot shower.

We
walk upstairs and quickly realize the fun continues. All over the
sheets, pillows, and walls are the same tiny black bugs we became so
close with throughout the day. I curse. A lot. We do our best to get
the bugs off and close the window opting for heat rather than
insects. I am not sure which was worse.

We
stomp downstairs and a familiar voice says hello. It is John from New
Orleans! His third night staying in the same town as we are and
bumping into us randomly.

“
How
’
d
ya sleep last night?” he asks, inquiring about the private room he
gave us.

“
Amazing!
Thank you again. You didn
’
t have
to do that,” I reply. “How bout you?”

“
I
didn
’
t sleep a wink. Had a
couple talented snorers in the room,” he laughs. “I am not
staying here, though. I got a private room tonight at another place
in town. I am here for the food.”

We
make dinner plans and enjoy a fantastic pilgrim menu with John and
some teachers from the United States. I am not as awake as I was last
night and find myself remaining quiet and letting others do most of
the talking. What a day.

The
teachers are on summer break and are approaching the Camino de
Santiago as a sort of hop-on, hop-off tour; they hike until they are
tired and take a taxi to the next town. Taxis along the Camino are
readily available and circle the pilgrims like hungry vultures
looking for their next meal. Waiting for a pilgrim to cave to
exhaustion before they swoop in and offer a timely ride. A constant
temptation for weary pilgrims. I tell myself not to, but I find
myself judging the teachers.
How can you grow if you are not
challenging yourself physically? That is not the true Camino
,
I think to myself, immediately mentally scolding my ego and
attempting to change my internal dialogue.

As
I am noticeably absent from much of the dinner conversation, my mind
drifts back once again to the south of Spain two years earlier. Our
Spanish friend Pablo had just given us an incredible gift. Two
cream-colored scallop shells painted with a small crimson red cross.
I was touched as he explained,
“
Today
all pilgrims carry a scallop shell with them. This is the official
mark and symbol of the pilgrim. Carry these on your backpacks during
your journey.
”

Many
artistic works during the Middle Ages show St. James with a staff and
concha,
or scallop shell, and the symbol has survived to present day. Pablo
explained that the scallop shell is a metaphor. The grooves on the
shell all lead to a single point at its base. These grooves represent
all of the routes and ways to get to the tomb of St. James in
Santiago de Compostela. The waves of the
ocean
wash scallop shells onto the beaches and shorelines of Galicia. Much
as the posted trail markers bearing the scallop shell guide us to
Santiago, it is said the very hands of God use the waves to guide the
shells to the beach.

I
think about this story as I quietly chew my food. I think about the
grooves and the many ways to the tomb of St. James. What an amazing
metaphor for life and for this journey. How many times have I
unconsciously judged someone for doing something I wouldn
’
t?
The teachers are forming their own groove in the shell of the Camino.
I am forming mine. I glance across the table at Amy who is as silent
as I am tonight. She, too, is forming her own path to Santiago even
though we walk together.

Upstairs,
I lay my head on my pillow, which is covered with a new layer of tiny
black bugs. The silence between Amy and me says it all. We are both
scared that we will not finish, and it is all because of me.
This
can
’
t
get worse can it? My body will heal a little right?
Tomorrow
we begin again.

Trail
Days 4—5

After
half falling asleep on a bed of bugs, I am awakened by two late
arrivals at one o
’clock
in the
morning. I have no idea how they got in as most albergues lock their
doors at around 10 p.m. I gather by their conversation that they are
bicycle pilgrims. Yes, you can do this on bikes. They are going the
opposite direction on the Camino but are a new item.

When
I say
“
item,”
I mean I am two seconds away from standing up and tossing them both
out of the second story window because they are loudly whispering
things like, “I wish we would have met earlier,” and “Would you
like me to hold you like this?” and on and on. Keep in mind that
the occupants of this room are myself, Amy,
thousands
of little bugs,
and these two new love birds. I stand up, storm out of the room, and
make a new bed on the couch in the common area of the albergue. At
this point, I don’t care. I need to sleep, and my earplugs are not
working.

I
wake up at 5:45 a.m., return to the room, make as much noise as
possible to wake up the two love birds whom I am still pissed off at,
nudge Amy, and we head out the door. Amy calms me down as we begin to
walk, and she reminds me that I am supposed to be loving and
accepting of everyone, even horny people who wake me up in the
morning. I know she is right. This anger is not serving me at all.

We
start heading up a steep hill into thick morning fog, and I can hear
the calming whir of giant wind turbines hidden in the gray clouds
above our heads. We finally make it to the
Monumento Peregrino
,
which marks our high point of the day. We find ourselves in the cold
damp embrace of a dark cloud. It is only us up here and a handful of
thin, sturdy, metal statues of peregrinos. The figures perfectly
posed in the surrounding weather as the wind blows into their
metallic faces.

After
a short pause to admire these statues, we start our descent. The
rocky path proves very difficult as the
knee
pain of yesterday
returns
with a vengeance. Amy has forged far ahead, and I have lost sight of
her. I have adopted a diagonal method of descent, approaching the
trail much like a skier carves out a continuous
S
shape while attacking a steep run.

Many
pilgrims pass me on the trail, only pausing to ask me if I am OK. I
start to notice my knee looks like I have grown a second
kneecap,
and I am now almost certain that I will not be able to finish this
walk within the 30 days we have planned. The knee brace given to me
by the Hungarians yesterday is helping, though, and my breakfast
consisted of a 600-mg Spanish ibuprofen. This is helping a little.

I
descend from the clouds at a snail’s pace. Despite my body, the
morning light catching the dew on the expansive golden fields of
wheat and the clouds above make Amy and I both pause in awe. For the
second time today, we are lost in silence
only
interrupted now and again by the wind blowing through the wheat. We
eventually make our way into the first town for a
café
con leche
and a more substantial breakfast than pain pills.

It
is only about 10:00 a.m., and I doubt I can walk much further after
that steep descent. As we discuss the possibility of extending the
time we have to walk by changing our flights, the Camino provides
exactly what I need once again. This trek is trying to teach me to
quit worrying.