Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 13

Why do pilgrims walk? What do they seek?

“Fill your canteens,” said an old man of about seventy years as he looked toward the trail. “There’s no water until you get to Los Arcos, but it will be quiet and full of grapevines. You’re almost in La Rioja, it’s wine country.” 

“You better put on sunblock, your skin will burn quickly today,” Anna said. 

The freckles on her face had darkened and multiplied. 

“I’m not going to worry about it.” 

“But you’re going to burn if you don’t.”

“Like I said, I’m not going to worry about it. I need to get some color anyhow.” 

“OK,” she said. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, why?” 

“It seems like something is bothering you.” 

I walked on, cutting off the conversation. How could I tell her what was wrong? My heart was starting to feel that we needed to walk our own separate ways. We were on the same Camino, but we had our own paths to walk, our own mess to put to rest. Who knows what led you here, Anna. 

“I’m really tired of this pace,” she offered. “Sandra and you are in better shape than me. I’m going to rest for a day once we find a nice hotel,” she said to my surprise. 

“What?” 

“Yes, I think I need some time for myself. Right now, I’m keeping pace with you guys just to stay with you and that’s not right.”

Confusion welled up in me. Did she feel that way or had I caused her to feel that way, too? I softly shook my head and closed my eyes. The sun rose higher behind us—we stopped talking. Sandra walked ahead. Anna fell behind and I stayed between the two—knowing that I could keep up with Sandra, but not wanting to leave Anna. The green leaves of maturing grapevines grew on either side of the trail, but it was difficult to appreciate them while following Sandra, who only paused every few kilometers, looked around for a few seconds, drank some water and simply said, “¡Qué bello!” or “Que vento gostoso.” Then, she would continue the military march, dragging us along. Were we blind to her speed before? Alberto helped balance her drive, but now she took charge and we couldn’t stop her. 

It was maddening: one, two, one, two, crush, scrape, crush, scrape. All I could hear was the pounding of the gravel and earth under our feet, but I followed. Like Anna and Sandra, I did not have the luxury of time. The Camino is not a marathon. It is not about a time or a personal best, but about walking within. But I had to arrive in Santiago before the end of the month, and walking at the pace of thirty kilometers or more per day was the only way I could see myself doing it. I looked to my left at the hills with vines, engraved in the furrows of the reddish earth. I exhaled, frustrated. I have to get to Santiago—there is no time to take all of this in. I wanted to slow down. 

I’m missing something. I might miss the whole reason for being here. I might race by it. It wouldn’t even be a blur, but far worse—a knot in my stomach on the flight back home knowing I had missed someone or something important. I puffed my cheeks and exhaled as Anna reached for my left hand from behind. I pulled her forward and in front of me. 

“I can’t take this,” she breathed. 

Sandra didn’t say much, at least not to me, but she managed to impose her will. It wasn’t all her fault. We could not argue against the pace, but we could break its monotony. At Los Arcos, Anna forced us to bend to her will; she marched into a café, making Sandra return some thirty meters. 

“Buenos días peregrinos, ¿qué desean?” said the old man behind the counter. 

Water for me. Anna ordered a coffee and water. 

The bartender laughed, “What? You’re drinking hot coffee and it’s so hot out there.” 

Anna nodded, “Yes, it’s hot, but I need the energy.” Sandra, who had been standing near the door, reluctantly joined us and ordered potato chips and water. 

“You sure love coffee.” 

“Yes, yes I do. My favorite.”

“You’re crazy. It’s so hot. I mean I love it too. Get it iced.”

“No, it’s fine.” 

Other pilgrims drank and rested too. Some had removed their boots and rubbed their feet. We all had the same faces, wet and grimy with dust and sweat. 

“Hola.” 

“Hola,” I answered. “Tired?”

“Yes, very much. Are you done for the day?” 

“No. Viana is not too far, only about ten kilometers.” 

“It is too far for us and we want to take our time.”

“Miguel!” I closed my eyes. It was Sandra. “Let’s go.” I imagine that’s what her command would have been in English. Anna stood next to her, sunglasses on, hat in position just above her ponytail. Her hands were tucked into her backpack straps. A soft “Adiós” followed me as I walked out and back on the trail, following the yellow arrows where a wind swept the trees and cooled us off, though it was too brief and the hilly terrain made it difficult to measure how far we had walked. After an hour and a half, we expected to be looking down on Viana, but all we saw were more trees on a tall hill. 

“¿Dónde está?” Anna asked, leaning into me. “I know we’ve walked about ten kilometers.”

Neither Sandra, nor I knew what to say, though we had the same question, so we kept quiet and kept walking. Our resting place would soon appear—we hoped. I followed Sandra. Anna followed me as we continued up and down the hills for what seemed like another hour. Fatigue slowed time, made it drip-drop on our heads. The sun, the pebbles and stones underfoot bored into our bodies. 

Where are you, Viana? Its soft feminine name made it even more desirable, like a place that would take us into her arms, caress and refresh us, allowing us to slumber though a cool night. Sometimes Anna hung onto my arm exasperated, biting her lower lip and wiping her shiny neck. Then, the town finally came into view beyond a small plain sitting on the brow of a hill, modern constructions surrounding its medieval core. Other pilgrims were resting just beyond us. One of them was sitting on the ground. He had removed his huaraches. I did a double take. Yes, those are huaraches, the handcrafted, real leather thing, made somewhere in México.  

“What part of México are you from?” I asked. 

“Querétaro, and you?”

“Michoacán, but I grew up in the United States.” 

“Really? Oh, I have family there.” 

“Doesn’t everyone from México?” 

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Are you OK?” 

“Yes, considering.” 

“Considering what?” 

“The airline lost my luggage and all I had was my clothes for the Camino and these huaraches.” 

“Not really appropriate for the Camino, right?” 

“Not at all.” 

“You’ll be able to rest at Viana.” 

“We’re continuing to Logroño.” He nodded to his companion, an attractive brunette with a warm smile. She reached out to shake our hands. 

“Hola. I am Cyrine from Lebanon.” 

“I’m Mateo. Yes, we will make it to Logroño tonight.” 

We introduced ourselves and asked if they needed water, food or some first aid supplies. They didn’t, so we continued on toward Viana through furrows of earth and then on to pavement. I was amazed he had walked so far, but they quickly vanished from our minds. 

For all her medieval charm, my love for Viana swiftly turned sour. The pilgrim’s refuge next to Saint Peter’s Church seemed to be what we wanted. It was quiet. The welcome by the caretaker had been friendly and warm. It was clean. The floor’s varnish gleamed and there were no lingering fumes of body odor, soap or bleach—but we would have to sleep on floor mats. Comfort. That was the determining factor. We looked at each other and agreed to leave, thinking we would find better accommodations. at the next refuge. 

We were wrong. It was clean and modern, but the staff was cold. They only seemed to care about the money we placed in their hands. Saying nothing, they stamped our passports and led us to a room where the bunks were stacked three high. Sandra exhaled loudly as she dropped her pack, but Anna… Anna cried. Most of the beds were taken and we were forced into the highest bunks, which were about three meters from the floor. You could break a leg trying to go pee in the middle of the night. Sandra and I tried to console Anna. I took her things and placed them on a bed while Sandra held her.

“All these people care about is money. Look! Why do they pile us in here like animals?” Anna exclaimed. “They don’t care, they don’t respect sacred things or people doing something sacred.” 

An old woman loudly shushed us. I looked at her trying to make eye contact, to give her a dirty look, but she didn’t have the courage to face me. 

“You see what I mean,” Anna said. 

“Look,” I said. “Let’s step out of here, get a quick snack, shower, wash our clothes and then get something to eat.” 

“I just can’t take this anymore. I can’t. I’m tired.” She wiped her nose with her sleeve. “Why am I here?”

I don’t know if was her tears or thoughts that I myself had cycled through the night, but her questions resounded in me. Why are we here? Why are we on this pilgrimage? The daily trudge, the washing, getting up and walking under the punishing Spanish sun, were becoming aimless. Anna’s tears made me ask my own questions. Was it to meet Anna or something else? We stepped into the hallway. The desire to reach Viana had become a reflection of our pilgrimage. We were here, had arrived after much distress, but we did not fully understand what we were doing. I hung my head between my legs. Sandra passed me a bag of potato chips. I shoved a handful into my mouth. Sandra seemed mentally composed and physically strong save the three blisters on her left foot. She left the bag of chips and walked away, to the restroom I presumed. It was then that I remembered Luis’s advice: “Don’t ask anything of the Camino, just give yourself to it entirely.” I sighed. I’m doing it, just tell God to show me what to do and where to go. This endless walking is getting old. I leaned against the cool wall. Anna reclined her head on my shoulder. 

“I’m sorry about all this. Take a shower, relax,” I whispered kissing her forehead. “We all need some rest.”