Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 25
After breaking free to walk on his own, a chance encounter becomes a defining moment on the Camino for Miguel.
The caretaker at the Trinidad Refuge, a young blonde woman, looked at us, each and every one of us—from head to toe. “You’ll have to wait to check in. It’s just too early.” Our skin was clean, and the only smell some of us gave off was alcohol. A drunk man nearly fell over when he walked in. The woman walked away without saying another word. Some pilgrims wandered outside; others just sat on the floor. The fat guy who had downed three beers at the bar fell asleep against a wall, his belly protruding like a giant dinner roll. He snored like a growling dog. Twenty minutes passed, and she finally started to quietly check us in. Her anger had not diminished.
“Form a line,” she barked.
We did.
“Take the top bunks and leave the bottom ones to the pilgrims who walked.”
No one responded.
“Be quiet as you go up. There are ill pilgrims who need to rest. Please show respect; this was once the Church of the Holy Trinity. ”
We all kept quiet, but ignored her bed orders. We found several pilgrims sleeping; others were awake and moving about, putting clothes away or taking inventory of their belongings. One, a woman of about twenty-five, was wearing a fresh cast on her right leg and talking on a cell phone, wiping away tears.
“… my dream. My father did it before he died,” she said quietly. “I don’t know when I will be able to return.” Her pack was at her side with a train ticket.
Compared to her, we must have seemed like a bunch of tourists making the Camino entirely on a bus or with assistance from a car following us along the path.
I staked out a lower bunk away from the rambunctious Italian and Spanish group and away from the window too. The box-like bunks provided some privacy and could also make nodding off a bit easier come nightfall. The lump on my left ankle remained, but the pain had diminished as I worked and kneaded it with Alcohol de Romero hoping to relax the tender muscles and joints, but I avoided touching the heels. They were so pliable; pieces of flesh might tear off like fresh dough. I needed new shoes—better ones—or some way to add padding to absorb the shock. The sneakers had taken a beating. I was flattening the inner sole into a sheet of paper. I lay down pondering how to solve the problem. A fog enclosed Sahagún in a cocoon and lulled me to sleep.
An hour later, I rubbed my eyes in the dark and figured a shower would wake me up. In the pack? One clean pair of underwear, but the rest reeked of stale popcorn and soap. I had tried to wash my clothes the night before, but failed. Beige soap stains streaked across the chest and armpits of the T-shirt. The shorts gave off a fetor of cheese. Thankfully and because of the day’s short walk, the clothes I wore could be recycled. Washing would come after the shower. Where’s the soap? There was nothing in the plastic toiletry bag. I emptied the pack onto the bed and spread my clothes, the repair supplies, the first aid kit, the flashlight. It wasn’t in the small bags or wrapped up in the socks. Where did it go?
I got up and picked through all the items again. The soap was gone. My sunglasses? Gone too.
“Where did I leave them? The bus? The bar? I left them at the bar!”
God knows I would not find a single store open at siesta time, so I sat on the floor. The “lost on the Camino” list grew longer: towel. Feet! Soap, sunglasses, Anna. Sanity. Damn. You are a joke. You’re misplacing things. You can’t wash clothes. Then you’re looking for signs from God. Really? I got up, faced the ground and lunged my guidebook against the back wall of the bunk. It bounced and fluttered onto the ground. Several pages tore, and the pilgrim’s passport slid out and across the floor. The thud didn’t alarm anyone. What was wrong with me? I had been fine. Why would missing soap and sunglasses set me off? I looked at the floor, eyeing the torn guidebook and passport, the scattered clothes. Calm down, the sunglasses you can buy later today. And the soap, well, someone here should have some. I looked toward the window where an old woman folding clothes blocked the sunlight. I hope she didn’t see me. I quickly gathered everything and tossed it on the bed. I walked over to her. Her face was fresh, her cheeks a bright pink, and she smiled as she worked. Her gray hair was pulled back in a long, girlish ponytail. Her khaki shorts and green T-shirt gave her the air of an accomplished backpacker. She has to have an extra bar of soap or at least some shampoo. Either will work.
“Hello, do you speak Spanish?”
“A little. It’s not too different from Italian. I’m Italian,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Swiss, but I married an Italian and I really feel more Italian than Swiss.”
“Really?” Not another Italian.
“Yes, what is that you need?”
“I forgot my soap at Frómista and was wondering if you had any extra?”
She smiled. “Yes, I do.” Reaching across the top bunk, she grabbed a new bar from underneath her bag.
“Another Italian,” I said.
“What?” she said, putting the soap down.
“It’s just that I’ve met so many Italians on the Camino.”
“You don’t like Italians? What are you?”
“I’m from Chicago. México originally. No, no, no. It’s not that at all. It’s just that...”
I paused and looked toward the window.
“You’re what?”
“I’m trying to forget an Italian girl…”
“What?” she said, taken aback.
She continued looking into my eyes and her smile faded.
“And that’s why you’re here on the Camino?”
I paused again, looked at the window and then into her eyes.
“Yes, yes...”
I wanted to continue talking, but was unsure about telling a perfect and old Italian stranger about my life—the lies, the remorse, the insomnia, the drinking. How is this going to help?
She sat, looked around, and said, “There is no one else around. Why don’t you tell me about it?” The sunlight coming in through the high window grew brighter, filling the entire nave.
“My name is Maria Cristina Grazia,” she said softly taking my hand to reassure me. I sat next to her and looked at the floor.
“It has been so difficult.”
“The relationship?” she said. “Maybe it was the cultural differences. You are from very different cultures.”
“No, it wasn’t that. I...I was afraid of taking a complete risk for her, of giving us a chance to make a whole life together instead of the summers and holidays we had shared. We met in Modena.”
“Modena?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where I’m from.”
“What?”
“Yes. I can’t believe you met there and that now you’re here. Like I told you, I’m originally Swiss, but I married a wonderful Italian man and we made our life in Modena. It is not a very big city, but it was ours. He worked for the government. We had such a wonderful life.”
“Had?” I asked, turning to face her.
“Oh, yes…yes, about my husband. He died about seven years ago,” she breathed. “I’m not going to lie. It was very difficult, very difficult, the most difficult moment of my life. He was so loving, so caring and hard working, and we loved each other though we could have no children. We made a great life. Cancer took him from me. When we met, I had to leave my family and friends, but it was worth it. I have no regrets. I will always miss him, but we lived such a wonderful life.” She paused and said, “I’m sorry. I interrupted you. Tell me about the girl from Modena.”
“No, don’t worry. I don’t mind you telling me about your life.”
She nodded. “Please continue.”
“We met in Modena and it was an instant connection. I didn’t speak much Italian and she didn’t know any Spanish or any English.”
“Oh, we Italians. We want the entire world to speak our language.”
I laughed nervously, trying to understand how this woman and I had crossed paths.
“Please continue,” she said.
“I don’t remember how we began talking or how we understood each other, but we did, and we discovered a common passion for art and poetry. I was with a group of friends as we were making our way to Rome, but we had to make a stopover in Modena and spent about seven days there. That’s how we met. We were all trying to meet girls on the trip. My friends and I would flirt with most any girl we thought was attractive, but when I met her it… it… it was different. She had a quiet way about her, a beautiful smile and welcoming eyes. She was shy, but confident. I guess it was that mystery that drew me to her. It’s funny, we were in Modena for about a week, so we were able to explore the city. We walked around with a group of Italians who were our guides. She was always there. One night the host families of the Church of San Francesco, the ones who had organized our stay there, held a celebration for us in the church’s courtyard. There was traditional music and food. There were about 200 people there. We were really grateful for their hospitality.”
“Mm, we are very giving people.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“She called me over to the table. All the families had prepared a dish or dessert for the event. She lifted a gorgeous cake from the table to show it off, then she cut a piece, and then a smaller piece from that. She placed both in my hands and looked into my eyes. I took the small piece and ate it. I smiled, ‘It’s delicious.’ She smiled.”
Maria Cristina smiled and nodded.
“After that we sat to watch the performances, but then I asked her away from the crowd. We walked to a bus stop where I had seen some poetry, though I didn’t understand it.”
“Sí, sí, sí.”
“I asked her to translate it or rather to help me understand some of what it was trying to say.”
“Did you?”
“Just a couple of words. After a few failed attempts at literature in Italian, we returned to the crowd, and so many of her friends stared as we sat to watch the performance, which then became a dance. They pulled many of our hosts onto the dance floor.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And I stood up and simply extended my hand to her to ask her to dance; she placed her hand in mine and I led her out to the floor. She had never danced in her life. We laughed when she nearly tripped over my foot when we went off beat.”
“That is funny.”
“Everyone joined in. I considered staying in Modena when the rest of my group went to Rome. Instead, we met at the train station in Rome just a few days later. It was early in the morning, and she brought a pack with clothes for a few days. We shared a breakfast of cookies and juice. Then we went to pick up my bags before we went to search for a hotel.”
“Such passion.”
“It was happening so fast, but it was right. We walked through Rome. We didn’t have a lot of money, so we shared some sandwiches and more juice boxes she had brought from home. I had some fruit.”
“It sounds like you were starting to fall in love.”
“Yes, yes, we were. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. She felt the same way. We just had a connection unlike anything I had ever felt with anyone before. We spoke in a mix of Italian, Spanish and sign language.”
“And after that?”
“After seven days, I returned to Chicago, but I flew back for Christmas and the following spring and summer. We traveled around Emilia-Romagna and Tuscany. We even went to Ischia, to Cinque Terre, over to Trieste and into Slovenia and Croatia. ”
“Beautiful. How beautiful! It sounds like something out of an old movie.”
“I was there during one autumn. We went to Montepulciano, too. We had talked about marriage and children and making a life.”
“Ah… the wine. Sí, sí, sí. I’ve been there several times. What a story! It all sounds so good. What? What happened?”