Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 24
Miguel finally decides to take a break from the race to Santiago, opening the door to surprising encounters.
“Thirty–six kilometers!” Sakura exclaimed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, from here to Carrión de los Condes it’s about nineteen and then another seventeen to Calzadilla de la Cueza.”
“I can’t walk with you guys. Not like this. It is too rushed and I really need to rest tonight,” Sakura said.
I was hungry for rest too. Sleep had simply numbed my feet for a few hours and pain returned once I got up. The lump on my ankle had grown to the size of a fat grape. I had to stop, but how to tell Sandra? I needed time. I would start out with her, but then break the news to her as we went along. Most of the path from Frómista to León was flat.
Sakura hugged me tightly.
“My friend, may you find what you seek,” she said.
“You too.”
I thought about asking her for her scarf, as I had given mine to my aunt who was suffering through chemotherapy when I returned from that first trip to Italy. I had prayed for her in Rome, and I placed it in her hands once I returned to Mexico City. She used it to cover her head after all her hair had fallen out. I didn’t ask Sakura for hers. Instead I gave her a slip of paper with my email address. She gave me hers, a small green origami crane along with a pin of the Virgin of Guadalupe. I put it on my hat.
“I’ve shared much of my faith with Mexicans in Japan; please have this.”
“Thank you.”
I hugged Sakura tightly one last time and kissed her on the cheek.
“Gracias amiga. ¡Qué Dios te bendiga! Buen Camino.”
When we had walked for some time, I looked back at Frómista, and to the south where the clouds smudged out the light. Sandra said the rain was far enough away that we could make it to Carrión de los Condes before it began to reach us. The lump on my ankle continued to grow and I fell behind her first by two meters, then by four and five. Sandra slowed, and then steadied her speed after she had pulled ahead by some ten meters. The storm was getting closer to us, crawling along on the sails of rain.
I thought, “Now. The moment to break away is now.”
My inflamed ankle confirmed my thoughts. Tiny raindrops glistened on my arm. I pushed on, looking to my left and then ahead of me, scanning the horizon where two white wires violently sliced through the rumbling thunderhead. Sheets of water poured down just as we entered Carrión de los Condes and a black mantel enveloped us. Every person walking by us rushed around a corner into a bar and the clamor of multiple languages: Japanese, Portuguese, French, German, Italian and Spanish. The bar had become a temporary post for some forty squawking pilgrims. The Spaniards and Italians were the largest and the loudest groups. Most, I imagined, were over fifty.
“Hey, young man, go in, all the way.” An Italian pilgrim waved me in. She stood near the door.
“Va bene,” I answered.
“You know how to speak Italian?” she smiled.
“Poccho,” I answered.
“Mm… e io poco español,” she replied. “Come in, come in for a beer.”
The rain rushed across the intersection and toward us—pushing everyone near the door all the way in.
“Vai, vai, vai!” she said, waving to me.
More pilgrims scurried into the already crowded bar. Sandra resigned herself to the fact that she would have to wait. She grabbed a chair in a corner and sat by herself to watch World Cup updates. No speed could protect her from the downpour. The Italian woman ordered a beer, handed it to me, then led me to a table where a group of Spaniards and Italians were talking and drinking. I counted ten empty glasses—six half full.
“Sit down,” she called to me, pulling out a chair.
“Grazie.” I nodded to all at the table. “Ciao.”
I sipped beer, but didn’t really listen to the conversation—as I was still trying to figure out how to “break up” with Sandra.
“Ragazzo, what’s your name?” asked a woman between sips of beer. “And where are you from?”
“Miguel, my name is Miguel. I am from Chicago, and México.”
“Aha, un mexicano,” she said. “Good, very good.”
“I’m Laura,” said the first woman I met. “You should take the bus with us.”
“What?”
“Yes, we are taking the bus to Sahagún. We need to rest, and to not worry about the rain. It might rain again.”
A bus? Take a bus to Sahagún? The thought had never crossed my mind; I had planned to walk the entire path, wanting to know it and experience it only on foot. I had imagined that, but her words made sense. I had to tell Sandra. I sipped the beer and eyed my new companions. They all seemed to be on a getaway. One man with a huge belly drank three beers in about fifteen minutes. Others drank with more patience, but they all seemed like fifty-year-old college kids. I guess they were old enough not to care what anyone thought. After forty minutes or so, the rain had slowed to a silent, intermittent sprinkle, then disappeared altogether. The puddles mirrored the clouds that had dissolved into tiny specs of slate. Steam rose from the asphalt. Sandra asked if I was ready. She was already wearing her pack. Everyone at the table looked at me and fell quiet. I stood up.
“No, I’m staying, and then I’m taking a bus with them to Sahagún.”
Her eyes widened and she took a step back in shock. She was angry and she could scarcely hide it.
“Boa sorte,” she said begrudgingly, and extended her hand toward me.
It was more of a shocked reaction than a polite gesture.
No smiles, no goodbye, hug or “I hope to see you again.” She turned around and walked onto the wet pavement. I felt some guilt, but I had to stay.
“Miguel,” someone called from the table. “Miguel, buy your ticket at the bar.”
“Yes,” I called back. “Yes…”
Was I doing the right thing? Is there such a thing as signs or am I just crazy? What about that voice? You’re losing it.
“What are you doing?” I said to myself.
“¡Muchacho! ¡Muchacho!” The bartender handed me the ticket.
I slid the Euros to him and walked away. Signs or not, I had just chosen a different path.
“Give yourself to the Camino. Don’t ask for anything because it will give you what you need,” Luis had said.
I had made a choice. The bus pulled up, I got up to grab my bag, and we all ran out. “¡Miguel, la cerveza!” A rebuke for leaving the beer. I ran back, took one drink, licked the foam off my top lip and ran out the door. I was the last one to board the bus.
Wine and beer bottles were freely passed from hand to hand. “¡Salud amigos!” A couple danced to a rhythm of one, two, one two claps. Wine spilled. Laura came up to me again, squeezing by the dancers.
“Why are you so sad?”
She was a little drunk.
“I’m fine. I just don’t know you.”
Her eyes widened and her smile grew wider. She turned away from me.
“Hey, not only is he the youngest person on the bus, he’s also the loneliest. Everyone say hi to Miguel.”
“Give him some wine.”
“Yes, what he needs is wine.”
“¡Vino! ¡Vino! ¡Vino!”
Everyone joined the chorus. Three wine bottles were passed from hand to hand, and two ended up on the floor next to me.
Laura put one in my hand. “You have to finish it.” The bottle was full.
“What?”
The chorus began again.
“¡Vino! ¡Vino! ¡Vino!”
“I can’t do that. I haven’t had anything to eat.”
She laughed and shook her head and turned back toward the crowd.
“He acts like he’s fifty, Íria, come here!”
A Spaniard came up behind her.
“Do you have a problem?” Íria asked.
“No,” I responded, almost cowering.
“Then have a drink. Relax!”
Three more gathered around my seat. One passed me a corkscrew.
“Bien,” I said, uncorking the bottle.
Was Luis somewhere telling me to loosen up?
“Come on, you’re the youngest one here.”
I lifted the bottle to drink, but someone quickly handed me a plastic glass. I poured the red wine and held it up.
“Salud.”
“¡Salud!” the entire bus responded.
“You have to stick with us, you’ll have fun,” Íria said. “I am cooking for us. Real food, you know.”
“Sí, gracias.”
The festive mood continued as I finished the glass of wine and set the bottle to the side. The bus stopped at Terradillos de Templarios and I thought about leaving, but no one moved. Fifteen minutes later we arrived in Sahagún, where everyone stepped off. A mere twelve kilometers separated Terradillos de Templarios from Sahagún. A few days before, we had suffered crawling into Burgos to complete a forty-one kilometer day, nearly the distance of a marathon.
“Híjole,” I said, closing my guidebook.