Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 3

This is the beginning of Chapter 2 in the book.

Even though I was calmer, I paced around the bedroom making a mental list to prepare for the walk: pocket knife, first aid kit, soap, shampoo, two uh, no, three changes of clothes. The music did little to quell the anxiety, but exhaustion eventually won, and I lay down and dozed off. 

Toom! Toom! Toom! 

“¿Miguel?”

“¿Sí? 

“Come and eat.” 

“Sure, eh, thank you.”

I sat up, rubbed my eyes, stood up, stretched and walked over to the bathroom, washed up, and helped set the table on their small backyard deck. Luis grabbed the remote control and turned on the television, lowered the volume, then went back into the house and came out with some bottles of wine, a few lemons and a bottle of seltzer water. Their dog followed him around and then lay between us when he finally sat.

“Don’t give her anything, because then you’ll never get her away from you. Es una encimosa.” 

We had some steak, bell peppers and asparagus.

The early evening sun remained bright and lit up the yard and pool; the air had cooled, but it was warm enough to swim. 

“You can swim if you like. It will help you relax,” Elvia said. She nodded toward the pool with an armful of dishes. 

“Thank you, but no.” 

I wasn’t that comfortable just yet.

We ate slowly. My eyes were puffy, though I had only been asleep a little while. Luis then continued with the series of questions he had begun in the van: “When do you want to begin the Camino? Where do you want to start? Are you ready? Physically yes, but what about mentally? Do you need to buy anything? How much does everything you’re carrying weigh? Is your backpack light? What about a flashlight? No? Do you have a guidebook? Do you think you can do it without one? What about your boots? What, no boots? Will those sneakers take the punishment? Are you sure? Do you have a pilgrim’s passport? More wine? Does your skin burn easily? No, are you sure? Are you sure? What about your first aid kit? Do you have a rain poncho? Have you ever done anything like this?” 

The blitz of questions left me a bit dizzy, but I actually think it was the wine. I had already had three glasses. Don’t drink too much. Don’t lose it. You shouldn’t. Don’t lose it. After I answered his questions, he put a few ice cubes in my glass, added a lemon slice and some seltzer water, then he poured more red wine.

“Try this. We call it tinto de verano.”

Cool, tart and grapy. The alcohol mellowed by the lemon. The ice jingled as I drank. I couldn’t say no. 

Luis sat back. “You know, there is a meeting of friends of the Camino in Madrid’s center tonight at a bar called Ultreia. We could go if you want.”

“Sure.” 

“More food?”

I waved it off. “No, gracias.” 

He only stopped to wipe his mouth, take a drink, or listen to my brief answers. Elvia then brought out the dessert, a strudel-like concoction stuffed with spaghetti squash. It was sweet, stringy, the pastry was flaky—delicious. Great home cooking! I didn’t know their friends of the Camino or what we would be doing, but it sounded fine and at least I would meet more people. 

“Good, after we clean, wash up and then we’ll leave. It shouldn’t take long.”

                                                                   *

Cars hummed and people walked about. We drove by Madrid’s main post office building and the Cibeles Fountain, and by a large billboard that featured one of Spain’s young soccer stars. The World Cup would soon begin. I had planned to be home in time to watch some of the matches with my father. Luis played that goofy Camino music again. 

At the bar, I noticed replicas of medieval maps of northern Spain, and there were posters of the Camino too, scallop shells everywhere, and the Latin words, ultreia and suseia. 

“¡Luis, hola tío!” 

“Hola.” 

People gathered in small groups talking or cracking jokes chatting, sipping beer or wine or that tinto de verano, and snacking on potato chips. 

“¡Bienvenido!” 

“Gracias.” 

Luis ordered me a caña of beer; we sat down, but I didn’t talk much. Instead, I listened to the conversation and answered the same two questions when anyone approached me: “When are you starting? Where are you from?” I sipped the beer and snacked. By then I realized that I could not start walking the next morning, so I relaxed. Luis ordered a second beer for me. My cheeks reddened  with embarassment. He had not allowed me to pay for one single thing. A woman handed me a napkin as she kissed me on the cheek.

“Here, please go to this website and let us know how it’s going as you walk.” 

“Sure, I will.”

“Buen Camino.”

I drank the second beer and listened as people planned their next walk, and keeping in touch with friends. Luis tapped me on the shoulder. 

“Let’s go.”

“Yes.”

Everyone wished me “¡Buen Camino!”

We left after about an hour, walking out into the bright skies of Madrid even though it was already past 9:00 pm. Again, it was that dopey music all the way home. Luis insisted that we have dinner and go over the guidebook. My eyes were heavy, but when we arrived at the house, he talked on and on about his first walk and how planning had helped him make it through. He flipped pages and pointed out things he considered important. He showed off his stamped pilgrim’s passport, pressed between glass in an ornate frame, and his staff, boots and pictures. I was about to fall asleep when he grabbed my arm and handed me a novel about the Knights Templar and the Camino. 

“Take that with you. Read it.”

Then he showed me the dried foot of some bird, and my head snapped back in surprise. I blinked and attempted to hide my reaction, but it was too late. 

“It’s for good luck. I always carry it. It’s a goosefoot.”

I took it in my hand and held it, looked closely at its black lines and nails. Luis looked for further reaction or questions. What am I supposed to say? I remembered the strange symbols in his van. What the hell am I getting into? 

“Let’s go to sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow,” he said through a yawn.

                                                                      *

For breakfast: coffee, sweet bread, and toast smeared with garlic and olive oil—“It’s authentically Mediterranean,” Luis said before suggesting we should get ready to leave. After eating, I gathered my daypack and made sure my bedroom was neat. I put my dirty clothes to the side and put away my laptop for good. Just before I walked out of the bedroom, I grabbed my camera and stuffed it in my pocket.  

“Ready?” 

“Yes.” 

Elvia, who had just returned from the night shift at the hospital, waited for us by the door. Her shift had been uneventful and she had been able to get about four hours of sleep, but she still needed to rest. 

“Get more sleep,” Luis said. “Miguel and I have to go out and buy a few things, but we’ll be back to eat around 2:00.”

“Fine, that way I won’t have to worry about you making noise, and then we can eat.”

We walked down to the garage, which seemed more like the Batcave, and into his van. Luis raised the garage door, opened the gate and tore out of there, speeding toward the expressway, swerving through tight turns and tearing onto the main road. I gripped the door handle and put on my seatbelt.

“Don’t worry, I don’t get tickets. And I haven’t had an accident in years.”

Just like you don’t smoke, right?

He lit a cigarette. 

We drove for about twenty minutes to another small suburb of Madrid. 

“This is where I work, I own the company that maintains the green areas. We do repairs to streets too.”

He had taken two days off to help me prepare for the Camino. We parked. 

“First, we’ll go to the store, then the pharmacy, then we’ll go by my office.” 

I bought insect repellent, a pack of disposable razors, soap—Lagarto brand, recommended by Luis for its versatility. “You can use that as a shampoo, body soap and for your clothes too. It saves weight.” I held it to my nose, and sniffed. Fatty with notes of a janitor’s closet. 

“Are you sure this will work?”

“It might not smell good, but it’s all you need.” 

We crossed the street to the pharmacy. 

Get some sunblock, some Betadine. Do you need any bandages? Any powder, first aid ointment? You should also get some Alcohol de Romero too. At night you work that into your muscles and it helps relax them. 

I got the sun block (SPF 30), the Betadine and the alcohol. These things I paid for. 

We went to his office where he introduced me to his workers. He disappeared into an office for about ten minutes, then we tore away again in the Batmobile. 

“They will meet us for some drinks and food. You thirsty?”

“Yes...”

It seemed like seconds later when we pulled into the parking lot of what looked like an office building, which it was, but it also had a supermarket and a small deli for tapas. Some of Luis’ workers were already there, joking around and making catcalls at some young women. 

“Una caña con limón,” Luis ordered. 

“Una igual.” 

I ordered thinking it would be a beer with lime—Corona style—but it wasn’t. The caña, or glass of beer, was spiked with a generous shot of lemon-flavored liqueur. It was sweet, sour and strong. The first one gave me a buzz. Luis ordered me another. I slowly drank the second one and grabbed some chorizo and bread off the countertop to tone down its effects. Luis had a second one too. He drank slowly between chuckles, jokes and banter. Sometimes he launched small pieces of olives, chorizo or fried fish into the air when he burst out laughing. Then, he bought a round for everyone in our group. I didn’t request another. The tapas and drinks were a quick happy hour. And again Luis and I jumped into the Batmobile and zoomed away. He turned on the radio and lit up again. 

“I really don’t smoke, just once in a while. I actually quit about a year ago.” 

We got home and I went straight to my bedroom. Luis changed, splashed around in the pool and spoke to one of his daughters on the phone. About an hour later, I got up, changed into shorts and helped set the table again. Luis toweled off, struggled into his T-shirt, walked into the house, and  came out a few minutes later with wine and tequila. 

“You have to show me how to drink this,” he said holding up a bottle of Sauza Hornitos—a strange little smile on his face, like that of a boy with a newfound toy. 

You want to keep drinking? Really? 

“Do you have limes?” 

“What? No, but will lemons do?” 

“Yes, but limes are best.” 

“I’m sure it will be good after the food,” he said, walking back into the house.

Elvia came out with a large platter and walked over to the grill where the smell of burning charcoal rose with the scent of rice, chicken, calamari, mussels, shrimp, and saffron, a delicious paella. My mouth watered. Luis mixed up some more tinto de verano as their dog made a circuit from grill to table looking to land a scrap. An old Spanish movie played on the TV in the background. This—a tradition of the Camino—was all to celebrate my departure the next morning, Luis said in his never-ending instruction. It was a slow, delicious meal and the first time in months that anyone had cooked for me with such attention. 

As soon as she finished eating, Elvia left to run some errands while Luis and I cleared the table and washed the dishes. Luis then kept the pouring wine until we finished the bottle. He opened the tequila and sliced a fat lemon in four. I told him one could sip it plain, have a shot or squeeze a lime into it—or some lemon juice in this case. I poured, added the juice and gave it a dash of salt. The glasses clinked together.

“¡Salud!”

Luis smacked, smacked, and smacked his tongue against his palate—slowly and loudly. 

“Good, I like it.”

He poured another shot and then three more, pressing the lemon slices against his teeth with such gusto the juice ran down his chin and dripped on his shirt. He closed his eyes as he licked his fingers. Surprisingly, I only got a slight buzz, but I had to stop. 

“More?”

I chuckled. No way.

But, he was serious. 

I slowly shook my head. 

“No, thanks.” 

                                                                    *

We went down to the basement where he helped me make the final preparations. I paid my bus fare to Pamplona online. “You can get your ticket to Roncesvalles from there.” We planned the route. To walk the 780 kilometers, nearly 500 miles in about 25 days, I had to average 30 kilometers, or about 19 miles a day. I was unsure, but I made quick notes in my notebook to hide my insecurity. He pointed out places in the guidebook that he thought I should see. 

“Go to Eunate, it’s beautiful and mystical. It was a place the Templars used for their rituals.”

We went back online and traced the route from Madrid to Pamplona, a five-hour bus trip. From there, Roncesvalles was just two hours away. Luis lent me a rain poncho and gave me some first aid ointment, a headlamp, a needle and thread, some gauze and a small repair kit for the backpack. I grouped items according to use and stuffed them into plastic bags: two pairs of socks, two boxer briefs, two T-shirts, two pairs of shorts, a black sweatshirt, a small first aid kit, sunblock, lip balm, sunglasses, lotion, the bar of Lagarto soap, toothpaste, a pocket knife, floss, mouth rinse, Alcohol de Romero, my journal, two pens, a camping pillow, a small towel. I threw in a bottle of shampoo. The sleeping bag attached snug to the outside of the pack. I filled two water bottles for a total of three liters. My camera and hat fit into the hip belt pouches. That should be everything. And finally I put it on. 

“Damn!” The weight surprised me. 

Luis brought a scale down and asked me to weigh myself with and without the backpack. Luis tried it on. 

“Tío, that’s heavy! 

At fourteen kilos, just a little over thirty pounds, it was too much. I removed the shampoo bottle, the lotion and two liters of water and dumped the contents of the first-aid kit to strip it down to the bare necessities: a few band-aids, gauze, antibiotic ointment, and aspirin along with some needles and thread. 

“For blisters believe me, you’ll need those,” Luis called from the hallway. “You’ll find fountains all along the Camino so don’t worry about carrying that much water. 

I weighed myself again. Wow! The difference? Just four kilos less, about nine pounds.

Luis spent the rest of the evening talking about the Camino, its challenges, its rewards, friends he had made on the path, and its personalities, which reminded him of one of his favorite drinks, homemade coffee liqueur. More alcohol? He stepped over to his liquor cabinet, grabbed a bottle and filled two small shot glasses. 

“Try it.”

I still had a buzz from the tequila and wine, but I drank. 

“It’s good.”

“Yeah, I know. Make sure you have some if you see it during your walk.” 

Luis looked at his watch. 

“It’s 6:00. We will take Elvia to the hospital and then we’ll meet up with some friends at a bar. What do you think?”

I didn’t know what to say. I remembered that Luis had said in an email that he had the heart of a twenty-year-old. He wasn’t lying. 

“Don’t we have to get up early tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, annoyed. “You’re worrying, aren’t you?” he said putting down the glass. “I just want you to relax, to forget about all the stuff you’re carrying in your mind until you start walking.”

We got ready. I washed up and put on clean jeans and a red polo shirt. Luis came out of his room in an aura of hairspray with his hair wet and slicked back. He was wearing a clean black button-down shirt, jeans and a polished pair of dress shoes. Where are we going? We left the house with Elvia, took her to the hospital, and then went to the bar. We picked up one of his friends—another gray-haired twenty-year-old—and ended up at a bullring that had no bulls. We went into the bars and clubs underneath the stands. No people, either. It was just the bartender and the three of us, all dressed up for nothing. The night was pretty uneventful. Spaniards don’t begin partying until after midnight, which was about the time we got home. I stayed up for another hour just to make sure I had everything. Right as I was stuffing my dirty clothes back into my luggage, I remembered her letters in the pocket of my dirty jeans. I took them out. The plastic bag was nearly worn out and was hard to see through, and I had no idea how a small hole had developed on one of the corners. The bag went into the wastebasket. I unfolded the letter she had placed in my journal. 

Caro Miguel, mio amore,

I hope that your flight goes well. 

I want to tell you that all we have shared has been like an unexpected trip into a new land that I somehow felt was always there. And ever since you came into my life, it’s like I knew that my life would be different, that you and I would find freedom with each other and within each other. And so, I also feel that your life and mine must be one. I’ll tell you when I realized that. 

Remember that time when we were in Orvieto. I know we had gone to see the town, to walk around and see the cathedral. We were such tourists. I insisted we go early, but we arrived late. You were so tired still suffering from the flight, but you said it didn’t matter because we were together. And on that day just after we had dinner, I knew that I would go to anywhere in the world to be with you. You, the wind in my sails and the fire in my soul. I love you.

Beatrice

I stopped reading, folded it and put it into the pack with the other letters.