Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 7

I had to think of something. 

“You like film, right?” 

“Yes, I love films. I attended Cannes this past spring,” she replied. 

“Really? That’s great, and what was your favorite film?” 

“Babel.” 

“You saw Babel? I’ve been wanting to see that film.”

“Yeah, I just loved it and the director too. What’s his name?”

“González Iñárritu”

“Yeah, he’s amazing. I mean it would have been so easy for that film to fall apart, but it doesn’t. That’s why it’s amazing.” 

“I’m so jealous. What other films did you see?”

“Volver, El Violín, Il Caimano…there were many great films. It was a fantastic time.”

When we reached the top of the hill, Zizur Menor magically appeared.  

I turned to her and ordered, “Give me your bag, we’re here. It’s just a few more meters.” 

She placed it in my arms as we walked over to Alberto and Sandra, who were standing next to the door of the refuge. Other pilgrims walked about. We looked at each other and the door, wanting to check in, leave our bags, shower and finally get some rest. Few words were exchanged as people paced near the door. I left my pack and my companions and walked over the main road we had followed to the town. A medieval structure, what appeared to be small church, stood by the side of the road by the eastern entrance to the town. 

“¡Miguel!” Anna called. “Come over here, we’re checking in!”

My legs were incredibly light as I sprinted back. Afterwards, we walked over to the small building I had seen—it was a chapel dedicated to Saint Michael. Sandra and Alberto led the way once again. They marched up the hill. “God,” I said, “they never slow down.” They rushed in and ignored the wheat fields that were just behind the structure. 

“Mio paraiso,” Sandra exclaimed. 

“Go out there so I can take a picture,” I said. 

Without responding, she made her way into a field—slowly—into the waves of undulating wheat blown about by an unseen mouth. She bowed her head, took some of the tall grass in her hand, but did not turn toward me. She seemed to be meditating or perhaps recalling something from her life outside of the Camino. It took some time before she slowly turned toward me. I was hesitant about taking a picture. 

She looked up at me and smiled, so I snapped a picture, then several more. She changed poses, removed her sunglasses and came closer. The flirty smile disappeared, but she continued posing, more pensive, taking this moment inside herself, to carry it back to the people or place she was thinking about. She plucked heads from the stalks with both hands, crumbled them between her fingers, then held them up to her nose, allowing the seeds to fall… as the breeze lifted them away.

“Let me see them,” she said taking my camera. “Make sure you give me copies of all these pictures.”

Flags bearing heraldic symbols hung from the building’s two main walls, which made it seem more like a medieval ceremonial center than a place of worship. The flags bore fleur-de-lis, crosses, black eagles, lions, and castles. At one time, the building had belonged to the Order of Malta—an ancient religious order that helped people in need (pilgrims in this case) and defended the faith. We didn’t pray, or stay very long, but I did ponder how that simple structure made the age of the Camino feel more real—tangible. I placed my hands against a wall and wondered about the people who had laid the foundation, placed stone upon stone. How many pilgrims have come here? Who were they? What was their motivation? What were their stories? We were quiet for a few minutes. Sandra sat down. Only Alberto fidgeted and looked at his watch, pulled back his cap, and removed his glasses to reveal his pleading eyes, and said, “It’s time to eat,” or something to that effect. 

Well, it was food he wanted and after eating, we returned to the refuge hoping to make up the sleep we had lost the night before. Sandra gave Anna and Alberto foot rubs as I watched with envy and rubbed my own. A family of Italian pilgrims—loud, all of them—were doing the same. Mom rubbed Dad’s feet and their three complaining teenagers rubbed their own like me. From their complaints, I could tell that they would not be walking the next day. Not far from them, I spotted Michele lying next to a window. He waved from behind a notebook. I waved back. You again? 

I flipped open my guidebook and asked, “Where do we stop tomorrow?” 

Anna took it, scanned it and said, “I don’t care, but we have to go to Eunate.”

Alberto said, “Puente la Reina,” and he pointed with a thumb. 

“It’s not far from Eunate,” I said. “Luis, my friend from Madrid, said I should go there.”

Michele came over and agreed, though he didn’t speak Portuguese or Spanish.  

Anna interjected, “Yeah, I’ve heard it’s mystical, out in the middle of the fields with no houses anywhere near it. Nothing else, really.”

We would first cross the Alto del Perdón, descend, and hike through some towns and then make our way to Eunate. I pulled away and handed them the guide. Fatigue and a full stomach pulled me into sleep. The earplugs softened and then silenced the  sounds of the room.