Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 16
Anna's foot problems continue. And it makes one thing clear: Any issues with your feet, be it a blister, an ache or even uncomfortable shoes, and you jeopardize your pilgrimage.
“Just leave me,” Anna said. “Keep going, don’t worry about me!”
“Come on! You can make it to Nájera. We’ll find some new shoes there.”
“No, no…” She looked at me as the tears streamed down her cheeks. “Don’t worry about me.”
“No, come on. You can do it. I’ll carry your bag until we reach the town.”
“Miguel, think about it. It’s a good time for us to separate. My feet just can’t take it anymore.”
Sandra tried to say something encouraging and knelt beside Anna, but she didn’t respond. The three of us sat after crossing a congested highway.
“You can make it.” Sandra said an assortment of words in Portuguese.
After she begged, the requests turned into an argument, and then Anna’s whimpers turned into sobs.
“Leave me alone,” she cried into her hands.
Other pilgrims walked by. One gestured offering help, but walked on not wanting to intrude. Why won’t you let me help you? I’ll carry your bag. I didn’t understand why her crying bothered me. Was it the sudden break with no time to say goodbye, no time to say we would look for each other, no embrace, no kisses, no time for anything? Does she even care about me? I got up.
“Are you sure you want this?”
She didn’t answer.
Her crying softened. It didn’t seem like she wanted to stay behind, but maybe she didn’t have much of a choice. Her feet had fattened so much that walking in those sneakers was like self-flagellation. We could not advance with her in that condition. The pain consumed her entirely. Sandra insisted that we could slow down. I nodded and we all sat again for some twenty minutes, but Anna insisted that we leave. Sandra stuck her tongue between her teeth, breathed in and motioned toward the trail. A new bunch of pilgrims walked by and offered help. Anna turned away and they walked on.
“Leave.”
I looked at her and then at Sandra again.
“Are you sure? We can help you. We will slow down. We already have. You know we’re in this together.”
“Go! Just go.”
“What?”
“Leave.”
Sandra and I walked down into some fields. Damn shoes. This is not the way I wanted to say goodbye. Is it for the best? How? She’s in so much pain. I wanted to turn back and help, bring her back to me. She told me to leave. Damn it! Just as I was cursing her shoes, Sandra took my arm and motioned for me to stop. I don’t want to walk with you. We don’t even talk. I might as well be walking alone. Blisters. Sweat made the bandages slide and the blisters sting. We moved to the side of the road and she removed her left sneaker. Her sock had a quarter-sized red dot on the side. As she removed it, some blood dripped on the ground, forming a pellet in the dust. Blood covered yellowish pink calluses on her sole. She winced—a piece of gauze hung from her heel. I passed her my first aid kit as hers was far too spare, a small collection of bandages and nothing else. I looked at the blister. It’s nothing serious, you big baby.
There were more pilgrims now; many looked as worn-down as we were. Their hair was dull with dust even though it was early in the day. How do I look? I know how I smell. The funk rose as the sun climbed and the white stains on my straps had formed into gleaming lines of salt crystals. It was impossible to rub them off. Sandra cleaned the wound on her fifty-something-year-old foot. What the hell am I doing with this middle-aged woman in the middle of Spain? What the hell am I doing here! I wanted to run away. Anna caught up to us. What? A Spanish pilgrim we had met the day before was walking next to her. She smiled.
“Ciao amiga!” Sandra blurted out, then hugged and gave her a big kiss on her grimy forehead.
“How are you?” I said, getting up.
“Better! I can walk. I don’t know how, but I can!”
“We have to get you new sneakers anyhow.”
I was desperate to help Anna, so I turned to the Spanish pilgrim and babbled a series of questions: How big is Nájera? Any stores? Any big stores? Will they have what we’re looking for?
She gave a wooden response. “It’s small. They won’t have anything.”
I took out my guidebook, hoping it would contradict her. It didn’t. The little symbols next to the town showed it had some cultural sites, grocery stores, campgrounds, private and public refuges, Internet access information. Nothing else. I closed my eyes in disbelief and nearly launched the book into the air. But. Wait. This won’t tell us about the clothing stores. It’s for pilgrims—not for residents.
The Spanish pilgrim lurched forward under the weight of her pack and called, “Buen Camino.”
You don’t have a clue about anything here. You’re just like us.
I looked up at Anna with a sudden realization.
“They’ll have something.”