Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 6

We walked barefoot on the smooth pebbles that lined the bank of the Arga River. The cold water chilled our feet.

“Why are you walking?” Anna asked again. 

Before I could answer, the frigid water had again penetrated to my bones and I grimaced while rushing out. 

“Why?” I groaned. “I need time to think. Like I said, I just finished a master’s degree and well, I was in Europe, so I decided to come.” 

She didn’t probe any more. Sandra and Alberto had tired of sightseeing and wanted to rest. We walked back to the refuge. The man who moved my bag was back. 

“Ciao! Mi chiamo Michele.” 

Damn, he’s Italian. 

“Ciao, buona sera.”

“Parli italiano?” he asked. 

“Poccho, mi chiamo Miguel.”

“We have the same name,” he said. “But mine is in Italian.” 

Obviously. 

He apologized for moving my things and shrugged, “Cosi dal Cammino.”

Yeah, whatever.

“It’s not just this. It’s magical, you will see. It’s not just this, I’m serious,” he said pointing to the other beds and to the boots and sandals. “Once I ran out of food and one of the hospitaleros provided without knowing my need. He gave my companion breakfast for the two of us. It was a miracle.” 

He noticed my skeptical look. 

“It’s magical, you’ll see.” 

You weren’t magical, you were rude. 

I hated being reminded of Italy. I wanted to walk as free from her as possible, though many questions might continue to simmer in my heart. Damn you, Michele. Damn you! I thought of her and wondered where she lived now. Probably far off and starting a family. 

“Buona notte,” I said, cutting off the conversation. 

“Buona notte,” he answered. 

I crawled up into my bed and tried to write, but couldn’t, and soon fell asleep. 

                                                                    *

The crunch of the plastic bags began even earlier, but they weren’t what had woken me several times during the night—it was the snoring. I could tell that not one of us slept very well. This was not to be a quiet, comfortable retreat. Outside, the black sky was becoming gray. I looked around and then below. Michele was gone. The bed springs wheezed. Bags were shuffled and boot strings were pulled tight—zzzzzzzz, zzz, zzzzzzz. The gray became blue as morning filled he refuge with its calming presence, but I was miserable and angry with myself for not using earplugs. Pilgrims made their way down the creaky stairs and out the door. My companions didn’t move for some time, and when we finally got up, we were the last ones at the door.

Sandra, Alberto and I stood outside of the refuge waiting for Anna, who was still in the restroom. My body cried for coffee. The caffeine addiction had diminished, but had not disappeared and thankfully, headaches were no longer part of my day. My eyes closed and I yawned constantly until Anna walked out in a sweet cloud of citrus and rose. She smiled as I helped her with her backpack. We walked out of Larrasoaña, past the thirteenth-century church of St. Nicholas of Bari and into the sylvan sanctuary. Gold flakes of light filtered and fell through the spaces between the canopy above us as we continued toward Pamplona. Birds sang and darted between the trees. The Arga River hummed and purled over the rocks.

Sandra walked ahead and Alberto looked up and softly sang “Luz do sol”: 

“Luz do sol….”

“Caetano Veloso,” I exclaimed. 

Anna turned back and smiled. “You like Caetano?”

“I love his music,” I said. 

Alberto was happy that I recognized the song. He nodded and continued singing. 

“Reza a correnteza, roça doura a areia…”

We had a quick start, but his singing slowed us down and made us fully take in the small patch of forest. Sandra looked back at me and said something. They all laughed. I did not make out what they said, and though the sounds were similar to Spanish, it was still too different for me to make out. Anna noticed my perplexed look and slowed down to walk next to me. Fortunately, she had learned enough Spanish and English in San Francisco. 

“Don’t worry, they did not say anything bad. They were just saying that you already had many points for becoming an honorary Brazilian and marrying me would seal the deal. That’s why we laughed.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “What?”

“Well, you attached yourself to us and you even like Brazilian music.” She smiled.

“OK,” I said, blushing. Anna pulled ahead, and her perfume lingered behind her, a breeze caressed my face with her scent. She turned back and smiled. 

We ambled up and down the hills between Larrasoaña and one or two farming towns, and only stopped when we came upon a wheat field to which Anna exclaimed, “Mio paraiso.” 

The stalks of wheat were bright as they were pushed and pulled by the wind, the sunlight gleaming on their length. She walked into the field and pulled some up.

“Put them on my backpack please.” 

Sandra and Alberto grabbed some too and we jammed them into our packs. I carefully placed one into my journal. We snapped pictures, drank water and walked on. 

 “Wheat was a symbol of prosperity for the Romans,” she said and looked at me. “It should mean good fortune for us on the walk.” 

I smiled as we looked up the path and trotted over to Sandra and Alberto who always seemed to be ahead of us. My pack bounced with the increased speed, so I pulled the waist and shoulder straps tight against my torso. The three engaged again in long discussion in Portuguese, jokes too. I was quiet most of the way to Trinidad de Arre where we stopped, out of breath. Anna leaned on a wall with one arm and removed her backpack. 

“My feet.” She closed her eyes and exhaled. 

We all turned toward her. 

“I have to rest,” she gasped. 

She chugged water as we unsnapped our backpacks and set them on the ground. Sandra directed her to sit on the ground in the shade and remove her sneakers. My hair was salty and gritty and dripping with sweat. More streamed down my chest. 

As Sandra rubbed Anna’s feet, Anna asked, “How long until Pamplona?” 

“About five kilometers.”

“Five?”

“Yes.”

“We can rest for a good while there, eat something?” Sandra said in broken Spanish. 

We approached Pamplona, the first city we would cross on the Camino. We crossed the Arga River over the Magdalena Bridge, a medieval construction from the late eleventh or early twelfth century, and before us stood even more of the medieval city, though Pamplona is far older. Founded in the year 75 BCE. it would subsequently flourish, becoming the capital of Navarra between 1000 and 1035 CE. The city’s massive defensive walls hid the old beauty behind them. 

“Come on,” Anna called. “I want a picture.” 

An old man volunteered to take it for us and we handed him four cameras. 

“Smile, pilgrims.” 

He snapped one picture after another, smiled, tipped his hat and said, “Buen Camino.”

“Gracias,” we replied. 

As we entered the city, our heads turned upward and our eyes widened as Pamplona captured our attention. It was a place at once medieval and modern; buildings from other periods were part of the mix. The ayuntamiento, or town hall, had a baroque exterior that was mesmerizing—a delicate work of art that seemed shaped out of clay rather than hewn from rock. It too called for a picture, and I bumped into a woman in the excitement. 

“Perdón,” I said. 

“No hay cuidado, peregrino,” she responded, looking at the building. “This will be the best city along the walk. You will not feel the beauty in any other city like you do here.” 

I turned toward her as she walked away and I hoped her words would prove untrue as I snapped the picture. Anna and I looked toward her as her gray hair and black dress became lost in other passersby.  

“Aren’t you hungry?” Anna asked. 

“Yes, let’s find something.”

We meandered through the streets sightseeing and seeking food. Sandra found some sweet rolls and Anna bought sport drinks, chocolate bars, and cookies. We craved calories. Alberto bought butter. The cashier smiled at our weird collection of fat and sugar. “Buen Camino.”  

We walked off toward the Plaza del Castillo. My soles were now complaining with a slight throb. Anna winced and breathed loudly as we walked away from the midday sun into the shade. We sat on a little strip of grass under a tree and kicked off our shoes. Anna stripped off her socks and went barefoot to allow her feet to cool off. The sun had sucked her energy and inflamed her feet. 

Sandra—a physical education teacher, I learned—told me to break out the chocolate. She tore open the bag of rolls and asked for my pocket knife. Alberto popped opened the sport drinks and watched as Sandra passed out the buttered rolls. I noticed she had just rubbed her feet for a few minutes and hadn’t washed her hands. I blinked, stared at her feet and then at her, inhaled and ate the roll—we ate, at least half a dozen rolls each, and then we lay in the shade. We could have spent the night there. 

Townspeople walked by and stared at our motley little picnic. We looked like pilgrims—worn and sunburned or tanned, depending on our original skin color. My arms and legs were between red and brown. We smelled, too. I could smell my feet and armpits and wondered if the trio and others nearby could as well. I remembered the first time I had heard about the pilgrimage. My Spanish professor spoke about the huge incense urn that was swung through the nave of the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, and not necessarily with a pious purpose or to symbolize prayers going up to heaven. Rather, it was to cover the malodorous assembly of pilgrims that gathered for the Mass. He ridiculed the practice. He laughed about their odor rising. I could only imagine the ghastly smells of that medieval horde. 

“They were probably French pilgrims,” Alberto said.

I figured that they probably didn’t smell any worse than we did at that very moment. And our hygiene was questionable. We had just eaten rolls with butter and foot sweat. Sandra shot up and said we should soon leave. Some thirty minutes later, we were back on the path and on our way out of Pamplona under the punishing sun. My feet throbbed, but I was fine otherwise. Anna gasped and bit her lower lip as we began the walk. I poured water on my hat and slipped on my sunglasses. 

Our quartet walked through the streets, toward our final destination for the day, Zizur Menor. Anna had already traded her old sneakers for her sandals, as they had begun to constrict her expanding feet. She winced as we walked and pulled on her backpack straps as if to pull herself forward, a futile effort as she slowly slid into agony. 

“Why are the five kilometers taking so long?” she cried. 

Her pace slowed with every step, and I slowed mine. Alberto and Sandra were too far ahead to call, and there was no way to take her there. No buses. No taxis to rescue us from the infernal heat and her pain. There had been no signs indicating how far we had to go. The guide said five kilometers, but who knew what point they had measured from in Pamplona, and I had to get her mind off her feet, off the distance and off the heat. Sandra and Alberto disappeared around a small bend. Anna exhaled, extending her neck and lifting her chin. She closed her eyes and trudged on. 

“Let me carry your bag. I can do it,” I offered. “It’s not much farther.” 

“No, part of the reason I’m doing this is to learn some independence. I’m too dependent on others.” 

But you’re about to pass out.