Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 5

Beginning of Chapter 3 in the book.

The plastic, the plastic bags. It was the plastic bags! The crush and crumple in the dark as pilgrims rummaged through their backpacks preparing to leave woke me up. To my left, the Italian pilgrim who had arrived late and gone to bed without changing still slept. It was only 5:00 in the damn morning! I rolled back into my sleeping bag, checked on my earplugs and tried to sleep. I tossed and turned for about an hour, and got up when I realized it was impossible. Almost everyone was up and walking around; beams from the flashlights leapt from floor to ceiling and back and across my face. The guy across from me was doing it on purpose—at least, it felt that way. I sat up, hung my legs over the side, jumped off, and gave him a dirty look. Come on, you know what you’re doing. I grabbed my toiletries and headed for the shower. Damn, some people are rude! And there she was. Is that her? Yes, it is! What a surprise! Where’s that guy? I was walking right in front of her bed when I caught sight of her. I quickly looked away and kept walking. I showered, brushed my teeth, flossed in a flash—water dripped from my hair as I rushed back up the stairs. 

She was gone. There was a discarded plastic bag on her bed, but nothing else remained, not on her bed or near it. I packed and looked for Laia, figuring I should at least walk with my “mom,” but she was gone, too, as was Mary. “OK,” I said “I will do this alone.” Is that how I’m going to learn from this, God, will I have to learn from this all on my own? No answer. I tore open a pack of cookies hoping the redhead would appear somewhere if I delayed just long enough.

Scanning the guidebook, I decided that Larrasoaña would be the day’s goal—27 kilometers. The bed below mine, now empty, served as a small table in the now quiet refuge. Most people had left. I didn’t see the girl anywhere, so after eating, I put on my sweatshirt and Laia’s green sweatshirt over that before I grabbed my pack and stepped out into the sun. Biting wind whipped around my face and exposed calves. A yellow arrow by the pavement was the first I would follow on the 500-mile road.

Shadows of oak, pine, birch, and beech trees covered the way of dirt and stones to Zubiri from Roncesvalles. I entered a tunnel of trees. It is one of the few remaining patches on the path that resembles the medieval way. The full weight of the backpack rested on my waist for the first time, making me understand the importance of traveling light. 

The surrounding forest resembled Italy—Emilia-Romagna actually, where Modena sits. I thought of her and how much she would have liked walking through here. I also remembered that final goodbye—the handshake. Icy. Distant. Angry. That trip had been so unplanned that, after leaving Modena, I was lucky to find a clandestine hostel near the Duomo in Florence where I arrived during a storm. The rain made everything more miserable. My bag and its contents were soaked through. I hung it all to dry then meandered aimlessly through the city, before leaving for Siena and finally returning to Rome. They had been our cities. The forests on the Camino also resembled those in Michoacán, where I would see my mom and dad in about a month. I had never been able to talk to them about Italy in any detail.  

During the past summer and early autumn, my father had implored me to stop drinking. He begged several times. It was hard to keep it a secret. Sent by my mother, he would call me from his cell phone, asking me to help him with the pots and containers of food. He would park outside of my apartment. It was love manifested through beans, tortillas, mole and pork ribs with calabacitas. My broken soul was breaking their hearts. This was their outstretched hand keeping me from sliding closer to the edge. It reminded me of the adage, “Las penas con pan son menos.” Bread lessens sorrows. Well, it didn’t.

“Mi’jo, no sanarás las heridas así,” he would say, but not much else. 

He would sit, waiting for me to open up, to tell him the story, to offer some hope, but I never did. Changing the subject, I would offer him a cup of coffee or some of the food he had just placed in the fridge. I was too broken, the wound raw from the rub of guilt and regret. The lost, black nights of drinking and numbing continued until that morning in late October when my friend called. 

“Miguel,” she had said. “Is everything OK?” 

A cool breeze blew in from the mountains; I looked up and saw only a few clouds through the canopy to the west. What is that? I felt a poke in my foot and looked at my watch. The ends of my fingers tingled with nerves. On the trail for only about an hour and a half, my right foot told me something was wrong. It became more pronounced as I continued. Luis’ words came to me as if he were walking next to me. 

“If you feel any sort of foot pain, stop. Something that isn’t normal or related to fatigue, stop.” 

And that’s what I did once I reached Espinal/Aruziberri. I went into a little eatery, and ordered a potato omelette, actually a tortilla española, and some orange juice and sat to eat next to other pilgrims, hoping the pain would simply disappear. It did, so I ignored the second half of Luis’ instructions for foot pain.

“Sit, and rest.” I had. “Take off your shoes and socks. Check for blisters and if you have any, take care of them immediately. Take a needle, sterilize it, thread it and run it through the blister. Cut the string, but leave some of it in there to keep the liquid draining. Apply some alcohol, allow it to dry, put on your socks and continue walking.” 

I refused to look at my foot. It’s not a blister, Luis. It’s not. I had only walked about six kilometers and I had felt great except for the small pinprick of pain on my right foot. Finishing the tortilla, I got up, put on my backpack and walked out, feeling sure that I was fine. What a mistake! The stabbing pain made me close my eyes as soon was I  was outside. It was worse—sharp, and digging into the flesh. My foot was heavy and nearly pulled me down. 

Luis insisted: “Any pain not associated with fatigue, stop. Never and I mean never, never say, ‘Oh I’ll just stop at the next town or I can walk a few more kilometers.’” 

Shut up already! I’m checking my foot. 

I undid my shoestrings, slipped off my shoe pulled off my sock, and inspected my foot closely, pulling the skin tight between my thumbs. No blisters. I leaned back, closed my eyes and exhaled, “Thank God.” Some pilgrims came by, smiled, and walked on. I was embarrassed, and glad that they could not know I had just begun the pilgrimage. I rubbed my foot for about five minutes, drank some water and continued walking toward the first climb—the Alto de Meskiritz, 902 meters tall. 

Naming a goal is easy. Getting there is another matter. Somewhere between the first peak and the Alto de Erro, the second peak on that first day, I made a wrong turn away from the Camino and walked up a hill for about an hour. It was invigorating. The pain disappeared as my leg muscles flexed with ease and my breathing steadied. I stopped and said, “Where are the pilgrims?” There were no yellow arrows, so I walked another ten meters or thirty feet, but saw none. Near the top of a hill, I listened and looked around. Nothing. Trees and more trees and just a small field behind them. 

Laia took a turn instructing me. “Sometimes you walk a long distance only to realize that you made a wrong turn or went the wrong way.” 

I started back down.  

Later, on the descent from the Erro peak, some Italian pilgrims crossed my path. One of them was the guy who had slept next to my bunk. He waved, standing next to his bike. 

“Ciao, come stai?” he asked.

“Bene. Un poccho stanco e tu?”

“Bene.”

We exchanged a few more words in Spanish and some in Italian. He was from Rome. He would ride another twenty kilometers with his friends. I didn’t care to know more than that and continued walking, hoping not to come across anything or anyone that would remind me of Italy. I arrived in Zubiri with a complaining stomach.  

After buying some oranges, jamón serrano and some bread at a small shop off the town’s center, I walked over the Arga River’s banks and stood close to the Gothic bridge, a gray construction shaped by the cold waters of the Pyrenees. People once took their animals there to circle the center pylon three times in order to ward off rabies. Pilgrims sat at the river’s edge, soaking their feet in the water.

“Está heladísima,” they warned. 

The water cooled my feet and felt good for a few seconds, but then my bones ached and I had to wobble carefully over the pebbles and back out. The pilgrims shared some cherries with me, and then left. “Buen Camino,” they called. I waved and returned to my guidebook and my sandwich. Larrasoaña, my final stop, didn’t have any real stores, so I went back to the small shop for next day’s breakfast. 

And there she was, just across the way from the shop with another woman standing by a table preparing her backpack. There was no sign of that guy. I rushed in, bought some peaches, more oranges, and quickly walked back out and toward her. I took off my backpack, and set it on the table. 

“Where are you from?” 

“We are from Brazil,” she answered.

“I’m Miguel from Chicago.”

“Hi, I’m Anna. I’m from Brazil, but I live in California, close to San Francisco.”

She introduced me to Sandra and Alberto who had been in the shop. We shook hands. They both appeared to be in their late forties or early fifties. They had just met on the Camino. Sandra was fit, with lean, muscular legs that held up a strong torso. Her short blonde hair underneath a nylon baseball cap gave the look of a runner. Alberto was just a few inches taller than me and seemed strong. His skin was naturally dark. A bucket hat covered a head of gray hair. 

“Can I walk with you?”

They all said, “Sim.” We slid into our backpacks, pulled them tight and headed back toward the bridge and onto the Camino. There were about six kilometers left for the day. I can’t believe my luck. I thought that I would never see her again, but here she is. She was much prettier up close: a small freckled nose, full lips, smoky topaz eyes, an endearing smile, and a great body. I didn’t expect her to be from Brazil, but really hadn’t placed her anywhere on the globe. My smile was hard to hide as we walked out of Zubiri. The river sang at our side, then behind us and fell silent as we walked away. The cranking of machinery with its metallic buzz soon took over as we passed a magnesium mill. Clouds of dust rose from the ground. 

Anna had recently left a twelve-year accounting career. “I only did it to make a living.” She was walking to think about the next stage of her life—work in the arts on a fulltime basis. She painted, sculpted, and loved film, but she also liked the business side of the creative world. “Why are you here?” she asked. I shared the same tired tale: the master’s degree, thinking about the future, just wanting to take some time away. We fell quiet. 

We clambered over the hills toward Larrasoaña; the afternoon sun wore us down, adding weight to our packs. My soles were sore. They sapped my energy. I could smell myself—a noxious bouquet of minty deodorant, salt and rancid onions rose from my armpits. Nonetheless, our pace quickened as we got closer. My exposed skin stung from a new sunburn. It hadn’t felt this much sun in months. Anna’s red highlights glistened in her chestnut hair when they caught the golden rays and though her eyes were still bright, overall she looked as haggard as I did. Once we were in Larrasoaña, we immediately asked for the restaurant. 

“There isn’t one really, but the bar does serve meals. It’s at the edge of town,” an old woman told us. 

We didn’t want to walk any farther, but hunger proved more powerful than exhaustion. When we arrived to the bar, we dropped our sweaty packs, tore off our shoes, slipped into sandals and sat under a parasol. My feet throbbed and were spotted pink and red. I massaged them as a woman came out of the bar to make an announcement. 

“Dinner is not served for another 30 minutes, you’ll have to wait.”

Alberto lay down on a small patch of grass. Sandra massaged her legs. Anna read some thick book. I bought some postcards and wrote to some friends and the half hour flew by. Although our bodies called out for some sustenance—something, anything to energize and reawaken our legs, the meal could have been much tastier if only it had been prepared with some care. It provided no pleasure or boost. The vinegary wine simply helped wash down the bland steak and potatoes. Afterwards, we walked over to the refuge.  

The passports were stamped, and we claimed our beds—only top bunks were available. Anna and Sandra snagged two, right next to one other. I found one next to the stairs. And thus a ritual began, one to be repeated every day: I emptied my backpack and searched for the soap, the deodorant, clean clothes, the towel, and then made my way to the shower. I was about to walk down when Alberto returned and said something like, “Spectacular!” From his worried face, we knew it was not spectacular in the good sense. 

A flimsy white (nearly transparent) plastic curtain (it looked more like a trash bag creatively remade) hung over the entryway of each the three shower stalls. There was the constant risk of showing a leg, a cheek or something more. A thin wire held the curtains in place. “Una ducha espectacular,” Alberto said again, a little embarrassed. Anna and Sandra laughed loudly. We went back for our things and got in line. The entire bathroom setup was an efficient, but ineffective combination. People walked in and out to use the toilet or brush their teeth while others showered. “There is no hot water,” an old woman said as she walked out. 

The demands of the body again trumped other concerns—and in this case the fear of exposure and freezing water. Anna struggled to keep the trash bag in place—it opened every time she lathered up a limb or rinsed it off. Speed was the trick, though some didn’t seem to mind the poor coverage the curtains provided. 

When we returned to our beds, I found my backpack had been moved. What? I returned it to its place, and scanned the room for the culprit, but the room was empty. Anna was halfway down the stairs. 

“We’re going to the bridge, are you coming?” she called. 

“Yes, I’ll be right there.”