Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 17
Miguel, Anna and their companion to trek long distances on foot over the land of North Central Spain.
“A shoe store?” I walked up to people who seemed liked they lived there.
“Here? No,” responded an old woman.
I didn’t give up. Anna and Sandra followed me as I went from person to person.
¿Una zapatería?
“Not around here.”
Anna said, “There aren’t any here.”
“But this isn’t some abandoned town on the Camino. It’s big enough for people to wear out shoes and need new ones. I mean, people will not want to have to drive or take a bus to Logroño for shoes!”
“Let’s get some food before we continue,” Anna said.
We followed her into a small store.
“Fine.”
I didn’t buy anything, but at the counter I asked again.
“Is there a shoe store around here?”
“Sure, and not far.”
“How do we get there?” Anna asked.
The woman noticed the concern on our faces and slowly proceeded to explain in detail just where it was while softly tapping Anna’s hand, and then pointing out to the to the front of the store and beyond to the streets she knew well. Her directions were nearly five minutes long, as she went over her instructions several times in great detail. She walked us to the door, hugged Anna, and put extra oranges and a small chocolate bar in our paper bag.
“Buen Camino.”
“Gracias.”
As Anna pulled the sport sandals straps’ snug, we helped her tie her sneakers to her backpack.
“We should burn them,” I said. “It would be a fitting farewell to something that caused you so much pain.”
“The funny thing is that they were a gift. I should have gotten rid of them a long time ago, like that relationship.”
What?
Anna strutted out proudly wearing rugged sandals, which would not protect her from stones or a sudden fall, but they were the only choice. I looked down at her wiggling toes. She looked down too, then up at me and smiled.
“Thank you for believing there was something here and for believing in me.” She kissed my cheek.
We snaked out of the town’s center and back toward the Camino, where little Nájera held more surprises than we had anticipated. It had once been the capital of La Rioja and the seat of power for Navarra during the eleventh and twelfth centuries. We crossed the canal, which extends from the Najerilla River, a tributary of the Ebro, and came upon the old port of the town. At the Santa María la Real church, an old woman served as a watchman. She looked us over and said there was a small charge for entering. We were pilgrims, obviously, and foreigners too, but I never expected to pay to get into a church.
“How could they charge us for entering a sacred site?” Anna fumed.
There was no time to argue or perhaps get an explanation. It was obvious that the glory and wealth that Nájera had known was gone, and sadly, desperate situations make people do dumb things, or at least they seem dumb. I tried to understand, but Anna turned away in a huff. Sandra, who had already walked ahead, came back bobbing her head over the town folk, pushing through them as she made her way to us. She told Anna that we couldn’t waste time being tourists and marched on as we followed at the same absurd pace. Anna turned toward me and mouthed, “I can’t do this anymore.” She was right; Sandra kept a maddening, punishing speed. It was like I said: desperate situations make people do dumb things, or at least they seem dumb. We had lost about an hour and half, which meant we would have to walk until early evening or stop short of our goal for the day—Santo Domingo de La Calzada. Along the way, sometimes we could not help but stop and look or simply take in what was essentially a new world to us. There was always something unknown that called for some exploration, albeit brief.
The corrugated, pockmarked stone cliffs that formed a wall behind the church and houses mesmerized Anna and me. Old homes stood in contrast to the formations carved out by erosion. We wanted to stay, to explore and ask questions, but instead Anna gripped my forearm and pulled me forward closer to Sandra who was about fifteen meters in front of us. She would not slow down for the next two hours, making sure we made up lost time. We zoomed past pilgrims, houses, farms—the Camino become a silent film of flashing images.
I couldn’t blame her. The distance between towns at this point was greater; there was not one lone rustic village at the side of the road to offer us rest in case we wanted to make up the distance over the following days. Despite the new footwear, Anna had fallen about fifty meters behind us. Her arms shoved into her straps, she was forlorn, and only looked up every twenty steps or so to make sure she hadn’t lost us. She did not complain. The sandals were doing the trick, but her body was beginning to surrender to the constant pounding of each step with an additional ten kilos. I extended my staff toward her and waited. She gripped it. I pulled her forward, just behind me. The sun, an angry heat lamp, rose higher and hotter. The trail before us was long and lonely. No breeze. No clouds. No people. Those with better sense had gone looking for shade and cool water or had stopped for the day.
We didn’t say a word, at least not to each other. My internal conversation became a maddening two-hour call and response: Why am I here? The answers are coming. Why am I here? The answers are coming. Why am I here? I would periodically interrupt the drone. They better come fast, as fast as this damn pace. I felt helpless, chained to my flight to Chicago at the end of the month. I softened the mantra, not wanting to fall behind or get too far ahead of Anna. Sandra motored along, mindless—a soulless automaton. God only knows if she had a mantra, because she didn’t say much, but if she did have one, I imagine it was, “Santiago, Santiago, one, two, three. Santiago, Santiago, one, two, three.” Is that the only reason you’re here? Is that the only thing you care about? Arriving? We blew by some pilgrims, the first we had seen in hours, and they exclaimed, “She’s fast!”
We had not seen a car or heard an engine during the entire day and we only walked on asphalt when we made the final push into Santo Domingo de La Calzada, where some pilgrims were almost as fast as we were. It was then that I pushed, getting ahead of Sandra. Refuge space was limited and I hoped to get one of the four bedrooms in what the guide said was the best refuge in the town. It had private rooms, which meant we could rest in privacy and sleep without the worry of snores, farts, people flip-flopping in their sandals on the way to the bathroom, or late-night conversations.
I zipped past a couple. Solidarity? Hell, I want to get a good night’s rest. I even zoomed past some fellow latinoamericanos, field hands or factory farm workers, perhaps from Perú or Ecuador, maybe even México. I waved, and they waved back, but the speed was for naught. The refuge was full save two spaces, just what the Italians behind us needed.
“Don’t worry, here through this street there is another. It’s called La Casa del Santo.” The woman pointed toward the town’s center and I walked out. The Italian pilgrims walked in the refuge just as Anna and Sandra appeared behind them.
“Allá. Over there.” She came out to show the way.
The caretaker at the other refugue said, “It’s a little late, but we have a lot of space.” He eyed the clock behind us.
“If it were midsummer, you guys wouldn’t find anything at this hour.” He picked up his cell phone just to double-check the time. It was 5:15 pm.
Anna said, “Gracias, where can we eat?”
“Oh, right next door.” He checked his cell phone again and the wall clock. “You still have time.”
The Casa del Santo refuge was a vast open space with a simple roof. Washing facilities and a courtyard were just outside next to it. We would all sleep on cots in the main room, no bunk beds and nothing to muffle any noise or maintain some privacy. I imagined that many medieval refuges looked like this. Luckily, in contrast to those times, it was now customary for people to shower. We walked over to the restaurant, asked for the first available table, sat and ordered eggs, steak, potatoes, wine, and water. My funk had fermented into cheesy cumin. All eyes were on us: pity, repugnance, or a cool, proud detachment; it was hard to differentiate. Looks do speak, and some said, “It’s some filthy pilgrims again.”
“Don’t be embarrassed, Miguel.”
“What?”
“Who cares how people look at us, we’re fine… seriously.” Anna stroked my arm while we waited to be seated. She kissed my cheek. “You’re salty again.”
“And I’m smelly. I know.”
“I am too, so don’t worry about it.”
The last burst of energy in my legs had evaporated and with that ebb came the roar of hunger. It proved stronger that the oppressive miasma of sweat, dust, and salt. I had skipped lunch, choosing instead to simply eat oranges, crackers and chocolate. The waiter waved toward the middle of the restaurant. The order was the same for the three. My odor created a cloud around us, or was it the three of us? It even smothered the aroma of the food. Or perhaps it was my embarrassment making it seem even worse, though the waiter touched his nose twice while he took our order. We should have showered.
None of that mattered when food arrived. I gulped the water and savored the steak and eggs with gusto and greed; I wiped the plate clean of egg yolk with a piece of bread, leaving it spotless—it seemed unused. Sandra and Anna weren’t as thorough, but just about. Yellow, greasy streaks dried on their plates. Sandra licked her fingers. Our bodies clamored for all the calories we had burned; the fatty meal was manna and instantly improved our mood. We forgot about walking and our thoughts turned to fútbol.
Brazil had won its first game, and as always, was one of the favorites. México, on the other hand, would be a little more interesting to follow.
“Brazil will win it all,” Anna said confidently, holding up her glass of water to toast.
Sandra said something and Anna’s expression turned sour.
“Unless we play France.”
I was hopeful, but unsure how México would do this time around. The team had improved, but it was lacking something—one small ingredient—to push forward, to get over the hump and finally become an elite team.
“So, Miguel, when does México play?”
“Tomorrow, yeah tomorrow I believe.”
“We should watch the game, no?”
“Yes, but it might be difficult, who knows where we’ll be.”
“Villafranca, no?”
“Yes, let’s hope because it’s about thirty-four kilometers away.”