Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 10

Our feet and legs could ask two things: quit or walk. Anna’s feet told us very plainly to quit. She complained in the high-pitched voice of a twelve-year-old. “I can’t do it anymore.” Tears followed, so I took her arm. Her feet were fat potatoes. Sleep had not diminished the inflammation. Sandra, Alberto and I stood around her, not knowing what to do because we had only walked about twenty-five minutes. We could return to the refuge, rest and leave at noon and walk until about 6:00 pm or we could leave her there under the care of a doctor. That meant she would not walk for a day or two. Or we could continue with reduced speed and distance.

A blister, though painful and bothersome, was an easy fix. A cut, too, but swelling feet were another matter. Losing our lone mode of transportation could mean an early return home. Her sneakers were too small, but they were the only pair she had. Sandra asked about returning, but Anna shook her head. All our packs came off and Anna dug out her sandals. I looked up at the road and shook my head. “No.” They offered no shock absorption and couldn’t protect her from dust, stones, and rocks. She leaned on Sandra to take off her sneakers. 

“Leave me,” Anna said. 

“No,” we replied in unison. 

I took out my pocketknife. 

“Your feet need room to expand,” I said while taking each sneaker and cutting three slits along the front of each. 

Sandra took Anna by the shoulders and sat her down under a small tree and force-fed her a small muffin. I handed her a banana. We had planned to walk a good distance away from Puente La Reina before breakfast, and although it was only 7:40 it felt closer to noon. None of us had slept very well. We just wanted to help her keep walking in order for all of us to move forward. She kissed me on the cheek and thanked me for “fixing” her sneakers. 

“What you need is shoes,” I said. 

Sandra gently took Anna’s purple feet, poured water over them and gave her a massage. We sat for about an hour and then slowly continued toward Ciraqui and past it. Anna walked in rhythm with us by the time we came upon an old road and bridge—constructed by the Romans. Memories came. Beatrice. Even in this small corner of Spain you find me. Your hair. Your scent. Am I starting to forget you? Obviously not. Damn... Rome. Rome.

I don’t know why, but it’s your hair I remember most: the scent of chamomile after a shower and of soft lavender when you perfumed it. It smelled of pepper after a long day of riding the trains or walking up and down hills and in and out of galleries. It smelled like that just after we made love and you stepped into the shower. 

Sandra stopped to drink water and Anna smiled and nudged me as I kept walking to the other side of the bridge. Her smile lifted our spirits and the weariness we carried from the night before dropped away. Forget Italy. Forget her. Alberto asked if I liked any Brazilian singers besides Caetano Veloso. 

“Sí, Roberto Carlos,” I said. “And Gal Costa.” 

“Ah, Roberto Carlos, but you should sing a Mexican song. Juan Gabriel? I love his songs. They’re beautiful, especially ‘Ya lo sé que tú te vas.’” 

“Sim,” piped Anna. 

“I will not try to sing a song by Juan Gabriel. I’ll kill it, and besides that song is so sad. It’s heartbreaking.” 

“I do love that song. He sings it with such passion. You can just feel it in every single note and word, but you’re right. It is sad. Don’t you know ‘Cielito lindo’? They play that all the time in Brazil when the bars are closing,” she added. 

“Why do they play that?” 

“I don’t know, they just do,” she said. “Come on sing it.” 

“But I don’t have a good voice and besides I just know a couple of verses.” 

Our feet moved in rhythm again for about fifteen minutes. A breeze blew through the bushes and trees.

“Do they sing it in Portuguese?” I asked. 

“Yes! Come on, sing it.” 

“I can’t sing.” 

“Come on,” Anna said, taking my hand and pulling me forward. 

“Oh…fine,” I said, clearing my throat. “De la Sierra Morena, cielito lindo, vienen bajando, un par de ojitos negros, cielito lindo, de contrabando…” 

I sang as best I could. Off-key for sure, but my companions didn’t care. Anna loved it. 

“Wow, that’s beautiful and different from the version I know. Sing it again, that wasn’t bad.” 

“Just one more time.” 

“Just once, please.” 

“OK, OK.”

After another off-key rendition, Alberto took over the singing once again and pushed ahead to catch up with Sandra. Anna and I fell behind them, again at our own pace, catching the lyrics of “¿Qué será de ti?” or when Alberto turned back and sang to us for a few seconds. It was in Portuguese, but I recognized the song. After that he sang “Detalles.” Eventually, they went so far ahead that all we heard was the wind. We walked in silence for a good hour and then Anna and I stopped to admire a field of rolling hills with small yellow flowers. The trees whooshed behind us. Our singer had left us far behind, but I heard “Coyita” in my heart—a wondrous instrumental song by Gustavo Santaolalla—a pastoral masterpiece composed for that very moment and place. The sounds of the strings emanated from everything; each beat, each breath of music joined me to nature and her to me. I placed my hand on Anna’s shoulder. In the quiet, a breeze whispered over us from the tall trees. Past moments like this echoed inside my mind: the cool mountain rains of summer in my small town in Michoacán; standing in the forests of amber, auburn, crimson and purple of a Midwest autumn by the shores of Lake Michigan; and the first time I watched the Pacific absorb the copper sun when I stood on a beach in Oaxaca. 

“This is so beautiful, isn’t it?” Anna said. “It’s like music. Listen to the trees.” 

She took my hand, kissed it twice then turned and kissed me on the cheek, but before I could react, she ran into the field to pick some of the flowers. 

“Please put them on my backpack,” she said, turning away from me. 

“Where?”

“Anywhere, as long as they don’t fall out.” 

“But they probably will, just like the wheat.” 

“Find a good place then. Thank you,” she said, turning to face me again. “Hey, where is your hat?” 

I turned toward the road behind me and then swiftly removed my backpack. I touched my head, searched my pockets. The clouds had covered the sky for an hour, so I had removed it to allow the sweat to dry, but now the clouds were breaking up. There was no rumbling, no mention of rain nor hint that the clouds would remain; the sun would soon bake my head. Anna searched around us, and in my bag. Sandra and Alberto returned to see what had delayed us and they all helped look for the hat. I kicked a stone as we continued on the path angry with myself for being so careless. 

“Don’t worry about your hat—everything good you lose on the Camino, you will find again.”

We continued walking slowly to Villatuerta. The magic had disappeared with my hat. I kept kicking any small stone that came across my path and Anna giggled every time she saw one fly. As we arrived, Alberto said something. I thought I was learning some Portuguese, but there is no way I’m getting it. After stepping on a pebble, a stab of pain had shot through his foot and into his calf muscle, and he stumbled and had nearly fallen just before they turned back for us. He had noticed the pain the night before while he was showering, but chose to ignore it. I was getting all of this from Anna, who was rummaging through her backpack for Band-aids. 

“Alberto thought it would not grow, but look at it now,” Anna said. 

The blister had ballooned to about four centimeters. Yes, Luis, you were right. You were right.  

The outside edge of his foot near the pinky toe was a large white almond surrounded by inflamed pink flesh. I looked away and then behind us at the road, more concerned with my missing hat.