Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 9
Starting up again was more difficult than starting out—the wear and tear on the legs and feet along with the heat all compounded, making the Spaniards’ suggestion even more tantalizing. It took us about twenty minutes to get back into a rhythm. We still had a seven-kilometer trek to Puente La Reina, if we were to go directly there. Instead, we would detour to Eunate. Luis spoke again.
“Make sure you go there,” he said, pointing to the map in his house. “It’s beautiful and mystical. Don’t miss it.”
“Why?”
“Just go,” he answered, annoyed.
“OK…OK…”
Sandra and Alberto were ahead again, in part because the wheat fields captivated Anna and slowed us down. She reached out to caress the stalks with her arms and hands, but also because it was becoming painfully obvious that her feet were beginning to succumb to the weight of the day. Her sneakers were just too small. She dragged her feet, and every hundred meters or so, I stopped to wait. We went on like that for about three kilometers. Fortunately, the sign for Eunate gave her a spark.
“Let’s go,” she piped.
“Of course.”
We walked away from Muruzábal and made our way to Eunate, the small mysterious chapel. We did not see a single pilgrim walking through the fields behind us. Maybe we were the only ones going there or perhaps others were simply smarter and decided to skip the longer walk under the sun.
The Knights Templar built Eunate during the twelfth century in the Romanesque style, a medieval design characterized by its semicircular arches and thick walls. Its full name, Santa María de Eunate, means “Saint Mary of the One Hundred Gates” in Euskera, the language of the Basque region. The octagonal building stands alone in the middle of fields and a few meters from the modern road that leads to Puente La Reina, where our pilgrimage road, the French path, and the path of Aragon become one. The building and grounds once served as a chapel, a hospital and a cemetery. The ocher walls had been worn by centuries of wind, water, sun and snow. Faces and figures, some monstrous or like that of animals, decorated the entryway and the column capitals. And again, Luis spoke impatiently as if I were ignoring him.
Yes, what do you want?
“When you get to Eunate… you better make sure you go.”
Yes, I’m here.
“When you get there, take your time. Stay there, listen, relax. Then make sure you go around the building nine times. And do it counterclockwise… barefoot.”
Barefoot? Nine times?
He must have heard my skepticism.
“Yes! Remember, nine is the magical number of the Templars, but it’s magical for many people around the world.” He continued, irritated by my disbelief, “Let yourself get into the mystery of the Camino, of why it is there, of why you are walking. Everyone who does the Camino is called there. That’s been true since ancient times. If you only do it to get away or for sport, you miss so much.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. OK, I’ll do it.
Sandra and Alberto entered the chapel. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Anna said while removing her sunglasses.
“You know, we have to go around the building counterclockwise nine times and barefoot.”
“What?”
“It’s the magical number of the Templars, the order that built the chapel.”
“But, why barefoot?”
“I don’t know.”
Anna smiled, pulling her hat back while readjusting her ponytail. She looked at the floor, and then said, “You know, last year on the sixth day of the sixth month at six in the morning, I made up my mind to leave that career. I just woke up and knew my life would have to change. That adds up to eighteen, one and eight—that equals nine.”
“OK, I said. “Maybe there is something magical.” Wow, that is a stretch.
We removed our packs and laid them against the arcade walls that surrounded the chapel and served as a type of barrier.The building’s eight sides were inspired by the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem, a common feature of Templar constructions and in honor of their place of origin. Their name comes from that Temple, hence the name “Templar”. I leaned against one of the pillars in the arcade, taking a sip of water, hoping to cool off, though it was as warm as soup. Anna called for Sandra, pointing out instructions for walking. Sandra went back by the doorway to the building and called for Alberto, but no one answered. She called again and then walked back in. Anna didn’t wait; she removed her sneakers and socks and started the circuit alone.
I drank my soup, checked my watch—it was already 1:00. Impatient Sandra came out with Alberto following along. Other pilgrims followed Anna’s steps now, and then I started, though I felt a little embarrassed for believing in the superstitious practice. I paused, wiggled my toes in the dirt and gravel. Looked up and then at Anna as she passed me again, and again. I made a fist with my left hand and held out my index finger to start the count.“One.”
I finished alone and felt no different. “OK, Luis I did it.” My three companions had decided to rest inside where it was cool and dark. Now, that moment of rest felt magical. Light glowed through the doorway, the window above it and the two small windows up near the ceiling. People could only guess as to the original purpose of this building, though its distance from nearby towns and its location created its own whispers, those of mystery and magic. The sense of stepping back in time returned. Who walked here? Why build this place? Could we ever understand its history? The gust of wind whipped up a cloud of dust and blew it across the road. Time had carried away individual stories too, but their work remained and their legends too.
Anna called me over to her. She pointed up to the ceiling, specifically at the ribs supporting the roof. They were spaced irregularly, with some intention, but we didn’t understand why.
“That’s strange, right?”
“Yes,” I answered, dumbfounded when she suddenly stood up and walked over to the altar area, never once taking her eyes off the ceiling. What did she see? I looked up from where I was sitting then at the people around me. Maybe they had seen it? No. Some were still sitting while others were walking out. Alberto was lying down, sleeping. I looked over at Anna, then walked up behind her hoping to see exactly what she was looking at. I placed my hand on her shoulder and leaned in.
“Anna…”
She took my hand, pulled my arm around her and kissed my palm.
“Thank you for being here,” she whispered, placing her head on my shoulder.
I froze: I didn’t pull her toward me or let her go. I simply stood there looking up and then at the door. What do I say? What do I do? What next? I felt like I was a middle school kid still learning the love ropes. We remained still for some very long seconds, and then I let her go without responding. Sandra and Alberto had already left. I felt my cheeks warm. They had probably turned red. I walked around trying to look contemplative and hide my confusion.
“Eunate sure is strange,” I said as Anna tied her sneakers. She just nodded her head to agree.
I didn’t know if I was referring to the symbols on the wall and entryway or to awkwardness. I reached for my camera hoping that it would give me something to do, but I fumbled it, and it fell to the floor. Then Sandra walked in—my savior—waving her hand and pointing at her watch. It was 2:00. She muttered, “Puente La Reina” and then“albergue,” so I could understand, and then she walked up to Anna, who turned to me and motioned toward the door. The weird, magic moment vanished. What remained of the day called us back to walking and more suffering for Anna.
“Miguel, my feet…” she sighed after about fifteen minutes. “And my hands, too.” They were fat.
“Don’t let your hands dangle at your sides because the blood flows directly into them. Hold your straps instead,” I said.
The afternoon heat pushed down on us making the asphalt into a broiling pan; we were the flimsy steaks searing on its black surface. With a bike or a car you created your own breeze, but walking provided no such relief. Alberto looked back, then walked back and tried to lift Anna’s spirits by showing us a flyer and telling her we would stay at one of the best refuges on the Camino. She forced a smile. He turned to me with the flyer, running his finger down the list of all the amenities: new showers, washing machines, a modern cafeteria, comfort. Massages available.
“All it needs is sex service,” I said
Alberto blinked and gave me a blank stare. Sandra and Anna laughed.
“Sim, ser bueno tamben,” he answered in broken Spanish.
We quickly discovered that the new refuge is “new” because it sits on the other side of the town’s bridge, beyond the medieval town. There was nothing beautiful about it. It was large, like a warehouse, and it was sterile, white and clean, but soulless—and silent. Its vast size discouraged interaction. I don’t think any of us was pleased, but we had struggled to get there, trudging on despite the pain and swelling of Anna’s feet. The big toe on her right foot had bulged into a knob. We looked at her feet, and then at each other, then toward the door and outside at the dry, dusty air. We didn’t want to stay, but no one said a word. We were done, so we lined up at the desk to get our passports stamped.
The sex service joke almost turned out to be true. As Alberto and I relaxed on the beds of the sleeping hall, a naked woman ran up to us as she babbled something in German. We were bewildered, unable to say much to each other. Well, she wasn’t completely naked, but the tiny towel she wrapped around her torso barely covered much else. She pointed toward the showers and her hair with the one free arm. Alberto and I looked at each other again. I shrugged and pursed my lips.
We both looked at her again. She scratched her head and moved her hand over her body with an up-and-down motion before pointing toward the showers again. Yes, you came from the shower. Alberto got up, went through his bag, took out a small bar of soap and held it up to the woman while pointing to it. She took it from his hands and ran back toward the showers yelling, “Danke schön!”
“That is why you wanted to come here. You wanted bailarinas.”
Alberto laughed, “La bailarina. Muy guapa.”
*
The flyer’s simple description of a modern cafeteria implied that “modern” would also equal “good.” It was dreadful. They served tough, breaded meat that was bland and had to be chewed for several minutes before swallowing. The wine was more vinegar than elixir and the ice cream had more air than cream. The owners of this refuge took advantage of our hunger. We swished water to wash the taste from our mouths and to cleanse it of any nasty bits of food that may have lodged between our teeth. There have been few times when I’ve forced myself to eat—this was one of them. I wanted to scrape the film of fat the food had left on my tongue.
“That was so hard,” Anna said shaking her head. “That was almost as hard as the walk.”
“Yes.”
After we showered, rested, and recovered from the meal, we returned to the bridge that gave the town its name. A queen of the Navarra region ordered its construction in the eleventh century, wanted to make it easier for people crossing the Arga River to and from Castilla. Its steep incline rose to a high point in the center and then sloped toward the opposite bank. Anna said its purpose was to remind pilgrims that we must not fear the unseen future or dread the troubles of the past. What? I don’t get this.
The sun slowly hid and transformed the sky into a mauve mantle as swallows chirped and circled above us. The medieval buildings enveloped us in the history of the town, which was given to the Knights Templar in 1142. We walked over to the Church of Santiago and the Church of the Crucifix, where there was a crucifix in the form of a Y, or a goosefoot, that is said to have been brought there by a German pilgrim. The Templars also cared for pilgrims until the order was dissolved in the late fourteenth century. Anna was captivated, explaining the history and pointing out the form of the crucifix.
“It’s a symbol of brotherhoods such as the Knights Templar and their knowledge of the universe. Like what we did in Eunate.”
Luis’ lesson in Madrid came to mind and I began realizing—some type of magic and mysticism was as much a part of the Camino as was its history, though I had simply sought to walk to clear my mind and heal my heart. Anna noticed my blank stare and came up to me.
“These are metaphors for other things meant to guide you along the way. We can share in their meaning, but only you can know what they mean to your life.”
I nodded. Guides for what, for life? Like the bridge?
I was about to end the third day of this walk and felt like I was missing something or that I had to do something. So many questions filled my mind, so many that I wanted to settle, and so many more to ask. Maybe you shouldn’t. Luis spoke, “Don’t ask for anything.” I won’t, but I’m not on an expensive getaway for fun, to trot around northern Spain. I want another chance. Another chance at a real life, at a relationship. That’s what I heard in the pain of my heart. Anna walked with Sandra, instructing her as she had at Eunate. She seemed like a museum guide. I left.
When the trio met me outside, we walked around for about an hour, mostly people-watching and window-shopping. There were no words about magic or symbols. We bought some provisions for the following day—bananas, oranges and mineral water—before heading back to the refuge. The purple sky became pink and then morphed into a dark pool of indigo as we climbed back over the bridge. I wanted to crawl into the silence and vastness of the night and pronounce all my questions, but especially one in particular, “What am I doing here?”