Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 18
Miguel and Anna are falling in love as they walk toward Santiago. Or do they simply seek to distract themselves from more important questions?
We returned to the refuge to shower and wash our clothes. My pack’s straps resisted the water and soap. I squeezed and scrubbed, for five-minute spells in a ritual that lasted nearly 30 minutes. Anna sat on the grass at a distance talking to Sandra; both looked over at me a few times, but left me to the work. The salt stains slowly dissolved in the lukewarm water and I hung my pack to dry where it joined boxers, T-shirts, bras and shorts. My partners called me over where they were soaking their feet.
“What the hell is that?” I said, gagging and backing away.
“What’s wrong?” Anna said. “It’s only water and vinegar.”
“I don’t like vinegar, at least not smelling it or putting it on my feet.”
“But this is good for you, you should do it,” she said, removing her feet from a plastic container, pushing it toward me.
“No, I’m going for something better.”
I almost gagged again, shaking my head, and backed away and went back into the refuge for the bottle of rubbing alcohol. I wasn’t gone more than five minutes, but when I returned Anna was talking to another man. He was going bald, his temples were gray. What the...? Who the hell is that? I walked over to them. Anna walked away, back inside. I was going to take a seat next to Sandra when the man said something to me. What was that? He repeated the question.
“Is she your girlfriend?”
The question made my stomach drop. What was she? What were we? What were we doing? Why the hell am I jealous? I lost the grip on the bottle and it dropped. I tried to catch it, but it bounced and rolled softly away, stopping by Sandra who picked it up.
“Obrigada,” she said, nodding her head toward me.
What?
“O, de nada.” I said and then turned to the bald guy. “No, she’s not my girlfriend.”
Anna returned, and then both she and Sandra got up and walked away. Sandra tossed me the bottle. I caught it, just barely.
“Are you walking?” he asked.
“Yes, and you?”
“I’m on a bike,” he sighed, and walked away.
He didn’t say “Bye” or where he was going, but it was obvious. I lay down on the grass, then sat up and massaged my feet, slowly taking each toe and kneading it between my thumbs, index and middle fingers. The shadow of the refuge came over me as the sun dipped lower in the horizon. I lay back down. What the hell is wrong with you? She’s beautiful, and you’re blowing it. This guy comes along and is taking her. I know I’m not in love. I care for her, but is that it? Am I in love? Am I just blind?
I was frozen and frantic. That memory of the last night in Florence from the prior summer pierced through the heart. It was still in the process of healing. Hell, the wound hadn’t even closed. I was back at the train station about to return to Rome for the flight back home across the ocean. I had just checked my email for the tenth or twentieth time. I had lost count. Not one word. Not one single word from her. Not one! Bitch! But you are the one who killed it, not her. Yes, I did. But, I had traveled across the world for her and not one word. Those injuries bled again, now at the thought of missing a chance with Anna.
The memories flooded my mind and I could not stop the downpour of questions and doubts that came with them. It was awful. Where could I shelter myself from an internal storm? I tried to empty my mind, but the thunder was deafening. Florence. Rome. Montepulciano. Cortona. Ischia. Names and images I would never erase from my memory’s eye. What the hell does that have to do with Anna? My broken heart was blind. Breathe. The storm didn’t stop. Just breathe. I lay down and closed my eyes, and the storm became a steady rain of thoughts that morphed into a song I had played and memorized in the days after my return from Italy—Al Green’s rendition of “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart.” The passionate but despondent lyrics echoed in my mind; they stopped my thoughts from racing.
I said the “please” from the lyrics over and over and prayed. I want to see again. I wanted to walk forward, free of guilt and heartbreak. Please. I opened my eyes, got up and walked back into the refuge and there he was, sitting on my cot talking to her. The refuge was now full. I laid the bottle of alcohol on my bunk and picked up my sunglasses, pen, journal and guide.
“This is my bed.”
“I’m sorry.”
He was embarrassed and stood up. I slid my backpack to the middle of the bed and walked away without saying anything else or even looking at Anna. Air, air. I needed to get away and straighten out my thinking. I needed a drink. No, I can’t, not when I’m like this. I walked out into the shadows, into the streets of this town to look at something, anything to clear away the storm winds of Florence, Modena and Rome. I looked up at the cathedral’s bell tower which rose above the rest of the buildings jutting straight into the air and towering above the town’s center, in the manner of a lighthouse—a quiet, constant, stalwart beacon. It must have pulled many pilgrims forward or called them to drop their burdens. I wanted the same.
I hope this path heals me from the mistakes I made. I want… I want clarity for my mind and heart. One year ago, I was in Rome, and with that began one of the most difficult years of my life. I lost her and so many dreams with her.
I want to dream again.
*
In the morning, we met by the door. I looked around for the the biker, but he was gone. Not one of us spoke for more than two hours, not even about the upcoming towns on the new day’s path. We walked over the bridge built by Santo Domingo and continued through La Rioja toward Castilla-León. After two hours, Anna finally pleaded for breakfast. “Let’s stop and eat something.” We sat by the side of the road and made a small picnic, in the still of the morning. A breeze blew over us as Sandra slathered butter on some small rolls (her favorite). Anna sliced oranges and I passed out the few wheat graham crackers that remained.
“I’m staying in Burgos,” Anna said flatly.
We could reach Burgos the next day or the day after that. If we walked slowly, it would take another three days to reach that city. Good, good, at least we have some time to work out what’s going to happen to us. We finally agreed that Villafranca Montes de Oca would be our goal for the day.
“You’re going to miss me,” Anna whispered as she touched my knee.
“What if I stay with you in Burgos?”
She didn’t respond as she prepared her pack. The sun continued its climb and we walked again in silence. After about half an hour she walked up next to me and whispered, “That would be great.”
Nine towns would serve as commas between Santo Domingo and Villafranca. They were something to aim for—temporary goals, places get water, coffee or a beer—in the thirty-five kilometers to the Villafranca Montes de Oca. The tiny house symbols in the guidebook showed it was a hamlet in the mountains. Anna no longer complained. Her feet had fully adjusted to the sport sandals, though she paused every few kilometers to remove small stones with her fingers or cast them out with jutting karate kicks and awkward leg jiggles. Sandra clipped along, knowing that Anna could now keep up. It was then that my feet asked, “What are you doing?”
It has happened slowy at first, but every step had mashed my soles into pulp with millions of sensitive nerve endings. My sneakers were proving incapable of guarding from the one-two punch of my pack’s weight and the ground hammer. Patches of grass became little green cushions that provided some relief. My feet—by some miracle—remained blister free, but the stabs, which had started some three days before, were now coming and going in waves. My feet seesawed between normal, numbed and tortured. Twinges became a debilitating, constant stab, but I couldn’t stop. I could scarcely walk and it was just past midday.
We trudged over the first hills of Castilla-León, just twenty-two kilometers from Villafranca. To my feet they may well have been 2,200 kilometers. Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this? This is crazy! Transcendental matters became confused with the physical effects of the walk, and when those were coupled with thirst, they turned my feet into lead. I have no idea how I kept walking, but I said nothing.
“I’m thirsty,” Anna said.
We had been walking without water for about two hours, since we had soaked our heads and hats and finished off what remained in large gulps. The sun created a dust-filled oven on the path. I handed my guidebook to Anna.
You find a fountain.
“Here it is,” Anna said, pointing to the map. Next to the town of Tosantos was a tiny blue blotch some five kilometers away. That symbol provided the incentive to move faster.
When we arrived, there was no way we could run to the water, but we dropped our packs. I removed my hat and shirt and ran them under the water, then put them back on. The water streamed down my shorts and legs and into my socks and sneakers—to my throbbing feet. It was manna.
“I wish I could do that,” Anna said.
“You can.”
“Yeah, here? I’m not taking my T-shirt off.”
“I won’t mind.”
“I know you won’t, but you’re crazy. I’m not taking off my clothes. Besides I’ll get a sunburn.”
“You don’t have to keep it off.”
Sandra, who seemed to understand our exchange, laughed while soaking her towel that she extended over her neck, already a raw pink—translucent, dead skin flaked away. We drank, filled our bottles, then on we went: scrape, crush, scrape, crush. We saw no other pilgrims behind or before us. Anna huffed. I turned to face her and offered her my left hand; she gripped it and I pulled her forward. The rhythm continued: scrape, crush, scrape, crush. Since our little group had broken up back in Estella, we rarely walked side by side.
“You guys are killing me!” Anna exhaled.
Finally in the late afternoon, in the dusty hazy of the road, we saw Villafranca Montes de Oca—the majestic name betrayed the reality. The plain asphalt stretch to Villafranca prefaced the town, which was not much of anything on the N-120 highway. It may have been a vibrant rural burg at some point. Old people limped around with their canes and they seemed to whisper, “We’ll be gone soon and so will this town.” There was a forsaken small plaza with a church, a few houses and shops, and a tiny bar where I knew we would end up eating. They were all located along a segment of about half a kilometer. I feared the refuge might reflect this abandonment. A small sheet of paper on the door said the keeper would stop in from time to time. We could settle in on our own. Semis emitted loud machine-gun farts as they downshifted just before the curve that led into the town.
“Damn,” I said.
“What?”
“I hope this doesn’t go on all night.”
“I just hope we rest.”
Laughs echoed through the stairwell. The entryway was full of boots, so we feared we would have to sleep in a noisy hall. Table and chair legs squeaked on the ceiling. It sounded like a party on the second floor. We all looked up. The laughs grew louder. Anna, who was standing behind me, stroked my back, trying to calm my nerves.
“Miguel, it’s going to be OK,” she said.
A woman walked down to stuff her boots in the shoe rack.
“Di…di…did you just arrive?” she stuttered with a British accent, red-faced drunk.
“Yes.”
“It’s full up there, but you can stay down here. Someone should be here soon. I saw cyclists in there on the bunks.” she said as she climbed back up the stairwell. “¡Buen Camino! Oh, and this town has nothing, just one bar and a small grocery store.”
“Thank you.”
Bunks? There were no bunks, just sleeping pads lined lengthwise against the two sides of the rectangular room. Four pilgrims lay on the floor, their helmets, gloves and bags at their sides. The windows opened to a courtyard that matched the refuge and Villafranca entire for that matter—spartan, deserted, falling apart. Thankfully, though, the room was nearly empty and it didn’t seem like many more people would show.
“Miguel, let’s shower, go eat and watch the game.”
“The game?”
“Didn’t you want to watch it?”
Sandra interrupted our conversation and said something about hurrying up to declare our territory inside the sleeping hall and then heading over to eat. Anna did not have to translate. We skipped the shower and got ready for dinner. The caretaker checked us in as we were leaving.
“Anybody else?”
“There were some bikers in there.”
“Oh, I already talked to them.”
The bar was a concrete and wood shack—well not a shack exactly, and despite the decrepit appearance, the building seemed to be the focal point of the town. It also seemed seasonal, like those places that only opened for the summer in the Midwest. It contained what seemed to be all the town’s young people. The food was awful. Tough fried meat was served with warm potatoes on old chipped plates, but the beer was ice cold and it was a victory for México. When the game ended, we celebrated with a beer and then another, and then a forth. The victory became an excuse to get a little drunk, though I think we wanted to celebrate the fact that we had walked so far. I also celebrated having a still mind and heart. We returned to the refuge well after the game.
“Terrible beer. Good food,” Anna said, laughing at the mix-up.
Then we all laughed and celebrated a great surprise: the sleeping hall was empty save our bags and the sleeping mats. We immediately staked out an entire side of the hall, spreading out the contents of our packs to evaluate them and ditch unnecessary items: Pamphlets, extra pens, a sweater, and an extra pair of socks were thrown into a small pile. I slimmed down the guidebook, tearing away the pages of the places we had already crossed. We rolled shirts and shorts into tight sausages. After that, a quick medical inspection: care for calluses, blisters and the overall condition of our feet. My soles seemed fine, but they were tender even with no weight on my back. My companions mended some socks and then ran off to the bathroom, which they occupied for nearly an hour. Afterwards, I showered, brushed my teeth, relieved myself, and walked outside to take a look at the town. Not even the ghosts of better days wandered the streets; only the shrieks from passing trucks lingered in the dark.
My companions were already lying down when I returned. Sandra faced the door, turned away from Anna, listening to her small radio. The rhythmic tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk of drums sounded from the headphones. At the far end of the room by my mat, Anna was already sleeping or seemed to be. I took that as an invitation. There was only one other person in the room and she was trying to ignore us. Why else would the radio be so loud? I removed my flip-flops, kneeled next to Anna and kissed her on the lips. She did not move. I lay down facing her, hoping she would wake up. I turned onto my back and exhaled, some spittle flew out and landed on my chin. Damn! I’m tired. Exhaustion and alcohol outweighed desire. I’m not trying again. Good night! I adjusted my pillow and closed my eyes. I could still hear Sandra’s radio. It was some guy talking; two guys actually, an interview. Must be interesting! That’s loud. A finger smeared the drop of spittle.
“You stole a kiss,” she breathed.
“What?”
“I said you stole a kiss.”
“How?”
“I didn’t expect…”
I stole another one. We kissed again, and again. Our tongues, pressed against each other in the warm pools of our mouths. I put my left arm around her and pulled her next to me. The sleeping pad scraped against the floor. “We can’t make any noise,” she sighed. Another kiss. We held each other tightly. I kissed her cheeks, her neck, and ears, softly biting her soft skin between kisses and I tried digging under her shirt, but she pushed my hand away. We continued kissing. Lust surged through me and I tried to pull up her T-shirt only to be pushed away. Then she stopped.
“What?”
“I don’t hear Sandra’s radio anymore.”
“What?”
“God, you are deaf!”
She pulled away from me, giving me a peck on the lips while reaching for my butt to squeeze it. She slowly slid away.
“So, you can touch, but I can’t.”
“Good night. We have a long day tomorrow. Burgos, remember?”
She turned away from me and the room was silent and black. I lay facing her back for about half an hour, wanting her and realizing that perhaps this would be one of the last nights we would be together. I reached out to touch her, but stopped.
If you stay in Burgos, you can have a true night of passion and romance, but, that’s not why you’re here. That’s not why you are here! Yeah, but what if I miss the opportunity to be with a great woman? We can really become something. We can be great, love each other, help each other heal. We would be the best.