Lost and Found on the Camino de Santiago: Part 21
Miguel continues on to walk, tiring of the monotony of his days.
The chilly morning air woke me up. No one was stirring about just yet. Anna was fast asleep. My feet cried. They felt as if I had just stepped off the trail though I had slept well. I got up and walked over to the picnic table to think.
Last night we slept here, in Burgos, and my feet were so fat and sore, it feels like this pilgrimage is a lashing instead of enlightenment. It’s early. I’ve only walked a few feet, and they still hurt. I would like to stay, just stay and rest or get a hotel to shower properly and wash my clothes. And stay with Anna.
But Sandra walked out of the sleeping quarters with her breakfast in hand—rolls, a banana, graham crackers, and warm water—that she stuffed into her mouth and chewed, and chewed them into a smoothie. She looked at me and I understood what she was communicating. “What are you staring at me for, pack up! The clock is ticking.”
I hope I’m not making a mistake. I would like to stay, but I can’t. I know I can’t I don’t know why, but I need to leave to seek my reason for being here. I want to stay, but my heart says move.
Sandra walked around after her one-minute breakfast and inspected other people’s bags, acting more like a sergeant than a pilgrim. Anna came up from behind me and kissed my cheek. “You’re going to miss me.” She was right. Sandra had never really spoken to me. She could understand me for the most part, but I rarely made out more than a few words of what she said. Anna turned and hugged me, kissed me on the cheek again and softly on the lips. She pressed her face into my chest. I kissed her forehead and held her tightly.
“Take care of yourself,” I said. “You need to rest.”
“Yes, but I also need to find out why I’m here.”
Those words echoed in my heart and lingered. It was true. The walk to Santiago had become a marathon instead of a pilgrimage.
“You better go,” she said, bowing her head slightly toward Sandra.
I kissed her.
“Remember, if destiny, let’s leave it to destiny.” she said.
The green shell necklace I gave her formed a silhouette against three freckles on her neck.
She touched it, said, “Thank you” and kissed me, then I was off, chasing after Sandra, who had sprinted away.
Without Anna holding us back, Sandra must have figured why not run? The scenery reflected the new efficient speed. We passed freshly laid asphalt, gravel, sand and symmetrical rows of crops marching and marching forward, passing many pilgrims who had left long before us. I was always three to five meters behind her—she the tractor, me the trailer, a mindless appendage.
After three hours she turned around and asked, “¿Café?”
I was perplexed. “¿Qué?”
She pointed to a small restaurant on the side of the road. I removed my sunglasses and agreed. My soles were melting away already. Last night, we had agreed—through Anna our interpreter—to walk fewer hours, though I never thought of mentioning the speed. She had not changed that at all, and I learned why over the coffee. “Brasil joga hoje.” I gathered that she wanted at the arrive to refuge early—in time to shower, have dinner and watch the game well-rested with a full belly. It’s not even the concern of making up lost ground, it’s the damn game. Again the question whispered inside me. Why am I here? I could not escape it or ignore it. Like the pain of my feet, it would not just disappear. Why am I here?
I sipped a hot coffee to calm me down, so while Sandra watched World Cup updates on the television I sat in a corner by myself. I didn’t look at her again until she tapped my shoulder pointing to the doorway. Yes, ma’am! We crossed the road and back to the Camino, where I followed her footprints. By some miracle, we stopped to rest with a group of pilgrims at the side of the road near the San Bol Arroyo. Argentine pilgrims—I recognized the flag on their bike—offered us some granola.
“You must be wondering why we’re just standing here, two people and four bikes.”
“Yes,” I answered.
“A Japanese pilgrim was walking by herself and she doesn’t know any Spanish, not one word. I think she must have been about to pass out or something. Well, she fell down and sprained her ankle very bad! So, we brought her here. She doesn’t know any Spanish, not one word! Only Japanese. She’s in pretty bad shape,” one of the pilgrims said, pausing and looking up the road. “I don’t think she’ll be able to finish the Camino. The caretaker said he was going to get a doctor.”
Sandra seemed to understand. Her eyes widened and she made the sign of the cross. One of the pilgrims smiled.
“Yes, pray for her and pray for her to heal too.”
“Are you staying here?” I asked.
“No, we’re going to Hontanas. We just wanted to make sure she was safe. See, our friends are walking back now.”
We waited and wished them “Buen Camino.”
“Buen Camino,” they replied. “See you in Hontanas or somewhere along the road.”
We walked away as they made adjustments to their bikes. Sandra never let up. At this speed, would we ever stop to help someone along the way? It had not been a mistake to leave Anna, but it had been a mistake to follow Sandra.
Hontanas is another small hamlet on the Camino. Only two things make it noteworthy: its fourteenth century church dedicated to the Immaculate Conception and the restored San Juan pilgrims’ hospital. Word spread about its cleanliness, the abundant hot water, the “posh” facilities and delicious food—served with such love and tenderness that many assured us it was heaven on the Camino, and not a fantasy or some cruel rumor. Word also spread about its limited number of beds, so in the final stretch of the day, an unspoken competition formed. The buzz created a stir, and finally, a race. One pilgrim, from some Chicago exburb who had been talking to me, cut off the conversation and trotted away. We jogged behind him, but to no avail.
“No hay lugar,” a caretaker said.
The rude pilgrim didn’t know much Spanish, but he understood “No,” as in no palatial quarters, no good food, and no steaming hot water. We walked away and he followed. A lonely coffee machine is all the other refuge offered. The quarters resembled a garage—more utilitarian than homey. But it was clean and quiet. Sandra and I stayed in separate rooms—she wanted a bottom bunk and found only one. Our only link was the push to Santiago. I rubbed my dying feet with Alcohol de Romero, hoping to mold the putty back into flesh and bone. I planned to nap, but some 20 minutes later she called me for dinner. The clock ruled her days.
I was hungry, but ate without the ravenous instinct of previous days. Dinner was another overpriced pilgrim’s menu: tough meat, tepid soup, overcooked pasta. Sandra grunted while taking her last bite. I grunted back, not looking up.
She chuckled and said, “Fútbol.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“La Seleçao,” she continued.
Oh, the game.
We walked over to a tiny bar, or as it seemed to me, Little Brazil. Sandra left me to talk to her compatriots. One of the pilgrims, a retiree, had begun his walk in Rome, following the footsteps of St. Francis of Assisi. Brazil took the lead before halftime. They cheered. I needed to relax or at the very least cleanse the greasy aftertaste of the meal, so I ordered wine. I thought of Anna. Why did I leave her? Part of the answer came from the slightly drunk sexagenarian who had made the trek from Rome.
“The Camino isn’t a marathon,” he said in Spanish to everyone in the bar. “You can’t rush it.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re retired and have all the time you could want or need,” I answered, peeved.
He cleared his throat, and spoke softly, “ I don’t have all the time, but just enough. You have to open your ears, open your heart to what the Camino wants.”
Sandra nodded enthusiastically with a beer in her hand. The other pilgrims quietly listened, holding glasses full of beer or wine. Halftime was almost over. The bartender raised the volume of the TV, where faces babbled about some fast food product. You’re retired. Man, you’re retired. I didn’t want to say anymore, but someone did.
“You don’t have a job or obligations to rush back to.”
“Oh, but I do. I have young children and my wife. I miss her and my children, and I need to see them soon, but I have learned something since setting out for the Camino. It is more important to walk. Reaching Santiago is secondary.”
“Why do you say that?” a woman asked.
“Everyone on the Camino has been called to it. Of that I have no doubt. If you’re called, it’s for something that I doubt is in Santiago. Maybe part of it is there, but something or someone on the path must tell you or show you.”
The same woman asked, “Show or tell what?”
“I don’t know what that is because that is different for every person.”
There was silence until a pilgrim lifted a beer. “To all who are called here!” They lifted their glasses, but I swallowed my wine, all of it, and told Sandra, “I’m tired.” I didn’t care if she understood. After that, I just walked into the dark street and back to the refuge. I looked back at the amber light illuminating the small patch of concrete just beyond the door. Called here? Someone or something to show me? I had to leave at the end of the month. I had to get there on foot. On foot! Do you get that, old man? Do you get that? The daily pounding had distilled into an piercing ache in my heels. I nearly cursed God.
“Please, I know I’m supposed to be here, but I don’t know why. Help me. I’m lost.”
I closed my eyes, tears flowing down the sides of my temples and then I got angry with myself for being so insufferable. Though no one could read my thoughts, I knew them. What the hell is wrong with me? Quit complaining and do something about it. I covered my head with the sleeping bag.