Lost and Found on the Camino: Part 8

As the sun rose behind us, I felt reenergized as I charged up the hill with my legs fully rested. 

Anna laughed. “What’s your hurry?” 

“Nothing,” I answered between breaths leaving my companions behind.

At the top of the hill, tall white windmills stood as guardians, dwarfing a steel sculpture erected in 1996 to honor the pilgrims of the recent and remote past. They were silent symbols that spoke about the pilgrims of different time periods. Some were on foot, others atop horses. One was pulling along a donkey. The peak was dry, a few patches of grass struggled to survive. I felt a connection to the many people who had walked in search of forgiveness, reconciliation, and healing, and perhaps that is what makes the name appropriate—the peak of forgiveness. Living with guilt and shame leeches the life out of us—and eventually dries a heart into dust. I touched the silhouette of a man walking with a woman pressing forward against the wind. Anna came up behind me. 

“I finally made it,” she said, wiping away sweat from her upper lip. “Wow! The view is amazing! Look at the mountains, the clouds, and Pamplona. ¡Qué hermoso!”

“Yes, no wonder they named it for forgiveness. Who would not feel renewed up here?” 

“That’s true. I have also realized that forgiveness must be accepted. We must also forgive ourselves,” Anna said. 

She touched my shoulder; a sudden gust of wind blew off her hat, but she grabbed it just before it hit the ground. I offered her some water and helped take off her pack. Without the weight, we were free to rest. 

The breeze cooled the sweat on my back and head. The mountains became blue and gray in the distance, blending in with the sky bringing together heaven and earth. They seemed so far away, especially when I thought about reaching them on foot. Walking during the previous few days really put geography in perspective, making the earth seem much bigger. We stood on an island—the valleys, an ocean of wheat, rock, roads, and people living out their lives. Pamplona was about 13 kilometers away, and though we had just been there the day before, it seemed so far away, so long ago. Yes, walking like this had changed my view of distance and time, and connected me to a past when most people walked. It has been only in the past 150 years or so that we have been able to free ourselves from the constraints of our own two legs or the help of beasts of burden. The fact that ordinary people would come so far from home must have been a true adventure, one of the few opportunities to see the world, to meet foreigners and move beyond the limits of their daily lives. 

“Let’s take some pictures and get going,” Anna said, shaking me out of contemplation. 

The trip down the other side of the hill proved more difficult than the climb. When combined with gravity, pebbles, and rocks, it was dangerous—we had to slowly weave our way down. It was such a contrast from the other side of the hill, and it shook us out of reflection and cut down the air of accomplishment we felt. 

Two biking pilgrims, a husband and wife from Chile, tending to each other and their bikes, tempered the slight relief we hoped to feel halfway to the bottom. They had come down too quickly—carelessly perhaps—riding down instead of walking. Blood dripped from a large scrape across the woman’s left forearm, elbow and arm. Her partner had also fallen; his knees were scraped and bruised, though she was in worse shape. He was wiping her injuries with towels soaked in alcohol. She winced in pain. Anna offered help. 

“No, thank you. We’re fine, it looks worse than it is,” the woman said. 

He added, “We should have been more careful. Take your time.” 

We treaded more carefully, deliberately testing every stone and making sure not to step on any small piles. None of us was wearing boots. Slipping would mean a bad ankle sprain, a bad fall or a broken bone. Some large pebbles rolled by and nipped at our shoes while the smaller ones poked and pressed through the soles of our sneakers, which may as well have been strips of poster board. Some stones nearly pierced my shoes, digging their way into the flesh under my big toe. I must have made a face. 

“Miguel, are you OK?” Anna asked, looking back for a few seconds. 

“Yes,” I said, trying to ignore the pain as I surveyed the trail. The Chilean pilgrims made their way down slowly behind us, and they seemed to be recovering from the shock of the fall. We made it to the bottom of the hill at about the same time. 

“Thank you for checking on us,” said the woman as she checked on her bandages. 

“De nada,” Anna said. 

They were heading to Puente La Reina, where they would rest and eat and make sure their injuries would stop bleeding before moving on, and from there they would try to bike all the way to Villatuerta. We would not make it there until sometime tomorrow afternoon. 

“Buen Camino.”

“Buen Camino,” they answered as they biked back to the road, disappearing into the horizon just minutes later. 

“Wow,” I said, “They go so fast on bikes. They’ll make it to Santiago in a couple of weeks.” 

Anna said, “Yes, that’s true, but, it seems like they’re just going past everything. They’re skipping Eunate and then just stopping at Puente La Reina. If we had been biking, we would not have met.” 

Not that biking isn’t contemplative, but walking allows more time to connect with people. Some had said it would be good meditation too, but it didn’t feel that way just yet. We quietly continued on to the town of Uterga. 

There, Anna and I entered a small restaurant and sat at the counter. My body called for fuel, not a full meal but a kick, something to replace the calories I had burned that morning, that and a jolt of caffeine. I had not had coffee since Prague. My body had only begged for fuel like this once before. It was the summer I worked as a laborer at the steel mills in East Chicago, Indiana for a few weeks after my freshman year of college. In just a matter of days, several pounds fell away. I would devour entire plates of food, but it seemed like I had a hole in my gut where it just poured out. I rarely felt full. The waitress approached me and pointed to the blackboard menu behind the counter that listed about ten items. 

“Un bocadillo de tortilla por favor.” 

“And to drink?” 

“Un café cortado.” 

Anna laid her sunglasses on the counter, wiped her brow and ordered, “Un café cortado y un bocadillo. también.” 

She turned to a small table stand and took some necklaces with scallop shell charms in her hands. The one with a green tint caught her eye. She held it in her left hand and examined it closely, making sure it was perfect, but returned it to the display and finished the coffee. She took a big bite of my bocadillo and ran off to the restroom. When she returned, she took it from the display and asked, ¿Cuánto cuesta?” 

“No, bella,” said the waitress, smiling. “It’s a gift from him and your lunch, too. Buen Camino, peregrinos.” 

She glided away to take another order.

Anna held the green-white necklace. “Gracias Miguel, or as we say in Brazil, obrigada.” 

“De nada,” I smiled. “I just hope it reminds you of me when you get back to San Francisco.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it will.” 

Toasted bread, potatoes with egg and the warm, comforting scent of coffee. It was the one thing that remained unspoiled. Although it had been part of the misery, its scent still reminded me of my mother and father having breakfast in our basement kitchen, which had become the heart of our home over the years. Anna placed the necklace on the counter between us as we ate. 

When we got up to leave, she kissed it and placed it in my hand. “Miguel, it’s your gift, please help me put it on.”

I made sure the clasp was secure. “There.” 

“How does it look?” she said, turning toward me. 

“Beautiful,” I said. 

“Gracias, muchas gracias Miguel,” she said, touching it with her right hand. She gave me a peck on the lips. 

Sandra and Alberto had decided to sit outside and talk to a Spanish couple about the plans for the afternoon. They had much more time to reach Santiago, and were done for the day, though it was only 11:00 am and they had barely covered some 17 kilometers from Pamplona. They wanted to savor the lunch. They both held up small glasses full of wine and they asked us to stay. We almost did. 

“Thank you,” Anna answered with a pause. “But we have to continue.”