I had been walking for about three and a half hours when I turned and came upon a makeshift café in the middle of nowhere, where there were at least 20 pilgrims huddled together, all drinking hot coffee and eating snacks.
I was so glad to happen upon this oasis, as I was freezing and really hungry. I approached the counter and could see they were offering some wonderful things to eat, including an egg and potato frittata for only 1 euro. I opened my little trail purse, which carried my passport, one credit card, and my money, and pulled out a five-euro note, adding a fresh café con leche to my order.
As I waited, I looked around. Everyone was soaked and weary. My attention then drifted over to the corner of a small picnic table, where I overheard a middle-aged American woman, in a panic, just realizing that she had lost her wallet, with everything important in it, somewhere between Zubiri and this stop.
She was devastated, and I could understand why. She kept saying, “I have to go back. I have no passport or money or credit cards, so I can’t go on.” She apparently was traveling alone like I was, and was clearly distraught.
Several pilgrims gathered around her, showing concern, and one man seemed to have taken over the role of getting her out of that mess. He offered to give her enough money to get back to America, if she wanted to keep on walking to Pamplona with him.
She was grateful, but wanted to retrace her steps on the trail instead in case she could find the wallet. I understood. I would have wanted to do the same.
I watched this unfold as I ate my frittata. I wasn’t sure if I should step in to help. So many people were rallying around her that she seemed overwhelmed. She just kept saying over and over, “I knew this was going to happen. I just knew it.”
Then she suddenly got up and said, “I’m going back,” without accepting a thing from anyone.
Before I could jump up and offer her money, not that I had much with me, she was gone.
Wow! That was upsetting to witness. I prayed for her and felt for her deeply, knowing how much effort I had put into getting here. It must have been awful to have to quit so soon after she began. Funny how she knew it was her destiny that this would occur.
Once she left, everyone looked at one another as if to say, “I hope you can stay in the game.”
I smiled at a talkative fellow with an accent named Clint, from Kansas City. A tall fellow, wearing a snow-covered cowboy hat with a blue bandana underneath it covering his ears, and a bright red neck scarf, with a warm Midwest manner, he was quickly making friends with everyone. I have never been like that. I am shy and tend to watch and listen. Patrick was the one who talked with others and made friends easily. I admired him for that, although I am perfectly content to be the introvert that I am.
If I were talking all the time, how could I hear my inner voice or my guides? Quiet was so necessary for me. It was perhaps more necessary than eating.
Patrick and I were opposites in that way. He was far more social, and sometimes that would stress me out. He liked to be surrounded by people and I liked to be alone.
I know I confused him as well. After all, I could stand in front of 3,000 people and have a wonderfully fun time teaching them to listen to their spirit, and I loved every minute of that. It came easily to me. But when I wasn’t teaching, I preferred to be quiet, the fewer people around me the better. Ever since I can remember I’ve always preferred to be with my family and a few close friends over a large crowd.
It’s not that I don’t like people. I love them. It’s that I feel others’ energy so deeply when I am with them that I get easily drained. I’ve always called myself a “deep-sea diver” as opposed to a “water-skier” when it comes to socializing with others. Conversations soon move to a very intimate and deep level with me and I invite that. I don’t know how to chitchat. I connect heart-to-heart, soul-to-soul. It’s the only way I know how to communicate. But connecting at that level is so intense that I need time to be alone after I share such deep connections with others.
Soon after the woman left, one by one, we all got up and started back on the trail, “Buen Caminos” shared all the way around. I made my way onward slowly. My toes and I were no longer friends. I honestly didn’t know how I was going to get to Pamplona given the shape I was in.
Thirty minutes along the path, I saw a yellow arrow pointing upward and to the right, while there was a wide concrete sidewalk to the left. I hesitated.
Should I follow the arrows, or should I follow my intuition? My intuition said to go with the sidewalk, but the arrows clearly pointed in the other direction. The only guidance I received about the Camino was to follow the arrows, so I suspended my intuition and followed.
The path soon rose above the sidewalk and narrowed into a small, muddy trench that allowed for only one foot at a time, and sucked each foot into it up to the center of my calf, filling my shoes with thick mud.
I had to use my pole to free my foot with every step, swearing like a sailor the entire time. In the meantime, waves of pilgrims were cruising along the sidewalk down below, watching me and smiling as I fumbled along.
They’ll see, I said to myself. Who knows where they’re going. At least I’m on the path.
I continued my ridiculous struggle, soaked in mud, moving at a snail’s pace, watching the people on the sidewalk stroll in the wrong direction with ease, satisfied that at least I was not wasting my time even if I was wading in mud.
Yet, a funny thing happened. My path never diverged from theirs. After 45 minutes of insane muddy struggle, my single-line gully spilled right out onto the beautifully paved sidewalk that the many misguided and very dry pilgrims who had been watching me struggle along had been walking.
Several even started laughing as I looked down at my legs, drenched from the knee down in mud. It was so absurd at that point that I had to start laughing as well.
“So much for following the rules,” I said, shaking my head in a mix of disgust and incredulity. I was the only pilgrim who somehow missed the memo that walking along the sidewalk would take me where I wanted to go, and followed the arrows instead of taking the obviously easier way.
Well, that’s certainly my Camino lesson for the day. Don’t ignore the obvious!
That was such a perfect lesson for me. How many times had I ignored my intuition only to regret it? I knew better than that. Why did I ignore it now?
I knew in my heart when it came to all of my relationships that things were going terribly wrong, and instead of walking away earlier, I had just stayed in the game hoping that with enough loyalty and intention on my part, I could right what was wrong. I couldn’t.
If anything, this internal conflict made me crazy. I still loved the people I was no longer connected to. I had loved believing in them. I trusted in the goodness of their spirits. I gave those relationships my all. Yet my intuition did tell me that giving my all was giving too much. That was my problem, and I intuitively knew it. Yet I ignored what I felt because I had been taught to stay in the game. Especially with my marriage. I said, “I do,” and that meant don’t quit, no matter what. Whose rules were those? Who said those were good rules? Yet I followed them even though I could have taken an easier path and wouldn’t have suffered so much. No wonder everything blew up in my face.
This was the great dilemma of my life. Follow the rules, or follow my rules? As a good Catholic girl I was well trained in following the rules. Looking at the muck I was now soaked up to my knees in, I decided to follow my rules from now on. In fact, to heck with all the rules!
I walked with that decision all the way to Pamplona, which was, by the way, the longest walk ever. It was difficult enough to get there, but for Pete’s sake, once I arrived I had to continue walking across the entire city to the old part of town to find my hotel. And after hours and hours of walking up and down, and up and down and up and down in the snow and rain, walking across Pamplona was mercilessly up again, and I had had it.
“Come on, Camino, give me a break! This is too Catholic! Enough
suffering for one day,” I cried as I miserably shuffled closer and closer to my destination.
I could already tell that this pilgrimage was getting to the core of some of my really ancient and limiting misery-making beliefs. As I pushed forward across the city, I began to notice how my beliefs layered one over the other. Some were creatively empowering, allowing me to directly access my Higher Self, and to work with my guides and the loving energies of the Universe at my side. Others were imprisoning, set in childhood, perhaps even carried over from past lives, put upon me like chains by the nuns, the Church, my parents, keeping me small, powerless, and fearful.
What a contradiction I am, I thought, sadly shaking my head at the conflicting jumble of thoughts and beliefs running my life. I know better than to be in this mess. Why am I still so stuck and suffering like I am?
Please God, please, strip away all the beliefs I hold on to that keep me from being happily and authentically me. I am so, so ready to be done with all this old crap!
I pleaded with God to help me as I walked. I knew in my heart that what held me back were beliefs that had been hidden away in the core of my being for lifetimes, like mold in the basement or cobwebs in the attic, festering far beneath my conscious thoughts. It was time to clear the muck all the way back to the beginning.
But not all of those beliefs were crystal clear or could simply be wiped away with mental Windex and—poof!—be all gone. At least not on an emotional level. I didn’t want to feel bad. I didn’t want to be angry. I didn’t want to feel like a victim. I didn’t want to be heartbroken. Yet I was. And I didn’t want to be ashamed that I was.
And I was not only ashamed of my feelings; I was also shamed by others because of them. The nuns at school. My parents. Spiritual teachers that I had read and talked with. No one allowed feelings that weren’t pretty. They all said or implied that having these dark feelings was not okay. It’s not that I wallowed in them. If anything, I vehemently renounced, denounced, and denied them all my life as I was taught to do.
This Camino was now bringing up all these ancient and very deep wounds I had carried in my being to the surface. They were the wounds I had run away from. They were all haunting me, like ghosts. If I were to create what I truly yearned for, I would have to make peace with these ghosts. I knew it.
Looking up, I finally saw the stone gate leading into the old section of Pamplona.
Old Pamplona was exciting. It was medieval, with winding streets and open plazas that threw me back in time. The town was buzzing. Everyone was out on the street, even in the rain, drinking little coffees, eating tapas, sipping beer or wine. I hadn’t expected such a vibrant and sophisticated crowd.
I actually found it confusing after the solitude of the day, so I asked a local, well-dressed elderly gentleman to help direct me to my hotel. Seeing I was a pilgrim, he decided that he would walk me there instead of pointing me in the right direction, for which I was immensely grateful, as I didn’t understand Spanish and was too tired to wander around.
Five minutes later, I stood in front of a very cute little private hostel with the kind gentleman wishing me a “Buen Camino.”
I could barely make it up the stairs with my bruised toes, but once I did, I was overjoyed to find Cheater sitting next to the receptionist’s desk, and right next to it, an elevator!
Yea! Thank God for little miracles.
I had made it once again, and it was only 4:30. I had managed to get here in only eight hours, which seemed to be my pace.
My room was small but very comfortable. I was especially thrilled to see a large bathtub in which I could soak.
I wanted nothing more.
But first I had to spend a good deal of effort washing out my muddy pants, socks, and shoes, and blowing them dry at least a little.
Once that was accomplished, I took a very long bath.
It was 7 P.M. before I ventured out again to find some dinner. The bustling town I had entered was now completely deserted. I wondered if I had hallucinated the crowds I saw only hours earlier. Where was everybody? All the little cafés and bistros were closed up, and it was now a ghost town.
It was still raining, and it seemed like it was getting colder by the minute. I wandered into a small wine bar and asked what had happened to everybody.
The young man who worked there told me that after lunch everything closes until eight. Disappointed, as I knew I didn’t have another hour in me, I asked for a glass of red wine and some french fries, which were delicious.
As I sat I thought of Hemingway’s Pamplona and the famous running of the bulls. My Pamplona was a little different. I was running from the bullying of my own self-condemnation.
With that thought and now overcome with fatigue, I went back to my room to sleep.
I was getting into this.
Day 4
(23 km; 14 mi)
Pamplona to Puente la Reina
I shot straight up in my darkened room, gasping for air, as if someone were choking me. I was confused and disoriented, and for several minutes I didn’t even know where I was. I sat breathing heavily, in the dark, trying to remember my dream. It was a variation on the recurring dreams I used to have as a child, where I was part of a secret religious order. In this dream a group of us was involved in a ritualistic ceremony. It was dark out, maybe even night, and I couldn’t tell where we were. Suddenly I was being attacked from behind by people who had come to kill us. I woke up as I started to fight back.
I fumbled around for the light, my heart still pounding hard, slowly coming out of this nightmare and back to my body. When I turned the light on and my eyes focused on the room around me, I remembered, “Oh right, I’m in Pamplona.”
I slowly began to move. Both my legs and toes were on fire they were in so much pain. Sighing, I got up anyway and looked at my watch. It was 6 A.M. I decided that I would take a shower to get my muscles warmed up, as it was once again freezing in the room.
“What’s up with no heat around here?” I grumbled, feeling cranky because of the dream, my aching body, and the icy tile under my feet.
The shower washed away the hangover my dream had left me with, and I was soon feeling ready to tackle the day. Only my mood hadn’t improved. I felt agitated and angry.
Even Gumby annoyed me, smiling stupidly on top of my backpack, as though without a care in the world. I promptly threw him into Cheater and zipped him away saying, “What are you so happy about?” I didn’t wait for an answer.
Once again I had no window in my room, so I had no clue what the weather was like outside. Given that it was pouring rain and freezing cold when I went to bed last night, I decided to dress warmly. I put on my freshly washed and dry (yeah!) long underwear, my long-sleeve wool shirt, my clean (well, sort of) hiking pants, and two pairs of wool socks before I began to stuff my now completely trashed feet into my boots.
They rebelled. Under no circumstances were my toes going to be smashed in these boots for one more day. Screaming in pain, I backed out of them slowly and conceded defeat.
“Okay, okay, I hear you,” I said to my angry feet. “I’ll wear my other shoes and hope it isn’t rainy like yesterday.” Those barely felt any better on my toes, but they were soft and pliable, and once I had them on I was at least able to stand up and slowly move around.
“It’ll get better, Sonia,” I said, championing myself. “Just keep moving—one step at a time.”
I managed to pack up my things and push Cheater into the elevator in ten minutes flat, and then I went to the lobby to get breakfast. I parked Cheater in the corner near the receptionist’s desk where I had found him last night and wandered into the dining room. There I was greeted with a mouthwatering breakfast spread, which delighted me to no end, especially after having had only french fries for dinner.
There were croissants, cheeses, cereals, yogurts, fresh orange juice, and lots of fresh fruit, as well. Feast or famine, I thought. I’m glad this morning is a feast. I ate slowly as I noticed the other pilgrims sittin
g in the dining room with me. I had seen nearly all of them on the trail at one point or another over the last three days, so it felt natural to smile and say hello.
Two older Irish women, Margret and Val, who were eating breakfast together across from me asked if I was walking the Camino for the first time, to which I replied I was.
“And you?” I asked.
“We are here for the second time,” they both answered, almost in unison in their lyrical Irish accents.
“We tried to do it about three years ago, but Val hurt her ankle after only five days, and we had to quit. So we are trying it again, only this time we are taking it in sections,” replied Margret.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“We are only going to walk for a week, then go home. We will come back next year, and do another week, and the year after another week until we are done. We pushed ourselves too hard the first time and so we decided to try this approach instead. And you? Are you walking the entire way?”
“I hope so,” I said. “I’m not sure I can because I really hurt my toes, and it’s painful to walk.”
“I’m sorry,” said Val. “Margret had the same problem the last time she was here. It’s walking over the Pyrenees. You hit the front of your boots so hard as you descend.”
“That’s it,” I cried, grateful for the sympathy and understanding. “I really bruised them and now they are so painful I can hardly stand up.”
“Well, take it easy on yourself,” said Margret, “so you don’t end up like we did, and have to quit.”
“I will,” I assured her, not knowing how on earth I was going to be able to do that given that I had to walk at least 25 kilometers on average a day to keep up with my bag and my hostel bookings.
Oh well, if I can, I can. If I can’t, I can’t, I thought as I sipped my orange juice. I’m not going to worry about it in advance.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 10
