The cathedral awakened in me the incredible depth of history the Camino contained. I felt the energy of the Knights Templar once again, and of the secret societies in the Church that oversaw the building of this edifice. The Camino was not only the path of forgiveness: it was also a path of great intention. To make this pilgrimage, one had to have great faith, as the challenges medieval pilgrims met along the route were often life threatening. I’m not sure why, but it felt in that brief moment as though this was not my first time here. Like a wave of energy descending over me, somehow I knew in my soul I had experienced this all before.
I sat for a while and then felt called outside. For the first time since I started the Camino, I didn’t feel like rushing to my hostel, and instead went and joined a few other pilgrims I had met along the way to share a glass of white wine in the sun in the town square. The atmosphere was lively, everyone happy that the sun had shone all day and that it was warm outside, not to mention, of course, the feeling of accomplishment that comes with once again making it to our day’s destination.
I relaxed and listened to the conversations swirling around me. At my table were two nuns from Mexico and one from Canada, as well as a Jewish man from New York who showed up to see what all the fuss was about. I also saw my young Austrian friend, whose name I learned was Eric, and a woman from Holland named Petra whom I had seen off and on since I began in St. Jean. We were all in a festive mood and drank wine and ate olives for about an hour. And then suddenly, the wine hit us all en masse and everyone started to leave, headed to their night’s resting spot until dinner, including me. I was actually impressed that I had the energy to sit and enjoy everyone as I had. Usually I am so eager to rest that I just go straight in and take a nap. Today I wasn’t tired at all.
My hostel seemed about as loveless as the town square was lovely. It had a small shower and a single bed, but I didn’t need anything more than that. I took off my boots, took a shower, and then took a nap, knowing dinner was still hours away from being served anywhere in town. After eating all those olives, I wasn’t even hungry. In fact, I decided that I just wanted to sleep until morning. So I ate a PowerBar and was out like a light.
Day 10
(22 km; 14 mi)
Santo Domingo to Belorado
Breakfast at the hostel was all wrapped in plastic. The croissants were wrapped in plastic. The fruit was wrapped in plastic. The coffee was a small packet of instant coffee and small packets of powered nondairy creamer, wrapped again, in plastic. I graciously declined these offerings, saying my stomach didn’t feel good today, so I wouldn’t hurt the feelings of the kind woman who was pushing all these plastic things on me. I ran upstairs, packed up Cheater, grabbed Gumby from the nightstand, put him on the front of my backpack, got a stamp in my passport, and checked out, in search of a good place to eat.
Holy Mother God,
Please help me get to Belorado. My feet hurt, and I need your help.
Thank you, and amen.
Not far down the road I saw an appealing café next to the cathedral. When I walked in, I saw two familiar fellow pilgrims, Alice and her sister, Kate, from Seattle, both in their early 20s, sitting in a booth. Kate’s leg was propped up on a chair, and she looking as if she were in a fair amount if pain.
Once I greeted them I asked Kate what happened to her foot. She said she had severe tendonitis and couldn’t walk, and was probably going to quit and take a flight to Germany to meet friends instead.
“Oh no. And what about you, Alice? What are you going to do?” I asked.
She said she would carry on. Today Kate would take a bus to the next town, and they would decide from there if Kate would stay on, but Alice was going to finish no matter what. Sitting with them was a young guy from Amsterdam, who seemed committed to carrying on with Alice. She wanted to walk by herself, though, and told him right then and there, just as I had told Camino Patrick two days ago.
It was good to see that I wasn’t the only one who seemed to treasure my alone time on the Camino. Alice turned to me and said as much. I understood. Coming all this way and being in the sacred energy of the Camino was something to protect and savor. It was so easy to get dragged down with inane conversation that took one far away from its power if you allowed it. I still regretted having spent so much time dumping my emotional baggage on Camino Patrick the other day, even though he did not seem to mind at all.
It bothered me, though. I didn’t want to squander my time or focus on my wounded ego. I wanted to heal my soul and get free of the wounded, selfish parts of me that kept me feeling like a victim.
After wishing everyone a “Buen Camino,” I sat at the counter and ordered an egg bocadillo, noticing what a creature of habit I was. There were so many delicious things being served there, and I could have tried any number of them, but the egg bocadillo was now my go-to meal, as I knew I couldn’t go wrong with it.
Once I was properly fueled, I resumed the walk. The day was sunny but cold, and I wished I had not given away my coat so soon. Still, I was bundled in layers and knew that as I soon as I was under way I would warm up. I was glad that Eric had the coat. He needed it more than I did.
The path out of town crossed a river, and as I looked down I wondered how on earth the ancient pilgrims crossed these rivers. This one was long and wide, and due to the rain, the waters ran fairly high. It must have been treacherous back then. I wondered if there were snakes in the water.
The path soon took me along the highway. Lots of people complained about walking along the highway, but I didn’t mind it today. It could get a little scary at times, as the cars and trucks seemed to ignore that there were streams of people with backpacks walking along the edges.
In a way, I actually appreciated the break from walking over the round rocks and gravel that came with the dirt path. My feet, thanks to the stupid clown shoes I had worn, had quite a few big blisters now, and my Tevas with socks created the same problem as the clown shoes, with tiny rocks and pebbles getting stuck under my socks as I walked.
I was doomed to have sore feet the entire time. I had resigned myself to this fact, and now just made the best of it. At least walking along the highway, fewer little rocks could get stuck. I appreciated that small benefit.
The state of my feet was a disaster. I had purple toes, some blisters, and was now developing a strange burning sensation along the sides of my feet that grew hotter and hotter as I walked. I thought it might be a nerve running along the sides of my feet and wondered how on earth I would be able to doctor this.
Eventually the path vectored off the highway and back to the hills, and I found myself hiking up and down rolling hills under a now warm sun.
I had forgotten to take a PowerBar with me today, and the longer I walked, the hungrier I became. I kept hoping to happen upon a café along the path, as there were often a few, but today I just kept walking and walking and saw nothing in sight.
My blood sugar was beginning to drop and I started getting desperate. I needed food in order to keep going. I was at least 15 kilometers away from Belorado. I had to sit down frequently to keep from passing out, and even found myself wanting to fall asleep, as often happens to me when my blood sugar suddenly drops.
I pushed on for a while, but soon my body was on empty. Crap. I’d already drunk up all the water in my water bottle and didn’t have anything at all to eat or drink. Why was I in such a hurry that I forgot to grab a PowerBar? This was serious. It’s not like I could stop a passing pilgrim and ask if he or she had any food. At least that was the last thing I wanted to do.
I sat down and started to pray for help. Maybe if I pass out, someone will find me and call an ambulance to come and get me. That would be wonderful. I lay down on the ground and stared at the sky for about a half hour, when suddenly, out of desperation, I thought I would check in Pilgrim to see if there might be a PowerBar inside even though I did not put one there this morning. It was wishful thinking, really, but since I had no energy to keep going, I had nothin
g else to do.
I emptied the entire backpack right there on the ground and, to my amazement, out came a thin, unopened package of turkey jerky that my friend Debra had given me right before I left. I had stuffed it into Pilgrim in Chicago and completely forgot I had it.
I ripped that vacuum-sealed bag open as fast as I could and tore into the turkey jerky like a wild animal. I shoved strips of it into my mouth faster than I could chew and had to force myself to slow down and swallow.
“Hallelujah, another Camino miracle!” I was not to be left to rot by the side of the path today after all.
The protein fortified me and in about 20 minutes, the time it took for this stuff to hit my bloodstream, I was back up and once again on my way. I had eaten almost the entire pack, but kept some for later in case there wasn’t a café until I came to Belorado.
I was so grateful for my find that I started singing once again.
“Amen! Amen! A-a-men. A-a-men, A-ay-men, ay-men ay-men, Sing it over.”
I was now channeling Harry Belafonte from the movie Lilies of the Field, so happy to be back in the game.
The path twisted, turned, rose, and fell—and it was all very calming to my spirit.
I walked at a leisurely pace, not wanting to burn off my reserves in case I had to walk on the little I had for the rest of the day.
As I walked, for the first time in a long, long time, I suddenly missed Patrick. Not Camino Patrick from two days ago, but Patrick, my husband. At least I missed what I called “good Patrick.”
We had traveled quite a bit together over the years, and had a great many wild adventures together. There were times when we had to scramble to find food, and it was always Patrick who succeeded. He watched over the food supplies for us and made sure I always ate well.
He was a wonderful cook, and when we were home, his dinners were legendary among all of our friends. What I would give for one of his famous dinners right now, I thought.
We also traveled many years ago across Spain and on to Morocco. It was early in our marriage, when we were so in love. I had fun with Patrick on that trip.
I began to wonder what had gone so terribly wrong between us. After all, I had married for life, and yet it was me who finally said, “I quit.”
Being intuitive makes me highly sensitive to energy. Patrick’s energy stressed me out. Maybe it was unfair that I felt that way. Maybe I should have been able to meditate more or be more detached and not so reactive toward him.
Maybe he was just nervous, and it wasn’t fair of me to have a problem with it. All of these thoughts left me confused. He was who he was. And I was who I was. What would have been the solution? I so wished I could have come up with it because I missed him at the moment.
Maybe I am too high maintenance? I wondered. Maybe I am so sensitive to energy that it’s best if I live all alone and not be around anyone. I was such an introvert that I ran for cover a lot of the time. I never minded being alone. Except I minded it right now, as I walked along this beautiful, wide-open path, flanked by thick forest on either side of me, with birds flitting to and fro in play. I thought of how much Patrick, who loved long walks in nature more than perhaps any other thing, would love walking the Camino.
I wished I could somehow share it with him right now.
“What a shame we screwed up,” I said out loud.
Maybe we were both just too different and too wounded to be able to live together. I knew I had been carrying some wounds in my heart for a long time. Patrick had felt wounded, as well. He wasn’t a bad guy at heart. He was as wounded as I was.
We hurt each other. And boy was Camino Patrick right about an Irishman’s grudge. I have never met anyone who could hold a grudge as long as Patrick. I’d get over something pretty fast, but he could stew for days, months, years. I couldn’t stand that about him. “Come on,” I’d say. “Are you still upset? Let it go.”
Maybe it’s the difference between being Latin and being Irish. As a French-Romanian Latin woman, I can be hotheaded and have a temper, but I move on just as quickly. I blow up at times, but I don’t hold on to things. Or at least I try not to.
In the end I was holding on to a lot of things, though, and I had a huge grudge against Patrick. So maybe it wasn’t just him with this problem.
As I walked I was slowly beginning to realize that holding on to anything negative was truly harmful to me. The more I could work it through, then let it go, which is what I suppose forgiveness means, the better for my spirit.
So much was starting to shake loose and I could feel myself letting things go, bit by tiny bit, as I walked. But I wasn’t fully there yet, as evidenced by the flood I’d spilled onto Camino Patrick once he asked about my life.
I needed help in letting go.
I often accused Patrick of having too much pride and not enough heart, and yet here I was, guilty of the same. I actually began to realize how much more “spiritual” I thought I was than Patrick. I felt he was not spiritual because he was more likely to be negative and pass judgment on things, and yet was I really any better?
While I don’t generally pass a lot of judgments on those other than Patrick, I judged him mercilessly. So I wasn’t really any better at all.
Just then a hawk dived-bombed and landed right in front of me. He looked straight at me and didn’t move. I didn’t move either, both of us only a few feet apart from one another. He stared right at me and I felt his spirit. The minute I breathed he took off, almost in slow motion. He was huge and graceful. In a moment he was gone.
That hawk was Patrick’s spirit. I knew it. His totem was a hawk and he had many hawk visitations over the years. I knew his spirit had come to let me know that on a soul level he heard what I had just been saying. He was present to this awakening in me.
I wondered if my spirit ever came to him.
I walked in silence for another two hours, and once again, as usual, crawled into town, found my hostel, and shortly after dinner, passed out.
Day 11
(24 km; 15 mi)
Belorado to San Juan de Ortega
My hostel was brand-new and so comfortable that I nearly cried with relief and appreciation. Before I even checked in, I was offered a glass of red wine and some olives, and welcomed warmly by the owner, which was a first for me on the Camino. I noticed a sign that said they offered laundry service, which I was in desperate need of, as my little sinks were not doing the trick when it came to getting the mud and sweat off of my clothes. No doubt about it, I was starting to smell like a medieval pilgrim, and it wasn’t nice. So as soon as I got to my room, I bagged up everything that I needed to wash and handed it to the lovely British receptionist. She told me she’d done the Camino five years earlier and had such a life-changing experience that she’d moved back just to help other pilgrims. I could understand. I, too, was having a life-changing experience already, and I had only walked 231 kilometers. I still had more than 600 to go.
Once I handed the laundry over, I took a very long, hot shower, and then fell asleep on my brand-new bed. I set the alarm for 8 P.M. and went down to dinner. It was wonderful. I had a steaming bean and pork stew, a fresh green salad, and a thick, creamy rice pudding for dessert. While at dinner, I met several other pilgrims who were equally enamored of the meal, because so far, most of them had been pretty bad.
Two American men, Charles and Lawrence, friends who now lived in two different parts of the world, Paris and South Africa, had arrived yesterday to begin their pilgrimage the next day. They both worked for the State Department and had decided to meet every year for one week to walk a part of the Camino. This was their second year. John and his wife, Frances, from Cleveland, were also here to walk a section of the Camino. They had already completed four days, and John was having a very difficult time of it. Apparently, he’d slipped on the wet rocks on the path two days ago and threw first his back out, then his knee, and he was in a fair amount of pain.
I felt better than usual and was happy that other than my really so
re feet, I was in pretty good shape. After walking for the past ten days, I was definitely getting stronger and had no major complaints. We all enjoyed a nice chat as we drank wine, but soon enough we were all off to bed, ready for sleep.
The next day was clear, and the sun was out again. Hurray! I was eager to get going. I dressed in my freshly laundered (and now strange new shade of green-gray) clothing, loaded up Cheater, and put Gumby in my pocket.
“Ready, Gumby?” I asked just before I stuffed him in. “I wonder what unexpected new experience we will have today.”
Breakfast was fantastic. I had three delicious homemade croissants, an egg bocadillo, two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice, and two large, steaming hot, freshly ground cafés con leche. I was so stuffed I wanted to go back to bed. That meant it was time to start walking. Moments earlier John, Frances, Lawrence, and Charles had set out for the day, having gotten up a lot earlier than I had. I decided to take my time, sipping the last bit of my delicious coffee, before getting my passport stamped, and was headed for the door when John and Frances walked back in.
“Did you forget something?” I asked, surprised to see them again.
“No,” said John. “We decided to quit. I am in too much pain to go on.” His face was gray, and he could barely stand up. Frances had her game face on, saying it was a good idea and that she supported his decision completely, but she was clearly disappointed. She sat down across from me as I put on my hiking gloves, while he hobbled over to the computer in the corner to see if he could get their travel plans changed so they could go home.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 16
