“Are you okay with this sudden ending, Frances?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I have to be,” she said, then added, “I should have trusted my original impulse and come alone. John insisted he join me, but he has had nothing but difficulty since the moment we began. I think his mind was not really here from the start, and it certainly has affected our journey.”
“That’s too bad, Frances. I’m so sorry to hear that. Can you send him home and carry on by yourself?” I asked. “Is there a reason why you should quit, too, other than the solidarity of being a team?”
“Oh, he’d never go for that,” she sighed. “It’s a nice idea, but it’s not going to happen.”
“Well, I hope he gets better and that it all works out for both of you. I’m so sorry you had to quit before you were ready.”
“Me too,” she said. “Buen Camino.”
I put my small purse on, threw on Pilgrim, put Gumby in my pocket, got my beloved walking poles, and headed out.
Wow. I didn’t know how I’d feel if I were with someone who needed me to be by their side every step of the way. It would drive me nuts to have to adjust to someone else’s experience and not be able to fully focus on my own here on the Camino.
At that moment, I felt so grateful for my total freedom. It was a gift.
The first long stretch of the Camino was along the N-120 highway, but there was little traffic, so I didn’t mind. Then the path meandered through a wonderful section of sweet-smelling pine trees.
Shortly into the walk another pilgrim who was walking fast and on his phone passed by me. That was a first. I couldn’t imagine even getting service out here in the middle of nowhere, let alone talking to someone. Right behind him was a second pilgrim, trying to keep up, and given their body language it seemed as if the first was trying to get away from the second, and they were arguing about it. At any rate, it was clear they were unhappy with one another. Then he hung up and looked over at me.
My presence seemed like a welcome distraction for the first one, and he greeted me with a shy, but clear “Buen Camino.” I felt his frustration as I returned the greeting, but kept walking. He slowed down and kept pace with me, hovering only two feet away as we walked for a full 15 minutes. Tall, around 6 feet, dark skin, and unruly hair, wearing a heavy windbreaker with many pockets, into one of which he shoved his phone into, he stuck to my side. He continually glanced over at me, ignoring the concept of personal space, so it was quite awkward. If I quickened my step, so did he. If I slowed down, he did as well. Finally I stopped in the hope of distancing myself from him and returning to my own thoughts and prayers, but he stopped, too, and sat down right next to me.
Okay, I said to myself. Clearly this is a person I am supposed to meet.
He was Greek and spoke very little English. I don’t know Greek, but I do speak French, so we garbled together a conversation in a Greco-French mishmash but it worked. He was also walking for just two weeks, and today was his second-to-last day. The man walking with him was not his friend but wouldn’t leave him alone. I nodded in sympathy. Camino time is special, and I understood not wanting to waste it in bad company. Or in any company if not wanted, as I felt I was doing as we sat.
We smiled and struggled to communicate. He seemed fragile somehow, and like me, was trying to find his lost pieces. I wondered if that was the reason most of us arrive here. His energy was also a little clingy, and I didn’t like that feeling. After five minutes of chatting and smiling, I jumped up and said, “Buen Camino,” and got going once again. I think he got the message, as I noticed he held back and waited for his “not-friend” to catch up.
Once I started up the path, I was relieved to be free of him. As nice as he was, I could feel how much he wanted to attach to me. I wondered why. He had just met me. Maybe he just does that in life. I am so the opposite. I am a free bird; I don’t want anything or anyone to glom on to me. I never have.
In many ways Patrick and I were well suited that way. He didn’t mind the times we were apart, and neither did I. That is, until the end when I was away almost all of the time, but that was intentional so I could escape him. He minded that.
I quickened my step just in case the fragile Greek pilgrim caught up with me once again. As I did, the path began to gently rise. It was wide and wandered through majestic oak trees. Sunlight danced through the leaves and as I walked, I felt as though my soul were being bathed in pure love. I stopped several times and simply enjoyed being there. I got a PowerBar out of Pilgrim, rolled up my hiking pants for the first time since I started out because it was now so warm, and rested my spirit.
I could feel myself unwinding at the core, something I have rarely been able to fully do my entire life. My life was too crazy to let my sensors down. I was constantly on duty. I used my intuition to scan the borders, look for trouble, for openings, opposition, and opportunity. I did this for myself and for others. Because this was also my work, my inner self was on high alert almost all of the time, a state I was used to but which left me exhausted. Resting and relaxing my intuitive sensors for a minute felt so good.
I got up after I finished my PowerBar, as I still had a long way to go. Soon the path changed and I began a very steep uphill climb that seemed to go on forever. I had learned by now to take small steps and go slowly when going uphill, remembering to breathe as I went. I thought about the steep climb over the Pyrenees. “You’ve come a long way, baby,” I said to myself as I took the next step. That seemed like a century ago. Thank God I’d gotten stronger since then. All I remembered was how emotionally scared I’d been and how physically threatening it felt at the beginning.
As I walked, I thought of all of the times fear makes something seem far worse than it actually is. It reminded me of my favorite quote from Mark Twain: “I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened.” I laughed at that as I inched uphill, thinking about all the drama I’d put myself through just getting ready for the Camino. In retrospect, I could see how it was all such a waste of energy.
As I walked I noticed a group of French pilgrims, just off to the side of the road, sitting down to share a picnic in a group of trees.
I had been crossing paths with this group since I started out in St. Jean and I had to admire their style. Every day, one of the men dragged a fairly large wagon behind him, strapped to his waist, and in it were food, a picnic blanket, folding chairs, and several little tables. Every time I ran across them they were stopped by the wayside, sharing a “grande bouffe,” as the French called a good meal, complete with wine, cheese, bread, and chocolate. I knew this because on several occasions I sat close enough to see what they were eating. It seemed like quite a commitment to drag a wagon of food along on the Camino, especially in the mud and rain, and over the impossible grooves and stones that lined the path, but then again, knowing the French, it might have seemed far more impossible to attempt the Camino without eating good food along the way.
I overheard them discussing the “sad American” who didn’t have any sense but to eat a PowerBar instead of delicious food, not realizing I spoke French. It wasn’t true. I did have the sense to eat well, just not the interest to go to the lengths they did to make it happen.
As I sat I realized I had forgotten to pray once again before I set out this morning. I felt badly about this, but then thought, Maybe I am beginning to feel supported in the core of my being, so praying out loud is not something I now feel the need to do compared to when I started. For the moment, I was at ease. I didn’t feel disconnected from God’s grace. I was sitting in the middle of it.
But that brought me to the next thought. I shouldn’t think of prayer as only asking for something. I should be praying with absolute gratitude for all that I was experiencing, for each and every moment of this extraordinary pilgrimage.
Holy Mother God,
I feel so blessed by this mystical path and your love and guidance every step of the way. Thank you for allowing my mind and heart the courage to say yes to
this pilgrimage, and for allowing me to receive all the blessings and healing I am experiencing on this journey.
Amen.
I stood up and said “Salut” to the French contingency, meaning, “Bye.” They smiled, happy to hear their native language. Then I added, “Buen Camino,” for good measure, to which they all answered the same back to me, in unison.
I continued on to the summit, which was over 1,000 meters high (or 3,280 feet), and once again sat down for breather. Looking around at all the beauty, I shook my head in amazement.
I marveled for a moment at the strangeness of where I was in comparison to my daily life back home and how very far away from it I felt, as if I were on another planet, in another world. I was. Perhaps it was the ley lines that the Camino follows, or the energy of the Milky Way overhead, but I genuinely felt as though I were not on planet Earth. This path was something different. Something extraordinary.
Eventually I started down the hill. This time I had to be more careful, as it began to really strain my knee. I traversed downhill as if I were skiing down a mountain, going from side to side at a gradual pace. It seemed to work. My knee felt better.
Thank goodness for Patrick, I thought. He was a professional ski instructor, and many years ago he taught me how to ski properly. Before I knew him, I just bombed straight down the mountain, getting really hurt many times.
He showed me how to gently traverse, back and forth, all the way down the hill and that made all the difference in the world. Skiing went from a weekly life-and-death experience in my native Colorado backyard, after which I profusely thanked the powers that be for saving my neck, to a truly pleasurable experience that left me uplifted and not at all injured.
Maybe I owed Patrick my life. Had it not been for him, I might be dead, or a paraplegic. I certainly was on that trajectory, the way I skied back then.
That brought me back to thinking about Patrick. I knew he would have liked this walk today. I wondered what in the world would have happened if we had taken this journey together.
We probably would have fought, I decided. We did things so differently. He would have walked so fast that I would have been annoyed and stressed out chasing after him. It would have ruined it for me. Or would it have? I wasn’t sure.
Not long into the descent, the path rose again, at an even steeper incline than before.
I decided to take the same approach upward as I did downward. I crossed side to side as I ascended, my poles pulling me along as I did. I honestly don’t think I could have made it without my poles. They pushed me along, pulled me up, coaxed me down, and kept me cruising.
After nearly eight and a half hours of walking, I finally arrived in San Juan. It was a small medieval village, and an important stopping place for the ancient pilgrims. I liked the feeling here. I crossed a small river and wound my way through old streets. Just as I passed the only pilgrims’ albergue in town, two women came running out the front door almost gagging as they did. One caught my eye and said, “I seriously do not recommend that you stay here. It is disgustingly filthy and stinky inside.”
My eyebrows rose in alarm. “Okay,” I said, “I won’t,” knowing I was never going to stay there in the first place and decidedly grateful for that given their reaction to the place.
I looked for the name of my hostel as I walked along the path, and soon was right in front of it. It was a charming little place behind a small gated entrance and looked rather sophisticated, like a lovely boutique hotel. I was excited. What a treat.
I went to the front door and saw a sign that said no one was there and to report to the San Juan Café just ahead to get a key.
Five minutes further down the path I happened upon a lovely long terrace with pilgrims sitting all around, relaxing, drinking cold beers and small glasses of wine, and enjoying the warm sun. I looked around and right in the center was the San Juan Café. I took off my hiking gloves, placed my poles against the wall, and went inside.
Day one: Starting out in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France, and walking into Roncesvalles, Spain.
Day two: Wow! A long way to go!
My first pilgrim’s dinner.
Woke up to snow in Zubiri on day three.
Looking ahead in the rain and fog.
Finally arrived in Pamplona.
This is where the wine ran out.
Cold and windy, but the first section is over!
Well under way, but still a long way to go.
Arrived at the cathedral in Burgos. I look a little crazy here.
It’s a long way ahead today.
Meet Camino Patrick.
Gumby and I are enjoying a proper pilgrim’s breakfast.
This about sums up how I felt walking today.
Cussed all the way into Hornillos.
A real pilgrim’s cloak from the Middle Ages hanging in a museum.
The inside of a small church in the middle of nowhere.
My wonderful hosts at the B and B.
Colum and me.
The knight’s bridge.
Gumby and I are finding our rhythm.
A pilgrim totem cheering us on.
Running ahead of the storm in Astorga.
Just left my big rock on the pile of burdens at Cruz de Ferro.
The Knights Templar castle in Ponferrada.
Gumby sitting among the totems left behind at Cruz de Ferro.
Deciding to ride a horse along the Camino.
The penny I found on my glove left to me by my father.
A guardian angel in yet another small but gorgeous church along the way.
The path to O Cebreiro was gorgeous.
The wise tree at Triacastela.
“Scary” dog along t he way.
The passage from the Bible that was highlighted for me to read.
The beautiful sanctuary with no one inside.
My friend, the mud.
Counting down to the last 100 kilometers!
Thank God for the signs along The Way.
A makeshift shrine honoring prior pilgrims.
One of the Camino signs I followed.
Celebrating my arrival at the end of a very long day.
I’ve grown on the Camino!
The Cross of St. James.
Hanging in there!
I can hardly believe I am so close to the end.
I’m feeling so proud of myself as I approach the end.
An egg bocadillo.
I could feel the spirits all around on this morning.
Made it! Standing in front of the cathedral in Santiago.
The pilgrims’ mass in the cathedral in Santiago.
My pilgrim’s compostela or certificate.
The tomb of St. James in the cathedral.
The guy working the café was very busy and ignored me for over ten minutes while I stood at the counter. He was singlehandedly manning the show, drawing cold beers from the tap, brewing cups of coffee, and uncorking bottles and pouring red wine.
Finally, he looked up at me and said, “¿Sí?”
I was a little intimidated, as it seemed as if I’d better spit out what I had to say and fast as I was intruding on his world.
“Yes,” I said. “I have a reservation at the hostel down the road.”
Before I could finish he shook his head. “It’s full.”
“No,” I argued. “I have a reservation there. They expect me.”
“No, it’s full,” he repeated.
I started to get nervous. This had never happened before. I reached into my tiny little purse, which carried my passport, my one credit card, my debit card, and my reservation list. I showed him.
“See,” I said, almost sounding (and feeling) like a scared child, pointing to the paper. “Here it is. Here is the name of the hostel and my reservation number.”
“Ah, no!”
He threw his hands up in the air with an over-the-top dramatic flair, and said, “I do not have this reservation!” clearly annoyed with me for bothering him.
He then grabbed a book from the shelf behind him and leafed through it in case he missed something. My heart was pounding.
“No, not anything for you,” he said, triumphant.
“But here is my confirmation from Camino Ways,” I argued.
“Ah, Camino Ways. They make a mistake. No Camino Ways.”
I was so upset and tired I almost started to cry.
“Yes. It is here,” I said, pointing to the sad crumpled-up piece of paper I carried with me, almost shaking with worry, fearing I’d have to go to the dreaded pilgrims’ albergue I had just passed, besides having no idea where Cheater might be.
At that point he said, “Calm down, peregrina. I check.” He then pointed to a chair, poured me a large glass of red wine, and said, “Sit down.”
I hope I don’t need this, I thought, grateful to have it anyway.
He got on the phone and screamed at someone in Spanish for ten minutes, then he looked at me and shook his head. “I know,” he said.
I breathed and gulped the wine down. I seriously hoped that meant, “I know where you are staying, and where your bag is, and that it is nearby.”
He hung up and then said, “You are staying five kilometers from here.”
“What? No!” I cried, far too tired to face the prospect of continuing on for that far. “What about my bag?”
“We have your bag, but your reservation is not here,” he said, now reassuring me, as he clearly did not savor the sight of a crying pilgrim collapsed on his floor, and he knew I was going down fast.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 17
