“No worried,” he said in bad English. “The man is coming for you. He will take you and your bag to the hotel.”
“Okay,” I breathed a sigh of relief.
I wondered who “the man” was, but I didn’t care. As long as he wasn’t going to make me walk another five kilometers today and he had my bag, the man was clearly my friend.
But a ride—was I cheating? I wondered.
No! I reassured myself. I made it this far. If I got tossed a curveball and am offered a ride I’m going with it, I shot right back, immediately shutting down that guilt trip.
“Where is the hotel where I am staying?” I asked the bartender once I regained my composure.
“By the highway,” he answered.
“Will he bring me back here tomorrow, so I can continue on?”
“Sí, is okay. If you want,” he said, getting back to the now piling-up orders being placed in front of him. He then poured me another big glass of red wine.
Funny how well this is going down right now, I thought. It’s been an up-and-down kind of day all the way around.
Fifteen minutes later, a ramshackle old car drove up with Cheater in the backseat, as if to say, “Hiya! I missed you. Hop in.”
The next thing I knew, I was checking in to the equivalent of a Spanish Motel 6, right next to the national highway.
This was not nearly as charming as the boutique hotel I had seen in San Juan. I wouldn’t have minded it so much had I not seen the other one, but since I had, this felt like a big step down.
I judged too soon. It was a relatively new hotel, and my room was very nice, with twin beds, a very large shower, and a deep bathtub, in which I luxuriated as soon as I could fill it. It felt so good to have a bath to soothe my aching calf muscles.
It’s good to be flexible and unattached, I thought. That had been the recurring lesson of the day. Go with the flow. Trust the Camino. It all works out.
“Thank you, Jesus!” I shouted out loud as I soaked.
Once I settled down for nap, I looked at Cheater and then remembered, “Oh no—I forgot my poles!”
How could I continue? I needed them. I ran to the front desk and asked the guy who drove me over here if he could call the café and see if they were still there. He did, but soon shook his head. They were long gone.
Rats, I thought. Suddenly the walk ahead looked as if it were going to be a lot harder than today.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured myself. “I’ll make it. I’ll get some new poles once I get to Burgos. It’s only one day.”
That calmed me down, only leaving me to worry about the 24 kilometers between here and Burgos.
Just then I turned around, and there stood the Greek from earlier in the day.
“Sonia,” he beamed, and glommed on to me like glue. “I am so happy to see you. We have dinner tonight, no?”
I wanted to say, “No!” but seeing that there was only one dining room and we were in the middle of nowhere, I could hardly do that. We would be having dinner together no matter what. I smiled and said, “Sí. Of course.”
I met the Greek for dinner at 7. I was surprised that there were no other pilgrims, or people for that matter, staying in the hotel. It was only him and me, and the receptionist/waiter/cook. He was convinced that meeting me again, here in this unlikely outpost, meant we were supposed to spend time together, alone.
Maybe he was right, as this was the Camino after all, and nothing happened by chance. He asked me why I was on the Camino and I just pointed to my heart and demonstrated that it was broken. He shook his head, and then pointed to his own heart and said, “Me too.”
Then, bit-by-bit, he proceeded to pour his heart and soul out to me. Through broken language, the use of his translation book, and sign language, he told me all about his childhood without a father and about his mother and the endless stream of men she had invited into their home, who abused him in every way. He winced when he said this. He then began to cry and told me he has been filled with shame and self-loathing his entire life, as well as so much anger that he thought he could actually kill someone. I could tell that he was in extreme pain, and I felt a great deal of compassion for him.
He talked more freely as the wine poured, and with every glass more details came forth. He confessed to his many deep dark secrets, including his sexual problems, his addictions, his financial problems, as well as his depression and suicide attempts. He then said that he had had a dream that told him to walk the Camino when he was in such deep despair that he thought he couldn’t go on, and in that dream he saw my face, which is why he had looked at me so intensely that morning.
It took him by such surprise that he couldn’t take his eyes off of me. He was scared to approach me when I sat down to rest because he knew I didn’t want to talk to him, but he felt that he had to try anyway, so he took the chance, although he was very embarrassed to do so.
He felt that he’d lost me forever once I got too far ahead (ran away) and was out of his sight, and he was sad for the rest of the day, thinking he blew whatever the dream was trying to tell him. When he saw me again in the hotel tonight, he knew I was his angel and he had to tell me everything.
The Camino is a mysterious place, and I believed that what he was saying might be true. I, too, thought it was no accident that we had run into each other again in such an unlikely place, especially since he said he had only decided at the last minute to keep going because the pilgrims’ albergue was so filthy that he couldn’t bring himself to stay there for the night.
We spent the next four hours talking. I mostly listened. Then I told him he was a beautiful spirit. He cried some more and said that no one had ever said that to him in his entire life and that he didn’t feel beautiful. I assured him he was.
As the Camino is the Way of Forgiveness, I asked him if he had found, as he walked, that he could release some of the pain from the past, and begin to forgive, sharing that this was what was starting to happen with me. He shook his head, and said, “A little. More now that we’ve talked.” He then said he had to finish the Camino for all to be forgiven, but he couldn’t do that at this time. He had to get back to work after tomorrow.
He said he was actually feeling disappointed with how little he had shifted since he began the Camino in St. Jean 12 days ago, although he didn’t know what he had expected. Then he saw me this morning, on his second-to-last day, and his faith in God was restored. He said I was his soul mate and angel.
Maybe it was true. I don’t know. I believe soul mates help each other grow on a soul level. They are not necessarily romantic partners, as so many people believe. In fact, I think they seldom are. They come together by divine appointment to help each other stay true to themselves and their authentic nature and soul plan.
In that regard we could have been soul mates of some sort. While sharing this time together did allow us to help each other, I have to admit I did not feel the same connection to him as he did to me. It felt almost as though he were trying to attach to me, which caused me to energetically put up my boundaries, although he seemed not to notice. He kept reaching for my hands and wanted to hold on to them and wouldn’t let go. I let him until it became uncomfortable for me.
In spite of his needy energy, I knew he was extremely fragile, and I was grateful that I could be his sounding board and confessional, and help him see his spirit as separate from his experiences. I could tell that it lightened his load. I did my very best to help him see himself in a different light, the way I saw him, as a beautiful man with a beautiful spirit that he was now in the process of recovering.
I told him I trusted he would heal completely and encouraged him to believe it as well. He was quiet for a while and then said, “I do believe it. Now that I hear it from you, I do.”
Sometimes experiencing a person who sees us in the light of our true spirit and helps us remember who we really are is all we need to recover ourselves. I had that in my teacher Charlie Goodman, whom I met when I was just a teenager. I also exper
ienced this in my sister Cuky and both of my daughters. I’ve also always been able to be that for people, a clear mirror who reflected their light and authentic spirit back to them. I was grateful to be able to serve in that way for him. In doing so, my own spirit was uplifted.
I sat with him for as long as I could, but the wine and the extremely long day, as well as the intense concentration it took for me to communicate with him, were taking their toll on me, and I was starting to fall asleep. I didn’t want to cut him short, but I needed to go to bed. I yawned and told him I would see him in the morning and wished him a good night.
We both got up and looked around. The place was desolate. The waiter had long since disappeared, and it was dark everywhere. I started heading back to my room when he asked where it was. I told him and he said, “I am just across the hall.” I smiled and turned to open my door when he grabbed me from behind and tried to kiss me.
I fended him off, which wasn’t easy because he was more than a little drunk by now, having finished off almost two bottles of wine. It was very awkward and he almost fell down, causing him to grab on to me once more and then try to kiss me again. I grabbed his hands, which were now groping me, and firmly pulled them down to his side as I helped him regain his balance and said, with a warm smile, “Good night. I hope you sleep well.”
He looked as though he were going to cry, but I felt at this point it was more the wine causing this than his soul. I then turned as casually as I could so as not to embarrass him, and opened my door, saying, “Buen Camino.”
He started to lurch toward me again, but I was too quick for him. I was in my room before he could take a second step.
“Whew! I said out loud, once inside the door. Then to my angels, “I’m all for being in service to someone’s healing, but please, let it happen when more people are around. That was stressful.”
Not knowing whether to laugh or be freaked out, I decided to laugh. We humans get so confused so much of the time, not knowing how to be intimate with one another. So many of us think intimacy should lead to sex, when in fact that is not the kind of connection we crave or need. I’m all for sex, but sometimes the connection we yearn for is one with ourselves, with our true nature and spirit. We can’t get that from hooking up with others, especially strangers, although that is what so many of us do. At least I knew that this was true for me. I prayed for the Greek and thanked my angels for allowing me to be here for him tonight. I genuinely hoped I was able to do my part in our soul meeting. Two minutes later I was sound asleep.
Day 12
(22 km; 14 mi)
San Juan to Burgos
I got up at the crack of dawn, in order to leave before I saw the Greek again. On a soul level, I felt our Camino appointment was complete. There was no point in having to go through a long good-bye all the way to Burgos. Besides, I wanted to be alone and with my spirit and thoughts as I walked.
Before I left, I put Cheater in the lobby and marked the hostel in Burgos so we would meet up later with no problem. I nodded to the waiter/receptionist that my bag was here, and he nodded back, as if to say, “Got it.” Then I grabbed a coffee and toast, but I ate fast because I was afraid if I stayed too long, my plan of escape would be foiled.
I asked the waiter for a pilgrim’s stamp for my passport and with indifference he nodded to the left, where there was a stamp and ink pad sitting on the counter. I expected him to come over and do it as the others before him had done; but soon enough I realized that I would be the one to place the stamp in my book if I wanted one. I felt a little disappointed by the lack of ceremony over my hard-earned walk, but then again, my Camino matters only to me, so it was fitting that I put the stamp in the passport.
Right before I was to leave, I asked if the driver from yesterday was around to take me back to the original path as he had promised. The waiter said, “No, not working today.” That meant either I had to walk the extra five kilometers back on foot or follow the national highway just out in front of the hotel all the way to Burgos. I decided to follow the highway since I had 22 kilometers to go, and today I was really physically tired. Exhausted, in fact. I didn’t think I could manage an extra five kilometers.
Holy Mother God,
Help me remember that everything that happens on the Camino happens for a reason, and then help me to discover that reason.
Thank you, and amen.
The moment I stepped outside, I was slapped in the face with freezing-cold rain, and a lot of it. It seemed to be following me across Spain. I pulled the hood of my rain poncho tightly around my face and set off, this time without my poles. It is funny how attached to things we become. Walking in the windy rain without poles was torture. I could barely move. Maybe it was the fact that I had walked over 150 miles in the past two weeks and was fatigued. Maybe it was the cold rain. Maybe it was that the poles really did help push me along, and without them walking was a lot more difficult. In any case, I felt as though I were trudging through cement, and I could barely move ahead.
Holy Mother God,
I need your help. Walking seems so difficult today, and I’m afraid I’ll end up stuck on this highway, out of gas and stranded. Give me the energy I need to keep going. Thank you.
I prayed as I walked, fearing I would never, ever make it to Burgos, and then what? It wasn’t as if I could call a taxi, and there were no buses or other means to get there. After I prayed, I had the idea to listen to my iPod, and let the music help push me along, something I had not yet done on the Camino. It was the perfect idea. The minute the music started flowing through me, my mind quieted and my spirit came alive. I walked to the rhythm of disco, rock and roll, Indian chants, ballads, and Bible belting blues. I soared through the rain, singing along with the music as though on a magic carpet ride.
This worked until my iPod ran out of juice, and once again I was left in the silence of myself, with another 12 kilometers to go. I ate my second PowerBar of the day and looked around. Since I was on the highway, there were no rest stops in which to find respite from the cold, driving rain. I just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I wonder how I can make this easier? I thought.
Then I began to think of all the things that dragged me down and sent my spirit running. Surprisingly what surfaced were things that had happened all the way back in my childhood and teenage years, long ago forgotten and dismissed.
Maybe it was because of the sexual abuse the Greek described suffering as a child, but I suddenly remembered several extremely traumatizing assaults I had experienced when I was a teenager, none of which I ever told anyone about because I, too, was ashamed to share them. Crazier yet, I even felt guilty over what had happened, as though it were my fault.
The worst was when I was around 16. I was called to do an intuitive reading for a man at his house in the mountains, about an hour from my home in Denver. (Yes, I can see in retrospect that this was an extremely dumb thing to accept, but then again, I was a dumb teenager.) He said someone I had previously worked with referred me to him, so I trusted that it would be okay if I went. It never occurred to me not to.
When I arrived he was a little drunk. That scared me, but I tried to pretend I didn’t notice as I began the reading. Suddenly he said he preferred that I do the reading for him while naked, and pulled a gun out from under his jacket and put it against my forehead and ordered me to undress. I freaked out and pushed him back as far as I could. Then I turned to the right and ran for the door, going 100 miles an hour. Only the door was not on the right. It was on the left, so instead I ran straight into the wall at full speed, shattering my eyeglasses and leaving me dazed. Still, I managed to fumble toward the door and got out before he could stop me. Panicked, I made it back to my car and drove all the way home on the dark mountain roads, barely able see a thing without my glasses. I am sure the only reason I made it in one piece was because my angels drove the car home.
I didn’t tell my parents because I was scared I would get in trouble for puttin
g myself in that situation. I blamed myself for what had just happened and felt very guilty and ashamed about it. I didn’t realize at the time just how much it traumatized me. I only came to realize it much later, as I had recurring dreams where I was back at his house, replaying the same scenario all over again, ending up in the same panic before waking up.
Eventually I just pushed the entire thing to the furthest recesses of my mind and forgot about it. Until today, that is. As I walked, it was as if I were right back at the scene of the crime. Only this time I got really angry over what happened. I started telling the guy off, as if I were talking directly to him.
“How dare you?”
“Who the hell were you to threaten a young girl like that?”
“A coward and a jerk, that’s who.”
“What a sick person you were!”
I screamed at him until I was hoarse, for the first time in my life giving voice to the part of me that went through this experience.
I was now grateful that I was alone on the highway with no one else around so I could yell as freely as I wanted. I wouldn’t have had the same freedom on the trail, as there were other pilgrims sharing the path. How perfect was that?
As I yelled, the rain seemed to wash away the pain and terror connected to that event that had been lodged inside of me for all these years. I was being washed clean.
The more I expressed my anger, the more I began to feel exactly as if I were that 16-year-old girl once again. I felt my optimism, my enthusiasm, and my trusting spirit in full force. I felt my humor and joy and my intensely good intentions and desire to serve, and was amazed that those aspects of me had not been lost in spite of this experience. I had managed to keep these qualities alive in me even in the face of this threat to my life. I didn’t shut down or become cynical. I hadn’t internalized the belief that life was unsafe. I loved the strong and resilient spirit that I was then and still am.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 18
