Today, the neon sign doesn’t come for me. We continue to see familiar faces now and again as we walk and take breaks for food, water, and coffee. But for the most part we are alone as we trudge along through the beautiful sea of vines. I express to Amy my all too familiar frustration and as always, she guides me to a new line of thinking. She begins to ask me a series of questions.
“What are you feeling right now?” she asks.
“Anxiety. Fear. Frustration,” I reply.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because I have spent 10 years trying to figure out what my passion is in life and what I should be doing for a career, and here I am still without an answer,” I say. Two pilgrims on their bikes whiz past us on the trail. The psychological line of questioning continues.
“Many people spend their lives trying to find that perfect job. I want to know why it matters so much to you. Why does it give you so much anxiety and that feeling of restlessness?” Amy pushes.
I think about this for a while limping forward and tightly clutching Dolores. “Because I guess … I guess I want to matter. I want my life to have mattered.” I fight back tears as we walk.
Amy continues to pry, “So your life doesn’t matter now? Because you don’t have a flashy career? Because you don’t make huge sums of money?” She drives home her point and lets me think about it before continuing. I let it sink in.
“I know. I know. I just want to do something special. Something meaningful. Like you. Like so many of our friends,” I say.
“Don’t you think it is funny how you want to be so different from everyone? So special. But at the same time you want to be just like everyone else,” she wisely replies. “Now what can you do about it? What are actions you can take to get to a place you want to be? Or at least find peace with where you are now.” That is a fantastic question. One I don’t have the answer to just yet. My mind takes me into my past, looking for the answer.
It is 1999. I am a junior in high school. My nickname on the baseball team is brown eye. I was born with a dark brown birthmark, the size of a dime, directly under my right eye. Every time I meet someone new they ask me the same question, “What happened to your eye?” I normally make a joke along the lines of, You should have seen the other guy, but I have become obsessed with this one physical feature. I want it gone. It definitely does not help me feel normal.
By college, the birthmark is the only thing I can see when I look in the mirror. Well-meaning friends and family tell me that it is unique. It makes me who I am. I think it looks like a permanent black eye and will ensure I will die alone with 10 cats. I desperately want to look like everybody else. Eventually I go through a series of expensive laser treatments to have it removed. With each treatment a metal contact lens is shoved into my eye to protect it from the laser. Then the skin is blasted with an intense beam. This is the easy part. For weeks after the treatment, my eye is red, puffy, and oozing blood. I avoid people at all costs until a blister forms and falls off leaving the birthmark a few shades lighter than before. This takes years, and costs thousands of dollars. It works, and I feel normal. No one asks me what happened to my eye anymore. My confidence grows.
We come to a high point with sweeping views of Logroño behind us and a busy highway below. I notice woven into the chain link fence beside the trail are hundreds upon hundreds of tiny crosses that pilgrims have weaved into the twisted wires of the fence. They use string, twigs, plastic, weeds, or anything that can be used as a makeshift cross.
The pilgrim’s office in Santiago keeps detailed statistics every year about the Camino de Santiago. When you get to the office to claim your compostela, they will ask you to check one of three boxes that defines your reason for walking to Santiago. In 2013, 39.97% of the pilgrims who walked the Camino de Santiago did so for “religious purposes.” Like me, 54.56% took on the challenge for “spiritual, cultural or other reasons.” Only 5.47% checked the box for “no religious motivation.”1 The tiny crosses left here by the “religious purposes” group go on for a mile or so entwined into the long fence. An incredible sight.
The pain in my left knee is still a constant companion and starts to swell again as the hours pass. I know they mean well, but I start resenting every person who passes me, young and old, asking if I am going to be alright and then giving me their opinion about how unlikely it is I will be able to finish. I am still focused on one step at a time as we slowly close in on a colossal 30-kilometer day. The last hour of every day is always the hardest, and we finally make it to Nájera for the night. We again decide to splurge on a private room.
Nájera is a small historic pilgrim town. With a population of about 7,000, it has a long history with the Camino de Santiago.2 Cathedrals in town contain pilgrim works of art, and Roman artifacts can be found in the local museum. Like many towns on the Camino de Santiago, pilgrims provide a huge boost to the local economy. Sometimes the only source of income and the main industry in town. Unfortunately, every single step counts, so I will be seeing none of the artifacts here. If it is not directly on the path, we will miss it. We are on a budget, too, and have to watch our extra spending money. So far we have spent about 35 euros per person per day, which is starting to add up. A bed at an albergue normally costs about 9 euros per person. A private room costs about 20 euros per person. Food has been about 22 euros per person each day. Our budget is 1,000 euros per person for the entire trip, which works out to roughly 33 euros a day.
After sitting through dinner, my body clenches up around itself, and when I try to move again it creaks and aches and screams, “NO!” We shall see how far we get tomorrow. I had no idea how physically challenging the Camino de Santiago was going to be.
Camino Surprises
Trail Days 9—10
The day begins with the ninth sunrise seen in nine days. Little did I know what amazing things today would hold. The Camino de Santiago is full of surprises. Soon the orange rays of the sun peek above the hills, and the Way is illuminated. The soreness of yesterday’s walk gingerly melts into today’s new and fresh pain.
Slowly the miles of vineyards get left behind and turn into fields of sea green wheat spotted with bright orange and red poppies. My stomach growls. Time for breakfast. We stop at a bar and sit with other pilgrims who are hungrily scarfing down tortilla española, or Spanish potato omelette, fresh squeezed orange juice and café con leche. I spot our new friend Pepe from Tarragona who pulls up a chair at our table.
I am beginning to grow quite fond of Pepe, and today he tells us about the castells from his region within Catalonia, Spain. He whips out his camera and shows us pictures of these human towers that are built during festivals in his hometown. Pepe is such a kind soul, and I love how proud he is of his culture.
“Did you meet your future wife yet?” I ask jokingly, recalling our conversation from a few days ago.
“Not yet!” he replies. “Not yet.”
The day passes, and I am starting to feel like I am physically improving. The knee pain is tolerable even though it seems a new part of my body hurts every day. The limbs take turns, and today my right Achilles’ heel begins to ache. We make it to our destination for the day, Grañon, without further issues.
This sleepy little village exists because of the Camino de Santiago. We enter the town, passing some pilgrims with a donkey carrying their packs and decide to stay in a donativo. Simply meaning, you donate what you can afford for the night. There is no set price.
The donativo is part of The Church of Saint John the Baptist, which has an albergue attached. We make our way through an old door marked only with a brass Camino shell knocker. Immediately this place has a great sense of history as we head up an old stone stairway. It feels as if we have entered a castle, and we are greeted by a friendly hospitalero as we take off our shoes and survey the room.
It appears that we will be sleeping on the floor tonight as we are given two thin brown mats and, imitating those already there, we pick a spot in the corner to make our beds.
I know I won’t be sleeping much tonight. We are informed that there is a pilgrim’s mass being held in the adjacent church and decide to check it out. I am not Catholic but am open to the spirituality of the experience, and we limp into an empty pew. An opportunity for silence. A time for thought.
I have definitely prayed for purpose before. Quitting jobs where everything seems right on the outside but everything seems wrong in your soul is a hard thing to do. During these times, I have prayed. Growing up, my church was nature. My mom would drag me into the woods, find a tree, and make me sit in silence. She would tell me that this is where you will find God. This is where you should pray. I hated it at the time, but nature is still the place I feel closest to something more, something out of this world, something spiritual. I pray now, here in this small church, in the middle of nowhere in Spain. Why am I here? What am I meant to do?
I often wonder if I want too much out of life. Does anybody really love their job? Does the perfect job even exist? I think about my current job back in the United States. It is OK. I work for a nonprofit, which provides me with a small sense of purpose. Most days I feel like a replaceable cog in a giant wheel. But the job is neither good nor bad. I have had worse, and I have had better. I send up another prayer in hopes that somebody is listening. Should I be happy with good enough? If so, please help me feel content.
Pilgrims are intermixed with a handful of locals, most of whom appear to be in their 80s. I glance around the small but beautiful church. Many of the stained glass windows in the walls have images of pilgrims and the symbolic scallop shells of the Camino de Santiago. The deep colors lit by the late afternoon Spanish sun. The service is quite moving as the priest eventually brings all of the pilgrims to the front, places his hands on our little circle, and says a prayer for us all. Wishing us a buen Camino and safe arrival to Santiago. It really is quite powerful as I think of the thousands who have stood in this very spot over the centuries.
After mass, our stomachs lead us back to the albergue for an amazing feast that we are told is paid for by the previous night’s donations! The room is full of pilgrims dining communal style, swapping stories, and making new international friends. I make friends with a man sitting beside me named Tom.
Tom is bald with a silvery goatee and a sunburned face. He is slightly overweight and has gentle, kind, gray eyes. We start with the polite details of life. I learn that he is retired, is from the United States, but currently calls France home. As we talk about our motivation for this journey, he suddenly opens up and tells me his reason for walking. I feel a flash of shame as I think about my stupid petty problems.
He and his 30-year-old daughter had traveled together while on vacation a few years ago in Spain. During their trip, they spotted some people walking the Camino de Santiago and made plans to do it together someday. They agreed it could be an amazing father and daughter bonding experience. His daughter returned home, and only a few months after making plans with her father, took her own life.
“A suicide I did not see coming. I can’t understand why. The why. That is what is haunting me,” Tom says, the words tumbling out from somewhere deep inside him.
I don’t know what to say as the people around us continue to talk and eat their food. Tears try to fight their way out, but he successfully holds them at bay. What an incredible amount of pain he must be carrying with him as he walks. He is suffering a pain far greater than any physical ailment any of us in the room have experienced thus far.
I simply stare at my plate and poke my food. I make lame attempts at finding words of comfort as so many do when they hear something so raw.
“This is my second Camino. I plan to walk each year until I no longer am able,” his voice cracks as he looks down at his plate, still fighting back tears. I put my hand on his shoulder and say the only thing that comes to mind, “I am so sorry.” The words are inadequate. I truly hope he finds peace through this journey.
After dinner, we all pitch in cleaning up and giving a donation so that tomorrow’s pilgrims can also enjoy a good meal. The night does not end as all of us are invited to a group meditation in the back of the church. I feel like Indiana Jones as we slip through a small hidden door and find our seats in giant black carved wooden chairs in the back of the church. The dim room is lit only by candles. Amy and I are wide eyed and don’t quite know what to expect. I look around the room and through the candlelight see six or seven other pilgrims who have settled into their seats.
The hospitalero quiets everyone and speaks softly, holding a candle to his face. “Why are you here, peregrinos?” He slowly repeats the question as he scans the room, “Why … are … you ... here?”
We are asked to think about our reasons for walking the Camino de Santiago, and we all do so in silence. Then, one by one, the candle is passed around the room, and we can either share our reasons out loud with the group or simply keep it to ourselves. I keep my mouth closed and pass it along. I feel foolish now after hearing Tom’s story. What do I have to complain about? The silence is golden.
We sit in silent candlelight in meditation and reflection for a while before being led down into the church as the hospitalero points out carved figures and stained glass renditions of the Camino shell. Experiencing this level of intimate history is incredible.
After this amazing session, I feel spiritually refreshed and physically exhausted. My body still hurts as I fall to my mat on the floor back in the albergue. Another surprise awaits. A man from Portugal, a complete stranger, gestures for me to stay still and begins massaging my aching legs with olive oil! He is part of a larger group from Brazil that we have seen walking together for the past few days. He knows what he is doing as his skilled rough hands try to loosen my tired tendons and muscles. It hurts, a lot, but I trust him not to break me.
At first I am a bit nervous. This is a bit weird, right? Getting a massage from a stranger? I glance at Amy who is bewildered, too, her big brown eyes wide in stunned observation. A few other pilgrims have whipped out their cameras and start to take pictures. As he works, I am overcome with complete gratitude at such a kind act. I know he is tired, too, and he is asking nothing in return. He does not know me. Pure kindness. I am blown away as he spends 15 minutes rubbing my legs. He doesn’t speak English, and I just smile, clasping my hands to my chest and say thank you over and over again.
This has been an absolutely incredible night. I resolve to be like this man and spread random acts of kindness. That is what life is all about. I honestly can’t remember the last time I did something nice for a complete stranger. So caught up in my own life and too busy to give someone I don’t know a second glance. Sleep doesn’t come as I am a buzz with thoughts of the day. I promise my future self that I will work to be more kind. The lights are shut off at 10 p.m., and the familiar chorus of snores slowly rises and echoes off the walls. But who cares? This is the stuff of adventure!
In the morning, my legs do feel a little bit better thanks to my impromptu massage. It is 4:45 a.m., and I am still buzzing from last night. I am surprised to see that most of the room in the albergue is empty. The group of Brazilians and the Portuguese man who massaged my legs are all gone. They got an early start. I peel myself off the floor. My back creaks and pops. It hurts from using my backpack as a pillow.
From the get go early this morning, we are focusing on physically moving forward as after a few hours my knee pain returns with a vengeance, absolutely screaming with every step. It has begun to collapse without warning.
As I walk, if I step slightly wrong, it will simply give out, and I have to catch myself with my walking stick. Sometimes almost falling to the ground. This is not a good sign, and I know the fact that I no longer use the leg normally can’t be good. I am trying not to support my weight with my knee and keep it as straight as possible when going up or down a hill. If I don’t, a shock of electric pain causes an immediate uncontrollable protest. I think over and over again, Should I stop? Is this the sign of a permanent injury?
&n
bsp; The serene Spanish morning unfolds as the typical early hour chill quickly gives way to intense sunshine and heat. I am entering a sort of delirium and after a few hours decide to listen to music for the first time for some motivation. I cue up my iPhone with some upbeat tunes and look around. We truly are in the middle of nowhere.
The wind is spectacular today as it blows over the wheat fields, magically making waves appear on land. The music acts as a sort of real life movie soundtrack. Hours pass, putting one foot in front of the other as one wheat field slowly melts into the next. We finally make it to a side of the road, hole in the wall bar and stop for sustenance. We sit down as flies scatter from our table.
I am in a lot of pain and for the first time vocalize to Amy, “This is bullshit! Let’s quit, take a bus to Granada and eat tapas for the rest of our time in Spain. Why are we doing this to ourselves?”
She smiles and takes a picture of me instead of responding to my little fit. She shows the picture to me and says, “Stop taking yourself so seriously.”
I look pitiful. Toothpaste drippings stain my shirt right above the right nipple. The sweat of the day has matted my hair like a feral cat’s coat. Every hair of my beard seems to point in a different direction. I am not in the mood for a life lesson from Amy, so I don’t respond. She laughs, though, and focuses on the food. I am feeling down, and my spirits are low.
After a bocadillo de Jamón, cured Spanish ham sandwich, we continue on. I have begun to notice memorials along the trail for the many pilgrims who have died on the Camino de Santiago. Unfortunately, every year a few pilgrims do die out here. Some years are more brutal than others. The memorials range from pictures fastened to trees to small stone monuments with messages from loved ones. The Spanish Federation website keeps a list of those who have died and the causes range from being hit by vehicles, having a heart attack, or even getting caught in a snow storm while crossing the Pyrenees and dying of hypothermia. A total of nine people died while trying to complete the Camino de Santiago in 2013.1
Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago Page 6
