I have been thinking about death a lot lately. Maybe it’s because of the underlying issue that Amy was able to pin down a few days ago. How do you make your life matter before you are gone? I really want to know. Maybe I am a bit too introspective for my own good, but I can’t help it. What happens after we die? What is the point? I think about Tom from last night’s dinner. Where is his daughter now?
St. James seems to have gained some sort of immortality. People have been walking in his name for thousands of years. But is that the kind of life that really matters? I have to admit that as a pilgrim, I don’t care much about St. James. The stories about him appearing on a battlefield hundreds of years after his death to lop off the heads of Islamic soldiers seem like a bit of a stretch. It also seems sort of wrong that we are celebrating this kind of violent story. As my mind has a vigorous debate and conversation with itself, the Camino gives me my answer.
Amy is far ahead as I am making very slow progress up a hill. I take off my headphones for a second as I watch the wind blow waves over the fields. I pass a woman filming the ground with her phone. She yells to the camera as she is alone, “See! Look!”
I look at the ground as I pass, and someone has spelled out in small purple and white flowers, “Enjoy yourself while you are here.”
A smile spreads across my face. “Thank you,” I say to no one in particular and continue on my way. This moment is all that matters and is truly all we have. I think about a quote by G.K. Chesterton that fits this situation perfectly: “Happiness is a mystery, like religion, and should never be rationalized.”
After eight hours, we eventually make it to our destination. We decide on a private room for a total of 36 euros including breakfast. I want to sleep tonight, so the wall is key. We head downstairs to grab a snack and run into our Brazilian friends and the Portuguese massage man from last night who are staying at the same place.
“Hello!” I say to the massage man. I am happy to see him again.
“Olá,” he replies in Portuguese and points to my legs to ask how I am doing.
“Not good,” I frown. I point to the swollen part of my kneecap, and he makes massage gestures, asking if I need another treatment. “Maybe later,” I smile, patting him on the shoulder. He looks very concerned, which worries me more. He doesn’t like the look of my leg at all.
No one speaks any English or Spanish, so we communicate through gestures and hilarious tones. I am able to get his name, Eloi, and get a better look at him than I did last night. Eloi wears a black beret that makes him look French. He is a shorter man with a snow-white beard and kind blue eyes. I guesstimate him to be in his late 60s, and he has the muscular build of someone who has spent a lifetime working outside.
Eloi is putting his fingers to his lips and rubbing his belly. The international symbol for an invite to dinner. Both Amy and I are introverts and love not being around people sometimes, so we debate with each other until we finally accept. I am so glad we did!
Eloi skillfully prepares the food in the common area kitchen. We enjoy an amazing meal of home cooked soup, cheese, and bread. Because of the language barrier, I have no idea what anyone is saying, but somehow I still feel like we are making new friends. It’s amazing how much you can communicate through gestures.
I learn that Eloi has olive trees back home in Portugal. He whips out a tiny green plastic bottle with no label, which I recognize as the oil he used on my legs last night. He pours it on our salads. The homemade olive oil is liquid gold. Absolutely delicious! One of our new Brazilian friends unpacks a guitar during dinner and starts playing some tunes.
Music, the only true universal language. We all sit sipping Spanish wine, eating Portuguese soup, speaking three languages and listening to the man sing relaxing songs while his skillful fingers play the guitar. Everyone content to just listen, think, eat, and relax. I think again about the flowers that spelled out my lesson for the day on the trail, “Enjoy yourself while you are here.”
We head off to bed after this fantastic meal with new friends. The soundtrack of the evening playing over and over again in my head. I can’t even lie on my chest in bed because it makes my knees hurt. The swelling is bad, and the dinner was a welcome distraction. We have a challenging climb ahead of us tomorrow through an immense oak forest. I hope my body is up to the challenge. Before falling asleep, I glance at some bug bites on my hand. They are neat and tidy little red bumps, all in a row. A shock of recognition hits me. I think I have been bitten by bed bugs.
Bed Bugs
Trail Days 11—12
“We are running out of money,” Amy says as she checks on our funds in a hidden backpack pocket.
“We haven’t seen an ATM for days. The guidebook lies,” I reply. I am a bit worried. Credit cards don’t get you very far out here. We need cash.
“We can eat unripe blackberries. At least those are free,” Amy jokes, pointing to the rows of blackberry bushes that line the trail.
The last 30 hours have passed in a slow walking blur. It is midafternoon on day 12, and I can feel the miles we have completed as we make our way towards Burgos. My body groans and creaks like a rusty old truck as it sputters forward, step-by-step. We have walked so far but have a huge chunk of land still ahead of us.
We make our way through a dense oak forest. Welcome shade covers the trail during the hot afternoon sun. A section of the Camino that in the 16th century was notorious for bandits and robbers who would steal pilgrims’ possessions and quickly disappear back into the forest.1 As I walk, a pilgrim catches up with me and starts walking at my pace beside me.
I recognize him immediately. It is Peter the Irishman, who gave me sound advice to take it easy a few days ago. “Hey! How ya doin?” I enthusiastically greet him.
“Pretty good tanks,” he replies in a thick Irish accent. “How’s the knee?”
We have some great conversation, which makes the walk speed by. He is a teacher and has done the Camino de Santiago before, during the winter months, which he does not recommend.
“During the winter, your clothes never dry, and your bones are never warm,” he explains. “I have never smelled so bad in my life! The clothes develop a sort of musty sweat odor that you can’t shake.”
“So why are you here again?” I ask. “Glutton for punishment?”
“Just for the adventure. I love the adventure of it out here. It is also a cheap way to spend my summer break and meet lots of interesting people,” he replies. “And sometimes you just need a break from real life ya know. It will be my 40th birthday soon, and I am freaking out a little.”
Eventually we separate, and say our temporary goodbyes. If the first 12 days are any indication, I know we are likely to see him again. My back is itching, a lot, so when we stop for a snack at a café in a small village I visit the restroom and take off my shirt to see why.
“Shit!” I blurt out in disgust and surprise. What I see on my skin is disturbing and a confirmation of one of the most dreaded enemies of the Camino de Santiago. I have a bed bug problem. My back and hand have the telltale bites of these little pests. If you see three bug bites in a neat little row, chances are these devils have eaten breakfast, lunch, and dinner, as they say. They look like mosquito bites but the bite pattern gives them away as they criss cross the tops of my shoulders in uniform.
Unfortunately, bed bugs are a growing problem on the Camino de Santiago. Due to the bed bug’s ability to hitchhike and the transient nature of the Camino, they are spreading quickly. These small, reddish brown oval insects have flat bodies that, like mosquitos, live on the blood of animals. They cannot fly like mosquitos, but they do feed by sucking blood. They are most likely hitching a ride in my sleeping bag, and I probably picked them up somewhere along the Way from a mattress. I have no way of knowing for sure where I got them. Bed bugs come out at night to feed on any exposed areas of skin while you are sleeping.2
Back in the café, I tell Amy the bad news, and she decides to go check herself as well. She returns
and shares good news. She is bed bug bite free.
We make a quick decision that we should book a nice hotel in Burgos using hotel rewards points and take care of the problem. Using the internet at the café, we learn that the solution is to strip down to nothing and put everything we own in a scalding hot wash, then dry everything in a big dryer at the hottest temperature possible. Bed bugs are extremely sensitive to heat, and this is the only way to kill them.3 Burgos is a big city, so we think that our chances of finding somewhere to do laundry are good. Even better if the hotel has a laundry service where they can scorch the little bastards that have hitched a ride in my pack.
We slowly make our way into Burgos, and I don’t like what I see. Everything is closed. It is not siesta. It is not Sunday. The city should be bustling at this hour. We stop someone on the street, and they confirm my fears: Today is a local Spanish holiday. In Spain that means that nothing will be open for business, especially a laundromat. Our only hope is the swanky hotel we booked. Surely they will cater to my bed bug ridden, panicking American state.
A Spain Day is something we experienced every once in a while during our time living in Spain. It basically describes a day when you miss the convenience of the 24-hour American culture. I envy the Spanish culture for its laid back approach to life. They have perfected the art of working to live, not living to work. But for someone who grew up in the American culture of capitalistic convenience, this can be incredibly annoying. This was part of our culture shock when we first moved to Spain. For example, if you want to buy something during the afternoon siesta, good luck, everything is closed!
As we near the hotel, Amy and I debate whether or not we should mention the bed bugs.
“We should probably tell them right?” Amy asks.
“I guess,” I reply. “But what if they turn us away?” My conscience is not quite as guilty as Amy’s.
“Internet etiquette says that the best thing to do is to tell the hotel so they can take appropriate precautions,” Amy argues.
“I don’t care what some blogger says about travel etiquette!” I counter. “The internet doesn’t have to walk around town looking for a new hotel if they turn us away!”
In the end, I win, and we decide not to tell them why it is imperative we get our laundry done today. We already look homeless, and telling them that I am also carrying bed bugs will not help. Automatic glass doors slide open welcoming us into the well-decorated modern lobby. I can’t help but feel like a criminal with a giant secret.
I casually tell the front desk clerk that we would like to do some laundry. She politely explains to us what I already know. It is a local holiday so this might not be possible, but she will check.
“A wonderful holiday! Only here in Burgos!” she explains with a chipper smile. “You are visiting at the perfect time!”
I want to reach into my bag, grab a bed bug, and drop it on her head. She picks up the phone to check on laundry and her look of disappointment says it all. We are screwed. She politely tells me that the company they hire to do guest laundry is on holiday today as well. Sure enough, we are having a Spain Day.
Upstairs, we enter our room. A luxurious space greets us with modern decorations, a large glorious bed, a flat screen television, and our first break. There is a tub! Time for plan B. I immediately strip down to nothing and throw everything into the tub, which I fill with scorching hot water. I let it soak for two hours all the while keeping the water as hot as possible. I carefully stir the pot of infested clothes with a hanger from the closet. To finish the killing, I use the hairdryer to dry every inch of every article by hand. I have high hopes that this will work.
There are times in life when you find yourself thinking, How in the hell did I get to this point in my life? Drying everything you own with a hairdryer while buck-naked in a fancy hotel is one of those times. I can’t help but laugh at the ridiculous hilarity of the situation. After I am finally finished with my attempted extermination, Amy and I decide to go check out Burgos. I wave politely to the front desk lady on the way out the door, concealing my criminal secret.
Burgos is one of the bigger cities along the Camino de Santiago and boasts a population of about 175,000 people.4 The city is filled with amazing architecture, monuments, and more importantly, some amazing pinxos. The scene in Burgos is festive, as most families are out enjoying the day. They are leisurely strolling through the streets and admiring the impressive Gothic architecture of the Burgos cathedral. A UNESCO world heritage site, construction on the cathedral began in 1221, and the sheer size of the beautiful building causes everyone to stop and stare.5 Rain begins to fall as we drink in the view. We decide we have walked enough and take cover in a tiny restaurant next to the giant cathedral.
Pinxos are similar to the famous tapas of southern Spain but smaller and fancier. It is like the difference between a burger and a gourmet burger. Chefs carefully craft small bite size snacks using impressive flavor combinations that force you to eat slowly to savor the flavor. Most creations look like a small work of art. I have learned they are quite proud of pinxos here in the north, and if you call them tapas, expect a scolding.
We sip a glass of wine and order several rounds of these delicious morsels as rain falls outside of the open door next to our table. The fresh musty smell of warm summer rain adds a welcome perfume to our dining experience.
“So I guess we need to recalculate,” I tell Amy as she is scarfing down a particularly delicious bite of fish.
“I guess we do,” she replies. “We didn’t make it very far yesterday, and we definitely didn’t plan for bed bugs!”
We open the guidebook to crunch some numbers to see if it still might be possible for us to finish in the days we have left. We have 18 days to go, and after some investigation, it’s still possible. Yet with every setback, more challenging. Before heading back to the hotel, we spot a farmacia that is actually open despite the holiday.
“Tengo chinches,” I tell the woman behind the counter inside. I have bed bugs. She smiles as I am sure I have said something that doesn’t translate very well. “Que tienes?” What do you have? I ask her, hoping for a solution.
Without wasting any time, she pulls a small box off the shelf and hands it to me. She explains that it is a powerful bug repellent especially good at keeping the bed bugs from eating you. She recommends I spray it in my pack and on each bed I sleep on along the Way. I thank her for the advice, and we head out the door with my new chemical weapon in hand.
The bed back in our hotel is incredibly comfortable. It is like lying on a cloud, and the silence of no snoring roommates quickly sends me into a deep sleep. Hopefully my hard work has paid off, and I will not wake up tomorrow with new bites. Tomorrow we enter the famous Meseta.
Day 1: Trail Marker Pyrenees Mountains
Arrival Day: St. Jean Pied-de-Port
Day 4: Descent From Clouds
Day 9: Sleeping Mats at Church of St. John the Baptist Grañon
PART TWO
THE MESETA
Just try not to take
life so seriously, peregrino.
Fernanda, Pilgrim from Spain
Trail Day 13
You will not make it
to Santiago de Compostela.
Bar Owner
Trail Day 15
The Meseta
Trail Day 13
I wake up in the morning and immediately walk into our swanky bathroom, strip down, and check myself for new bed bug bites. I am relieved to find nothing. No new bites last night, so I think I may have shaken them. The real test will be when I have to sleep in my sleeping bag again at the next albergue. Surely my bag is where they have taken up residence. I liberally spray my new bug killer in my pack just to be sure.
We head out the door at 5 a.m. to find the streets of Burgos still filled with drunken people from the local festival last night. Some young drunk Spaniards yell at us from their second story window, “Buuuennnn Caminnnno, pererrrrregrinos!” A few others try to
start a deep conversation with us about our purpose for walking. They are too drunk, and it is too early, so I pretend I don’t speak Spanish, and we make our way through the cobblestone streets.
We pass the giant cathedral again on our way out of the city center. It is beautiful at this hour. Like an old wise man, the cathedral seems to watch us as we walk, peering down at the two Americans making their way towards Santiago. We are alone now. There are no drunken partiers in sight. The Moon hangs in the sky just above the tall cathedral towers and looks as if it was placed there by a skilled artist’s hand. Moonbeams highlight the stone gargoyles above our heads.
We head out of town, eventually stopping for some tortilla española and some café con leche. Energized by breakfast and back on the trail, we finally enter the famous Meseta! Up to this point, many a conversation turns to the Meseta. Whether it be dreaded or sublime, all have their opinions and anticipation for what many consider to be the “mental” section of the Camino de Santiago. We are finishing the first leg, which is considered the “physical” section because it tests your body with more difficult terrain. I can definitely attest to the physical part and am ready for something less strenuous.
The Meseta, which in Spanish translates to the plateau, is a long section of land in the middle of Spain that is flat and covered with fields of wheat, barley, and oats.1 Poppies dot the landscape, but other than that, there is very little shade, and the heat becomes intense. It is considered the mental section of the trek because there is no longer much to look at. It becomes you alone with brown fields, the sun, and your thoughts. A place that can drive you mad. I look forward to the challenge. We trudge on, officially entering the Meseta and finding the land to be completely flat as advertised.
Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago Page 7
