It reminds me of Kansas, but it’s also surprisingly scenic. You can see for miles around, and to find yourself standing in the middle of a foreign country with a huge blue sky overhead, in complete solitude, is the stuff of adventure. It energizes me.
I am thankful for the less hilly terrain, which will provide my knees with a much needed break. The constant ups and downs of our first 12 days have really tested my tendons. Sweat drips down my head as each hour passes, and one wheat field blends into the next. As usual I am in a lot of pain today and almost everywhere hurts. The heat intensifies the swelling, which does not help. During a break, I grab our Camino journal and jot down a list of ailments that I am currently experiencing. “Check out this list! This is ridiculous!” I laugh, showing my injury list to Amy. She finds it even more hilarious than I do and can’t seem to stop laughing.
- right Achilles hurts
- both knees swollen
- right shoulder very tender (from leaning on Dolores)
- left hamstring on fire
- blister on right hand (from Dolores)
- bed bug bites on back, shoulders and hand
- right toe tendon starting to hurt
In contrast, Amy seems to be improving. “I feel good today!” She explains. “I don’t even think I will need a nap. My body is getting used to 30-kilometer days!”
“Must be the yoga,” I snap back.
As we walk through the intense heat, we meet a girl named Fernanda from Spain. She looks to be in her late 20s and wears a big smile set below kind dark eyes. She is wearing a big straw hat similar to ours, which breaks the ice. We speak in Spanish about our hats, the heat, and—as seems to be common out here—we quickly skip the small talk, and I ask why she is walking the Camino de Santiago.
“No tengo trabajo,” she explains. I don’t have a job. I feel a pang of jealousy. What freedom she must have! This thought instantly makes me feel crazy.
She is walking because it’s cheap, and frankly, why not? It is almost a right of passage for Spaniards, and now is the perfect time. The economy in Spain is still struggling, especially for the younger demographic. Almost half of Spanish youth are unemployed, and Fernanda is one of them.2 I naively explain that I have not found my passion yet and that is part of the reason I am out here. She breaks out into laughter, which confuses me. I ask her what is so funny.
“Que Americano,” she laughs. How American.
This catches me off guard, and I ask her what she means. Finding your passion for work, she explains, is such an American way of thinking. She tells me that she would be happy to get any job as long as it is secure and stable. The concept of loving your job is not something most of her friends strive for. We work to live. We don’t live to work. Sure, it is great if you like your job, but she cannot understand my angst wanting to find my passion. Her identity is not derived from what she does to make money.
Fernanda reminds me that so many countries, even worse off than Spain, have people who would love my banker’s hours of 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., retirement benefits, and my air-conditioned office. They might even appreciate the cubes, which I loathe with a burning intensity. Finding your passion is a luxury reserved for those who are lucky enough to live in a country that has a multitude of options. She sees the embarrassment on my sweaty face as her words sink in, and she begins to use a kinder tone.
“But it’s OK,” Fernanda says. She kicks a small stone off the dry dirt trail. “We all come from different places and have different paths. Just try not to take life so seriously, peregrino!”
There are probably hundreds, if not thousands, of people walking the Camino de Santiago at this very moment, and somehow I continue to meet the ones who hold the very lessons I need to learn.3 An international perspective, I am reminded, can help you see yourself and your worldview in a whole new way. I need to start cultivating gratitude and focus on what I do have instead of what I don’t.
We continue on the trail as the sun blazes down. I embrace the Meseta and try to think my way to some answers. What do I have? What can I be grateful for? My mind takes me back to downtown Denver. It is 2007. Amy and I have just moved in together. A big step in any relationship. I am two months into my “soul crushing” job at CBS. It has been a full year since my stint on the Travel Channel has ended, and I have been desperately trying to land another hosting gig. On a normal Tuesday, as I sit in my cube at work, miserable, my phone rings. It is the offer I have been waiting for. A small production company has been given the green light to produce a new travel show. They need a host, and I am offered the position. I would be traveling the world, seeking out the best summer music festivals, and my experiences would be put into season one of this yet to be named show. The vision is an Anthony Bourdain style approach but for music, not food. I am ecstatic. The only catch is that I would leave to begin filming in three weeks. Our first location would be Edinburgh, Scotland. I rush home to tell Amy the good news.
“Wait, what?” she replies to my explanation. “How long will you be gone?”
“Four months to start. But if the show goes well, and we get to film a second season, who knows.” I explain.
“So you are just going to leave?” she says. She looks angry. Without saying another word she walks out of the apartment. After an hour, she returns with her thoughts composed. I can see she has been crying.
“I don’t know if I can have a relationship with someone who is never home. If you are successful with this career path, you will never be here. Is that really what you want?” she explains.
“I don’t know what I want, dammit!” I am frustrated because I know she is right. “All I know is I can’t do what I am doing now for a second longer! Do you know what it is like to hate every second of the day while you are working?”
“When you make decisions out of emotion, the results will lead you to more frustration,” she whispers in response to my raised voice.
I already know what I am going to do. Above all things, relationships are more important to me than any job. Deep down, I don’t want a transient life full of long distance relationships. In the end, I make the excruciating decision to turn down the job and have now been happily married for five years. The one part of my life where I feel truly successful. Of course my mind still tells me that even though I made the choice, TV and radio is failure number two.
Resting in the sun on the side of the trail, I spot a man slowly approaching us. He looks like a wavy mirage through the heat rising from the ground. But as he gets closer I recognize him immediately. It is the Italian Thong Man! I elbow Amy, and we observe him as he approaches. He is still angry. Yelling to himself as he walks. A flood of curse words in multiple languages pours out of him, scattering on the trail in his wake. We wave buen Camino, but he barely looks up as he huffs and puffs down the trail. I wonder what he is mad about today and why he is here. I also wonder if that is what I have looked like today while lost in thought, limping through the brown fields. Ten hours of walking. Ten hours worth of thoughts as numerous as the stones on the trail.
Roman Way
Trail Days 14—15
“I need a day off,” I tell Amy. My body simply does not want to walk. We both are dragging, and the morning’s trek proves to be very slow going. Our 30-day timeframe leaves us no time to rest. A big mistake in the planning process, which I am now regretting. Despite the pain, it is a beautiful morning in the Meseta.
“I know, me too. Just take it slow today. We can take lots of breaks.” Amy replies. We pass through old ruins along the trail as the amber golden light makes it’s way through the morning air hitting the crumbling stones, illuminating them as if just for us.
I am focused on each slow step, willing my legs to carry me forward. Amy seems to be moving more slowly than normal, too, as we continue on, mostly in silence. There are not many people on the trail today, which I love. We are walking in the footsteps of Romans. Literally following a 2,000-year-old Roman road which used to carry common folk, politi
cians, and legions of Roman armies.1 I imagine horses pulling chariots speeding by. Historical records show that the average horse drawn cart and chariot could travel 40 to 50 kilometers per day (25 to 31 miles) using these ancient highways.2 We have been averaging 25 to 30 kilometers per day on foot. The trail is unusually straight today, which is a mark of Roman technology that allowed for such precise construction. Many of the roads are even built in such a way as to resist rain and flooding.3 The trail is in great condition today.
We continue on for hours, stopping first for breakfast then lunch. The day seems to crawl by as the physical exhaustion is making it impossible to speed through the ancient terrain.
“It is nice to slow down and take it all in, don’t ya think?” Amy asks. “So far, I think the Meseta is beautiful and kind of peaceful.”
“I agree,” I reply. “Not sure what all the fuss was about.”
Conversation seems almost wrong in the solitude, so we both become lost in the rhythm of walking. Out here, silence truly is golden. By late afternoon, we have finally made it to Boadilla del Camino. A depressing sleepy village, population 140, with nothing more than a church, dusty streets, and a couple of albergues.4 We stop at a fountain under the shade of a large grove of trees as we enter town.
A man surprises us, seeming to appear from nowhere, and strikes up a conversation. I can tell he is not a pilgrim.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“United States,” I reply. I can’t place his accent, but his English is very good.
“Here, let me get you a drink of water,” he says while reaching for our water bottles. “This is a Roman fountain you know.”
At this point I feel uncomfortable. You can tell when someone’s intentions are not conversation. I just haven’t yet figured out what this guy is selling, but my instincts have put me on the defensive.
“Really? A Roman fountain?” Amy replies while handing him her water bottle. “How do you know?”
He fills Amy’s bottle then mine and hands them back to us encouraging a sip, “Drink, drink!”
I take a long swig of the cool refreshing liquid. “It’s good! Thanks,” I nod.
“This is the best water on the Camino de Santiago!” he proclaims. “The Romans built their fountains in a way that keeps the water cool. The water is always cold no matter the temperature outside.”
“It does taste like it came out of a fridge,” I agree, nodding a bit too enthusiastically.
“You are drinking from a fountain that has been here for many years. The water of kings!” he continues on.
“Are you looking for somewhere to stay tonight?” he casually asks. There it is. He is a hospitalero. I glance over his shoulder, and behind him I see an albergue. The courtyard is completely empty and unnaturally void of any signs of life.
“No,” I lie. My gut is telling me not to stay at his establishment. “We are going to walk to the next town today.” His smile fades, and without saying another word, he pounces on a pair of unsuspecting pilgrims who have just entered town.
“Peregrinos, welcome! Did you know this is a Roman fountain?” he repeats the script. “Come, sit, drink!” We get up and unceremoniously leave.
“Do you think that was really a Roman fountain?” I ask Amy as we begin our search for somewhere else to stay.
“The guidebook did say there are Roman fountains scattered throughout this part of the Camino, so it could be,” she speculates. “But who knows!”
We randomly select an albergue called En El Camino and enter the front gate to find an incredible oasis inside! A beautifully manicured dark green lawn, incredible Camino artwork, and a swimming pool for our aching bodies.
We take off our shoes, grab a bed for only 7 euros per person, and after the daily laundry and shower, head to the pool to soak our feet. The ice-cold water feels amazing on my aching lower half. We enjoy a well-deserved lazy afternoon sipping light Spanish beer poolside in the summer sun. A familiar face sits down next to us and pops his feet into the swimming pool. It is the man we saw the first day crossing the Pyrenees who was walking barefoot!
We strike up a conversation, and it turns out that he is from Bulgaria. To me, he is the spitting image of “the most interesting man in the world” from the beer commercials. He has slicked back gray hair and a well-kept beard. His feet seem to be in good shape, and he is a, for lack of a better word, buff man.
He is now retired, and it has been his dream to walk the Camino de Santiago for 30 years. He is also walking with his wife who is napping inside. Explaining that we saw him on the first day, I can’t help but ask him about his feet.
“Ahhh yes they are good!” he laughs. His English level is very basic, so he struggles to explain. “I wear ummm. How do you say?” He points to his feet.
“Shoes,” Amy helps him out.
“Yes shoes! I wear shoes when I walk on the black road. The. How do you say? Road. Pave road,” he explains. “The black road is too hot! It burns my feet!”
Slowly, he continues on. I empathize with his frustration, trying to find the right words. Speaking another language can be maddening.
“I want to really experience and feel the earth beneath my feet,” he taps the ground for effect. “I want to be a real pilgrim!”
I understand what he is trying to say. We have already seen many works of art depicting ancient pilgrims, and it seems that back in the day, pilgrims walked in sandals, sometimes barefoot, and carried only a small satchel and a gourd for water. All the while trusting that what they needed would be provided. The simplicity of the ancient Way. That is what this modern day pilgrim is looking for.
The lazy afternoon fades to night, and after a dinner of well- cooked lentil stew, we head off to bed. The albergue is absolutely packed. Amy and I are on separate top bunks in a room full of 20 or 30 people packed in like sardines. My thoughts turn to the infestation I may or may not still be carrying in my sleeping bag.
As I spray my bug repellent directly on the mattress, I am hoping that the bed bugs literally don’t bite. It has been a few days since my episode in Burgos, and if they don’t get me tonight, it will prove that I have successfully killed them. I stare at the ceiling, shut my eyes, and after what seems like a few minutes, open them again to find that it is morning. The sun has not yet risen, but the room is already bustling with life. Beams of light from headlamps flash around the room as pilgrims ready themselves for the day. Time to start walking again.
“No new bed bug bites,” I sleepily tell Amy as we make our way out of Boadilla del Camino.
“Yaaawwwwyyyyy!” she replies while letting out a long yawn.
Our oasis behind us, we enter the Meseta and start to eat up some kilometers before breakfast. We find ourselves immersed in a thick fog, which adds to the feeling of isolation. It is cold at this hour, and it is hard to see any progress as our visibility is quite limited.
Each morning brings a new sunrise, 15 Camino sunrises so far. Each with a personality of its own. Some bright, almost happy, and some somber, almost wise. Today’s sunrise is eerily beautiful. We pass by a field of sunflowers not quite ready to bloom. Their giant stalks topped by their huge lifelike heads all facing the ground in unison as if praying to an invisible sun God. I can almost see them smile with relief when the first pink-yellow light of the day reaches their leaves through the morning fog.
I don’t know why, but my body is feeling good for the first time since day one in France. We start to follow a wide canal at a healthy pace, and before long, our stomachs begin to growl for breakfast. The search is on for the first bar. We walk into the first place we see, and the owner takes one look at me as I limp inside to order and tells me that I am not going to make it.
“You have knee pain?” he aggressively asks. “Where?”
I point to just below my kneecap.
“You will not make it to Santiago de Compostela.” He shakes his head. His co-worker emphatically nods in agreement.
“We see many pilgrims w
ith knee pain. You will not make it,” he repeats.
They both have managed to piss me off instantly, and I give him the best look of disapproval I can muster. Who does he think he is telling me I won’t make it! “Yeah, well screw you,” I whisper under my breath. Just quiet enough so they won’t hear me. I storm out with my fresh squeezed orange juice and tortilla española.
“Mmmmmm that looks good,” Amy digs in.
“Well the guy who made it is a prick,” I reply.
“Huh?” Amy asks between bites.
“Nothing,” I reply. “He told me I won’t make it to Santiago.”
“Wow. What a jerk. Better burn the place down,” Amy sarcastically replies. “You can’t run fast enough, though, so we better negotiate a getaway car first.”
As we sip our coffee outside, we see our familiar international friends stop or pass and say good morning and buen Camino. The two Australians, Peter from Ireland, and an artist friend from London pass by and wave. After refueling, we continue on our way. I am in the zone today and physically improving. A wave of hope washes over me.
“I am feeling better!” I tell Amy. “It is amazing what changes 24 hours can bring.”
“Me too!” she replies enthusiastically. We may be able to do this in 30 days! The walk today is not particularly beautiful as we follow highways carrying speedy cars but who cares! We are making great time.
The entire route today is completely flat, which is also giving my knees a much-needed break. We take our time passing through sleepy villages, stopping to take pictures of donkeys freely roaming the streets. As we eat a packed lunch of cheese and nuts while sitting on an old wooden bench, a pair of donkeys casually make their way to our location. They stop and stare at us like dogs begging for some food.
Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago Page 8
