Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago

by Gabriel Schirm

  The brown landscape matches the brown walls of the villages out here as if camouflaged from an unseen enemy. We finally make our way to Carrión de los Condes. As we enter town, we are aggressively pursued on the street by people offering places to stay. We talk with one girl offering a private room at a hotel in town, and we agree on a price. She leads us through winding streets to the establishment, up some stairs, and sits us in front of the friendly hospitalero. We have been successfully fished from the street, but I don’t care. A private room and sleep sounds great to me.

  Again, I feel a twinge of guilt at opting for so many private rooms, but the experience of not sleeping and cramming into rooms full of people has not been something I have enjoyed up to this point. Still, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that we should be in an albergue. That I am cheating somehow. We enjoy some dinner and rest before heading back to the room for sleep.

  There is a skylight in our room, and I stare at a group of swallows flying in the sky above. The wind is strong, and the birds are struggling to stay in the air. I glance out the window to see giant storm clouds headed our way. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Tomorrow may be our first taste of bad weather. Hopefully we can keep our momentum despite what looks like definite rain.

  As we try to sleep, I keep getting awakened by the neighboring room. There is a soccer game on, so the people in the room next to us (not pilgrims) are having a sort of party and have left the door open, TV cranked and booming. I can’t take it anymore. I bolt out of bed at about 11 p.m. and storm directly into their room. If I were a cartoon character, there would have been steam coming out of my ears. They all freeze and stare at this half-dressed man who just limped into their room. I forgot to put my shirt on, and I still have a few leftover red bed bug bites all over my chest.

  As I try to cuss them out in Spanish, I quickly realize I can’t speak Spanish when I am angry, so I just stare at them, making awkward angry eye contact with the lot. Blood boiling and with as much fire as possible I finally yell something in English: “SHUT UP!”... Well said, idiot. Now, leave. I think to myself. I then storm out like some crazed madman. To my delight, my mini tantrum worked.

  “You sure told them,” Amy sleepily tells me before she starts to dream.

  Achilles Tendinitis

  Trail Days 16—17

  Dark clouds and steady rain greet us as we again find ourselves walking on old Roman roads at five o’clock in the morning. Our usual method of drying our clothes by pinning them to our backpacks is not working out.

  Today I am really trying to focus on living in the moment. It is easy on the Camino to think of the kilometers. Just like life, you become obsessed with where you are going and where you have been. You really have to remind yourself to enjoy the experience while it lasts.

  The rain continues to drizzle down, but our light rain jackets keep us relatively dry. I am focusing on a quote I like from Eckhart Tolle and The Power of Now: “As soon as you honor the present moment, all unhappiness and struggle dissolve, and life begins to flow with joy and ease. When you act out the present-moment awareness, whatever you do becomes imbued with a sense of quality, care and love—even the most simple action.” The simple action for today is walking, step-by-step, towards Santiago.

  “It’s really beautiful out here today,” Amy observes.

  “I know. What do you think it is about a pilgrimage that makes you grow as a person?” I ask.

  She replies, “Maybe the fact that we are silent for hours. We’re in nature with no distractions and getting a chance to hear our own true inner voice. No television, no iPhone, no internet. Nothing at all to distract you from the lessons you need to learn.” We pass a clump of trees that break up the monotone gray mist; the tops of their branches are hidden in the fog.

  “I agree,” I tell Amy. “It seems like life has far too many distractions. Back home, any chance at a silent or calming moment is gone when we reach for our phones to see what’s happening on Facebook, check out Instagram or whatever. At least I know I do. After which I always feel like crap because Facebook makes it seem like everyone else is having a way more fabulous life than I am. It is nice to have a break. I particularly love the fact that not a soul on Earth can call me right now. The phone will not ring. That is so liberating.” We continue over a wet gravel trail for hours. The silence is a sort of walking meditation.

  During a break, we meet a mother and daughter from Florida who are walking together, and we strike up an interesting conversation. Janice, the mother, just got done working as a doctor in Haiti and now works as an acupuncturist. She explains her craft, which sounds like a fascinating profession.

  “Maybe I should become an acupuncturist,” I tell Amy after they have moved ahead of us on the trail.

  “Are you crazy!?” She laughs. “You hate needles!”

  I tend to do this a lot. I latch on to any career idea that sounds interesting. This is a telltale sign of someone who is not satisfied with his or her own work life. I have toyed with the idea of becoming a school psychologist because, well, Amy is one, and she seems to like it. After job shadowing her, I realized that kids are terrifying little beasts. Cute, but it’s not a career for me. I once obsessed over the possibility of becoming a doctor. The only problem being I hate blood. I also have a new business idea weekly. Recently, after watching a movie, I decided I should make furniture from the beetle kill wood in Colorado. The only problem is I have never made a piece of furniture in my life. “Yeah, you have a point,” I agree with Amy. “Just a thought.”

  Many of my career aspirations have been based on what I think is a well respected and even prestigious career. As I get a little bit older, I am starting to seriously doubt if I can get my purpose from work. Maybe the Spanish girl we met a few days ago, Fernanda, had a point. Maybe work is the wrong place to look for meaning. I have started to value freedom over prestige. I want to make my own hours. I want more Camino de Santiago’s in my life and less time spent commuting to work.

  We trudge on through the light but constant drizzle of rain. The walking motion is therapeutic and calming today. Many pilgrims are wearing large rain ponchos that cover themselves and their backpacks. They look like giant upright sea turtles, wrapped in trash bags, slowly moving forward. After a few hours, we stop for a quick snack of dried fruit and meet a giant man from Norway.

  He looks like a warrior towering above us with an equally impressive voice. He tells us that he has done the Camino once before. That first attempt ended when he slipped on some mud and fell, severely injuring his back. He has returned this year to try it again. He is not looking too good, though. As he separates from us, I notice that he is limping on both legs, which have two giant knee braces wrapped around them for support. He has two walking sticks, and his pack looks like it weighs more than I do.

  A few more hours pass in gray silence.

  During another break, we meet two bicycle pilgrims. A father and son from Australia, conquering the Camino de Santiago on two wheels. I find them hilarious. At 11 a.m., dad is puffing cigarettes as they discuss grabbing some breakfast beers! Athletes certainly come in all forms out here. Amy and I sit on a log outside of the sleepy bar they just entered and are invited inside.

  “Want a beer?” the son asks.

  “I’m good! Bit early for me,” I reply.

  “Nonsense!” Dad replies. A huge cloud of cigarette smoke billowing from his mouth. “It is good for the blood and even better for your mind!”

  We leave the pair to their beer and get back to the trail. We meet a divorced solar panel installer from San Francisco whose brother has left him behind on the Way. The Camino de Santiago magic helps us quickly skip small talk and get to the heart of his reason for walking.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “Divorce is hard,” he replies. “Really hard. I needed to get away and think.”

  “And your brother?” I ask. “Why did you two separate? You came here to walk together right?”

  An
exasperated grin spreads across his face and he replies, “Well. I guess he needed to get away from me and think.”

  By midafternoon, the sun still has yet to appear. It looks like I will be wearing the same clothes tomorrow. If anything, the clean clothes strapped to our packs are wetter than when we started out this morning. We make our way into another sleepy village, Terradillos de Templarios, population 78.1 We get lucky and score two beds in the albergue in a room with only five beds total. Our chances of sleep are good! We enter the room and are surprised to find Peter from Ireland! He is one of our roommates for the night.

  After a nap, another amazing communal dinner awaits us in the main area of the albergue. We dine with our friend Peter, the two walking Australians Aaron and Blake, and the artist from London. This will be our fourth dinner with these same people, and the night is an awesome international affair. The World Cup is on. Italy is playing, and some Italian flags apparently stuffed in Camino backpacks make an appearance as their owners scream for their team. Our Brazilian friends are even staying here as everyone is crammed into this small space, sharing stories, food and dark red Spanish wine. We split our time between watching the World Cup and getting to know everyone at our table better.

  Aaron and Blake are walking the Camino for the adventure of it. Nothing more. They have been friends for almost 20 years, and they try to take on some kind of adventure every year together. Both are athletes through and through. Each is easily over 6 feet, 5 inches with rough beards and muscular builds. They used to play rugby together, and I can tell that they could easily break me in half if they tried. Now in their early 40s, they remain in fantastic shape.

  “What was your name again?” I say turning to the artist from London. “I am sorry I am terrible with names.”

  “Sam,” She says smiling. She has curly blond hair, blue eyes, and looks to be in her late 30s.

  “So what is your story? Why are you here, Sam?” Amy asks.

  “I actually came here with my mum,” she replies in a thick British accent. “I was only supposed to be here for a week, for vacation, but I couldn’t go home. I just couldn’t. I have to keep walking. The Camino pulls you in like that I guess. My mum went home, and I just stayed.”

  “What kind of art do you make?” Blake asks.

  “I work with glass. So I make things like bowls and bigger art pieces for collectors,” she explains. “I have actually managed to lose a client because of this. The Camino. They wanted me to get back to finish a project I have been working on, and I just can’t.”

  She looks sad so I decide to pry. “Is there any other reason you don’t want to go back?”

  “I actually just got divorced. Not a nice guy really. I was married for four years, and well, now it’s time to move on. I think I might keep traveling after this. Maybe a year or so, I don’t know. I need to refresh my spirits. Eat some good food. Find God, whoever she might be,” she smiles.

  “Like the book! Eat, Pray, Love,” I joke. Sam rolls her eyes and simultaneously Amy punches me in the shoulder. “What did I say!?” I protest.

  “I guess you could say that,” Sam replies, amused.

  “I am no longer a wife, I don’t have kids, I don’t know that I will ever have kids, or meet someone new,” she pauses for a while. We all take a sip of wine and poke at our plates. “It is just a lot of unknowns you know. It is scary. The only thing I do know is that I can’t sit in my depressing apartment in London with my cats to figure this out.”

  “Well I think you are the bravest person I have met so far on the trail,” Blake says.

  Sam blushes. “Thank you. That is a really nice thing to say.”

  After hours of wonderful conversation, we finally make our way to our room to get some sleep. Amy sums up our night as she scribbles a quick note in our Camino journal: “Favorite Memory: Spending time over dinner and drinks chatting with new friends. We went to bed late! 10:30!”

  I drift off to sleep quickly. That is until a thunderous snore wakes us at 4 a.m. I scan the room. This trucker type of snore is coming from a woman lying in the bed right next to us. It seems to vibrate my bed with an incredible strength like a clap of thunder. I glance at Amy. She is awake too and looks at me in a sleepy haze. I look around the room, annoyed. Everyone is awake except the snorer. I whisper to Amy, “I won’t be able to sleep through this.”

  “I can’t either,” she sleepily replies.

  We both know what the other is thinking. We strap on our headlamps, brush our teeth and head out the door. It is time to start walking. It is 4:30 in the morning.

  “How is it possible for the human body to create that noise?!” Amy is angry.

  We stumble out the front gate of the albergue, half sleepwalking in a sort of delirious state. I can’t stop laughing. It is a crazy person’s laugh. One born out of exhaustion. On one hand, it is hilarious that this lady, who inspired our early departure, could snore with such skill. On the other hand, sleep deprivation is becoming a problem, and we are a bit grumpy to say the least.

  It is pitch dark at this hour, and we walk by the light of our headlamps. A sea of stars twinkle above us as we slowly leave the village and make our way forward. There are no streetlights and no cities glowing in the distance. Just a beautiful uninterrupted natural darkness.

  Our only companions are dozens of snails spread out on the trail. They must be morning animals because they are everywhere. They are hard to see outside of the beam of the headlamps and every once in a while our shoes fall on a poor unsuspecting creature. CRUNCH!

  Light slowly creeps into the day. Black fades to gray, which fades to a soft pink and a golden sunrise. We can finally see our terrain, and like most of the Meseta, it is nothing spectacular. Just flat fields upon flat fields interrupted by small pueblos sprinkled here and there. I listen to music to keep me going.

  As we continue to walk, I notice something alarming. My Achilles’ heel is beginning to ache. Not just typical soreness but I am worried something is very wrong. The hours pass. We see familiar faces as we make our way through the day, and my worry continues to grow. I don’t dare look at it. Not yet.

  By late afternoon, we make it to the final stretch of the day. A long vast open sky hovers overhead as I tenderly make my way over a deserted dirt path. We have not seen anyone for hours, and we stop several times to double and triple check our guidebook, making sure that we are not lost. We have not seen a town for hours, and it seems like we should have made it to one by now.

  I know something is very wrong with my body, but I push on in silence. No need to worry Amy quite yet, so I keep it to myself. Our two Australian friends finally pass us, confirming that we are not lost. They are the only humans we see for the next two hours until we finally make our way to the tiny town of Calzadilla de los Hermanillos.

  We check in to a very nice albergue and sit outside to rest on the patio. Mustering up some courage, I take off my right sock to survey the damage. A wave of emotion passes over me as I see an incredibly swollen and red Achilles’ heel. I log on to the internet, and over the next hour, the hope of the previous days fades slowly away with each bit of information I gather.

  I have the exact symptoms of Achilles tendinitis, and everyone’s advice is to stop immediately. What’s more, I have been walking with Achilles tendinitis for the last five days or so. A characteristic sign is pain in the morning, which gradually subsides, fooling you into thinking it is getting better.2 Apparently this is a common injury on the Camino de Santiago. It can eventually lead to a sudden rupture when you will hear a loud snap as your Achilles tendon suddenly separates and curls up into your calf. You will then be in the worst pain of your life and need surgery.3 I realize this is the end, for now. We need to stop and rest and decide what to do from there. This new reality slowly sinks in despite my denial.

  I am incredibly angry and sad, and my bruised ego almost leads me to tears. I feel my old friend creep into my mind. Failure. A new kind of failure. My body has never prevented me fro
m completing something. Word quickly spreads among friends as our Australian friend pops his head around the corner, and I see disappointment on his face.

  “I heard the news, Gabe,” he says in a thick accent. “It’s really that bad?” he innocently asks. I guess another lesson I am supposed to learn. Plans are futile on the Camino and in life. I know his look, though. He thinks I am being weak. Maybe I am.

  We sit down to dinner, and I am steaming. It feels like another failure to add to my list. My thoughts of being average are only emphasized by this new event. My head tells me, “You can’t even walk across a country.” The food comes, and not even a particularly flavorful gazpacho can lighten my mood.

  I am sitting with Janice, the doctor now acupuncturist from Texas, and her daughter whom we met a few days ago. They are doing their best to cheer me up. They remind me of the Camino shell, “Everyone has their own path to Santiago. We have already taken one bus! It’s no big deal!” I am trying to stay positive and learn from this.

  “You know you are the one putting all this pressure on yourself,” Amy chimes in. “No one else on planet Earth really cares if you take a few days to rest and then continue on. If you take a break and cover some of the trail by train it doesn’t mean you have not finished the Camino de Santiago.”

  Our new plan is to take a train tomorrow to León and rest for one full day after that, in hopes that we can then finish the rest of the Camino on foot. Thankfully, Amy’s usual positive outlook on things is helping a little. I am so glad to have her on this journey with me.

  Defeated and depressed, I head upstairs with a bag of ice to rest. Our outlook is shaky at best. My mind won’t turn off tonight. Is this this end? Did we fly all the way to Spain to fail? Have we failed? What is wrong with me? Why am I so average?