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

by Gabriel Schirm

  “What ya thinkin about?” Amy asks as she places the bag of ice on the back of my heel. It is tender, and it is hard to imagine walking again anytime soon.

  “Oh you know. Stuff,” I reply.

  “You are not a failure. Here or in life. You will be, though, if you continue to measure your life by comparing yourself to others,” she says while correctly reading my mind. I know she is right, but I can’t shake the feeling.

  Rest

  Trail Day 18

  “Dos zumos de naranja,” the friendly hospitalera says. Two orange juices. She sets down two fresh squeezed orange juices in front of us. It is 9 a.m. We woke up late, and our plan for the day is to get to León by any method that does not include walking. I look around to find nobody. All of the pilgrims have already left for the day. A ping of jealousy hits me. I wish I were already walking, too. I desperately want to finish this trek to simply prove to myself that I can actually see something through. It is a win that I need at this point in my life. The hospitalera is very helpful as we start to plan our escape.

  We run into the type of difficulties you might expect when stranded in the middle of nowhere in Spain. There is a bus. But it runs every other day. Not today though. Damn. There is a taxi! But there is only one, and he is busy. There is a train! But this requires the taxi to drive us to the station, which is in the next town over. Deep breaths. We end up lining up the taxi for later in the afternoon and spend the next few hours just sitting with our thoughts and wallowing in my disappointment.

  I take the time to examine the contents of my pack. Without water, my pack weighs 7 kilos, or just over 15 pounds. This is much lighter than most of the pilgrim’s packs along the Way. For example, The Barista told me his pack weighed close to 20 kilos! Before we started this journey, many warned us to take only the bare minimum. The general rule is to make sure you carry no more than 10% of your body weight. Advice that I have heeded, but I want to make sure, trying to find an answer, something I can blame for my injury.

  I lay everything out on the bed upstairs piece by piece, starting with my clothes. There are two t-shirts, one long sleeve shirt, a lightweight black rain jacket, shower sandals, the bottoms of my convertible zip off pants, and two pairs of gray specialty hiking wool socks. I only brought two extra pairs of underwear, which I lay next to my extra pair of gym shorts. The gym shorts I wear in the evenings while my other clothes are drying on the line. I search for something I can throw away to lighten my load, which is a pointless exercise but helps my mind focus on something else.

  Next I find the electrical converter, which is a bulky black beast. I was too cheap to buy a new, lighter weight converter before the trip, but this is essential to charging our camera and phones, so I can’t throw it away. I keep digging. There is a lightweight sleeping bag, headlamp, sunscreen, blister kit, a Canon digital SLR camera and a dry sack to protect it from the rain. A small, blue quick-dry towel, my human shammy after showers on the trip, is placed next to my neck scarf. All that is left are earplugs, small travel toiletries, ibuprofen cream, a lightweight Moleskine notebook that is acting as our Camino journal, the guidebook, a rain cover for the pack and the things I will be wearing daily. Including my large brimmed straw hat to keep the sun at bay, knee brace, sunglasses, and my trail running shoes. Nothing is discardable to me, and I quickly repack, leaving room only for my self-pity. I am sure I will be carrying that for a while, too.

  We stay until midafternoon when the next wave of pilgrims starts to arrive. We meet a couple from Colorado and a group of young guys who are from the U.S. but studying to become priests in Rome. These future priests are obviously walking the Camino during a school break for religious purposes, and they lighten my mood as they joke around with each other as only early 20-something guys can do. One of them is sick and has been throwing up along the trail all day.

  His friends have just ordered food and are doing their best to make sure that the aromas reach their friend who is turning green. He looks terrible. “Mmmmmm fish stew,” his friend jokes. Another friend makes fake gagging noises while laughing.

  Amy offers him some charcoal pills. She has been carrying them just in case one of us gets sick but offers them to the young man. His name is Cole. He explains that they stayed in a monastery a couple of days ago, and the sisters who lived there made them a soup that has been causing stomach issues ever since, most likely a result of food poisoning. Amy explains that charcoal is extremely absorbent, and if he has food poisoning, the charcoal will absorb the bad stuff in his belly. At least in theory. He will most likely puke it all up again but the point is to get it all out of his system. Suspiciously, he obliges and says, “Bottoms up!” while downing the pill. His friends laugh with delight.

  “Why are you guys out here?” I ask Cole.

  “We are looking for God,” he replies. “I want him to tell me how he can use me best in this world.”

  I guess I am not the only one looking for purpose out here.

  The taxi finally comes for us, and I feel a wave of embarrassment. The moment is, in a word, ironic. I think about the teachers I judged for taking buses every other day. I think of the artist from California who invited us to share a taxi with her to the next town. I have judged all of them as my ego snugly put itself in a “better than you” category. I was supposed to be the “real” pilgrim. We step inside the taxi and are whisked away.

  When we arrive in the next town, we have some more time to kill before the train arrives to take us to León. Amy and I sit down for a café con leche, and I am visibly enraged and shaken.

  As usual Amy, my psychologist wife, is some sort of wise angel sent to talk the inner idiot out of me and bring me back to reality. She asks me some great questions, “Did we come here to walk the Camino for athletic reasons?”

  I reply with my usual frown, “No. Not exactly.”

  She continues, “Is this some sort of race that states you must walk every step to truly be a pilgrim?”

  “I guess not,” I reply.

  “Is every person’s Camino the same?" her questions keep coming. “Are we in Spain and don’t you love Spain?”

  I take a moment to look around and try to remind myself of the situation. A busy waiter runs between tables taking orders as locals are doing what they do best in Spain, enjoying life. An outdoor European café in the warm June summer air. What could be better?

  “What is so bad about resting and continuing at a slower pace?” she asks. “You need to get over it.”

  I start to calm down.

  “Ok. You got me. You have a point,” I say taking a deep breath.

  In the middle of our conversation, a man walks up to our table off the street and drops a bag in front of us. I see inside big red ripe cherries. They are from his tree, and he makes us both take a handful. I try to give him some euros. “No no no! Eat! Strength for you to arrive to Santiago, peregrino,” he protests. His treat.

  My mood starts to improve. I glance at a quote in our guidebook, which is exactly what I need to hear: “Here inside of me is a force that makes its own weather, winning through the thickest clouds to the shining sun.” —John Brierley

  I decide to make my own weather and enjoy the adventure. Even if it is not the adventure I thought I was supposed to be having. We hobble over to the saddest train station in the world to catch our train, and it feels incredibly weird! The parking lot is cracked and filled with weeds. The station itself, yellow paint peeling from its walls, is locked. We are the only humans in sight. We are surrounded by fields and abandoned buildings. The buildings are half complete from Spain’s construction boom days, no doubt foiled by the economic crash of 2008.1 Someone’s ambitions crumbling into a weathered heap of concrete and steel.

  Apart from the taxi we just took, we have not been in anything motorized for 17 days, and it feels unnatural waiting for a train. We snap a quick picture to commemorate the occasion, and I grab my Camino shell, rubbing my fingers over the grooves leading to the base. “There are
many ways to Santiago,” I repeat to myself. That is a mantra I can’t forget.

  The train finally comes, and 32 minutes later we arrive in León. Amy and I look at each other with amusement when we arrive. That would have taken us two days to walk! Hopefully the next few days bring some much-needed recovery to my injured body. This will determine the final leg of our journey, and I want to finish it on foot. There could be worse places to be stranded as well. León is supposed to be an amazing and beautiful city.

  Recovery

  Trail Days 19—20

  Upon arriving by train, we spend the afternoon and evening in León simply staying off of our feet. Glorious. We have opted for a hotel since most albergues on the Camino de Santiago require you to leave after one night. We have discovered a new problem as well. Amy has a fresh set of brand new bed bug bites. As an easy solution, we chuck her sleeping bag in a dumpster before checking into the hotel. We have rarely needed it due to the heat this time of year in Spain, and it won’t be missed. She repeats the heated washing process on her clothes, washing them with care in the sink and drying her clothes with a hair dryer in our room. She then sprays the inside of her bag with the powerful bug spray.

  We sleep well. In the morning, we decide to hobble into the city center to see what this city is all about. My frustration from yesterday is turning into peace with our decision. I am trying to focus on the quote from our guidebook about making your own weather. I make a decision to let go of the disappointment and embrace the adventure. León proves to be a beautiful city.

  This is my first time back since living in Spain, and dammit, I am going to enjoy every second no matter what my body is doing. We gingerly stroll through the cobblestone streets, past Roman remains, ancient city walls and bustling cafés as the signature Spanish legs of jamón hang above patrons’ heads. We make our way to the cathedral in the city center. It’s a spectacular structure, towering hundreds of feet above our heads almost sparkling in the midday sun. Pilgrims mix with locals and tourists alike as we all stare up at this giant work of art, mouths half open.

  We choose a café and sit al fresco in front of the cathedral in the center of town. I am making an effort to eat what Google tells me is good for repairing injuries and order a fresh squeezed orange juice (Vitamin C is supposed to help repair your body), and we simply sit, enjoying one of the greatest spectator sports in the world, a busy plaza mayor in Spain. Like flies on a wall, we observe weary pilgrims entering the square sitting down and staring up. A pilgrim enters the square riding a horse and his panting dog follows. Tourists treat him almost as a celebrity asking for his picture, some lying down on the ground trying to get an artsy shot attempting to catch the cathedral in the background. A man selling giant balloons slowly circles the crowd every now and then, handing a bright balloon to an excited child. I overhear some American study abroad students who are sitting nearby, sketching the cathedral for an art class.

  All of a sudden, we see Tom emerging from the crowd! This is the man we met many days ago in Grañon who is walking in memory of his recently deceased daughter. He pulls up a chair, and we share a relaxing hour together. I really like this man, and we talk about the journey so far, our injuries, and how everything is going. I can tell his deep-seated pain still hangs around him like a ghost, barely visible but there. After a while, it is time for him to move on, and we say our goodbyes. As it turns out, we will never see Tom again. “Buen Camino,” I say with sincerity as he walks away. I love these random meetings with pilgrims. There’s no pressure to make conversation, and we are free to live completely in the moment, just enjoying the company and then moving on.

  Amy and I decide to make sure our tour of the city is very brief because I am supposed to be resting, and every step counts. Before we head back to the hotel, we feast on some delicious Spanish fare. Lentil soup, salmon, and stuffed red peppers baked with Manchego cheese. Between courses, we savor big green olives, roasted almonds, and Jamón Ibérico. The dark red cured thin cut slices of meat holding the complex nutty flavor I have grown to adore. Iberian ham is about as free range as you can get and comes from the black hoof pigs that are allowed to roam in oak groves to feed on herbs, acorns, and grass. All of these combining into a cured meat that has a flavor all its own. Oh, how I love Spanish food!

  Between bites, we map out the rest of our adventure. Tomorrow we will take a bus far enough to allow ourselves to finish the Camino by walking fewer kilometers per day. Instead of 25 to 30 kilometer days, we will plan for an average of 18 kilometers per day to finish as we walk through Galicia. This seems like a good plan as Galicia is supposed to be beautiful. Of the three sections of the Camino de Santiago, physical, mental, and spiritual, Galicia is the spiritual leg of this journey. It seems appropriate that we slow down for the last leg.

  We will be missing out on essentially four recommended walking days or stages of the Camino de Santiago. We will be seeing those stages by bus. A total of 132.2 kilometers, or about 82 miles. I don’t mind missing the outskirts of León, as we have heard they are very ugly, but a ping of regret and resentment again surfaces. I grab my Camino shell yet again as a bit of comfort, rubbing my fingers over the grooves. I am focusing on 82 miles out of 500, letting them make me bitter and angry. Isn’t that how life is? Instead of cultivating gratitude for what we have accomplished, allowing it to grow within us, we focus on the few bad seeds in life. Allowing them to cast a shadow far greater than the actual problem.

  My anger shifts its focus to life back home. Many pilgrims out here don’t have a set day they must finish by. If they need to rest, they do it. They are simply walking, as carefree as the wind, taking as many days as they need to finish. I, on the other hand, have a flight to catch and only 30 days before I will be whisked away to a job I must get back for. It is hard to take a full month off work, and my vacation is unpaid. I feel like a caged creature who has been let out into the wild to roam, exploring with the pent up thirst for a more natural habitat. All the while realizing it is temporary, trying to squeeze every last drop out of my freedom, before the inevitable return to the cage. The cubicle.

  After strategizing and our midday feast, we head to our room to sit and rest. We binge on television news, catching up on what has happened in the world over the past few weeks. After a good night’s sleep I wake up feeling refreshed. I do a body scan to see how rest has affected my body. I am happy to see the swelling is going down in my heel, but mentally I am still terrified that any step could cause a snap of my Achilles. My knee swelling has gone down as well. We catch our bus and head to Villafranca del Bierzo. I stare out of the window at the pilgrims we speed past. Trying not to let myself think about what should have been. We are not the only pilgrims on this bus.

  “How ya doin?” I ask Amy.

  “I’m great!” she replies. “And side note. I think if St. James himself had the option to take an ALSA bus for part of this walk, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a second. Especially if he had holy anointed Achilles tendinitis!”

  After a few hours, we find ourselves in a green and lush countryside that I don’t recognize as Spain. It looks more like Scotland. We find an albergue that the guidebook says has a reputation for bed bugs. But I don’t want to walk anymore than I have to, so we check in anyway. We have already had a bout with these creatures, and I guess my fear is gone. The bites are not any more annoying than a mosquito bite, so we will live if they get us again.

  As we settle into our new accommodations, I look around and do not recognize any of the pilgrims staying here. We have left our group far behind. I feel like the new kid in school as we keep to ourselves in the corner. The solitude doesn’t last for long, though, as a group dinner with pilgrims brings yet another incredible night and opportunity to make new friends.

  We sit at a large long wooden table in the large dining room, which fits in with this medieval looking town. The conversation is rich, and as we dine on local veggies, wine, and homemade olives from the hospitalero’s olive trees, we lear
n about this albergue and its storied past. The hospitalero, an older Spanish man in his late 70s dressed in a bright yellow shirt and suspenders, tells us the story of his albergue. He is filled with pride at his life’s work.

  He and his brother built this place 18 years ago, stone by stone. Even some of the stones in the walls come from exotic international locations. “We wanted the soul of the Camino de Santiago reflected in the building,” he passionately explains. “This albergue is a vehicle for peace. It took us four years to finish it. During construction, we asked our friends to bring us stones from all over Spain and from all over the world. They would usually bring one stone, so it took a long time! I have touched almost every stone in those walls, and everything you see I built with my hands. Do you see that one there?” He points to a small rounded rock in the wall near the floor.

  Our eyes follow his extended finger.

  “That one is from Portugal,” he points to another. “That one up there in the corner. The white one. That one is from Germany.”

  All of our eyes are examining the walls, completely engrossed in the story. There are pictures on the stone walls from the man’s youth, and dark wooden exposed beams cross the ceiling high over our heads. A dusty Brazilian flag hangs from under one of the windows. Next to that a plastic leg of Jamón hangs from a wooden pole embedded in the wall. On another window seal rests two golden plastic maneki-neko cats from Japan.

  “The food is really good,” I say, complimenting the chef. “How do you make the olives?”

  “Well my trees make them,” he laughs. “It is pretty simple. Just pick them, put them in salt water and leave them for a few months.”

  “Did you make this wine, too?” I ask.