by Kurt Koontz
With my never-ending need to take pictures, I snapped many shots of this gorgeous sunrise, including one of my shadow stretching what seemed like 40 yards. Since this walk is predominately east to west, I gained an ability to judge time by looking at my shadow. Like my energy levels, it was always grandest in the early mornings.
Walking alone, I heard random explosions on the outskirts of Najera, a larger town with 7,000 residents. As I entered, a fiesta surrounded me. Teens dressed in camouflage and carrying large boots filled the streets. They were blocking traffic and collecting Euros for some type of fundraising event.
I took a little break to enjoy a warm latte. This was a particularly cool morning. I did not realize how cold it was until I entered a restroom and had trouble unzipping my pants. Many pilgrims will help with just about anything, but I decided to master this one on my own.
Toward the end of the day, I noticed a man walking with one sandal and one boot. When I got closer, I recognized the man by his walking stick and red backpack. My detective friend Peter was suffering from some type of inflammation that made wearing a boot impossible. We sat and chatted for about 10 minutes. His pain was obvious, and I felt bad for him, but there was not a thing I could to do help. We took a few last pictures, and exchanged hugs and e-mail addresses. This was the last time I saw Peter. I later found out that he had an infection caused by shin splints, forcing him to take five days off.
I ended up walking a very long day of 38 kilometers (24 miles). Most days, I got so deep into my head that China Syndrome was a concern. This day was long on the miles but light on the head. By suspending thoughts about yesterday and not anticipating tomorrow, the Camino guided me into the Now. I enjoyed each and every minute. Frequent attacks of smiling were becoming part of each day. I was building quite a streak of great days and began to wonder when or if my luck would run out.
My final stop for the day was a small village with about 300 residents. The hostel in Grañón was attached to the Church of Saint John the Baptist. Unlike my previous albergues, this was a parish facility, owned by a local Catholic diocese.
When I arrived at the church, several people were sitting on old benches in the pristine courtyard by a fountain. The sound of the splashing water provided a serene complement to the voices of the people. To enter the facility, I had to duck under an archway and climb the stone staircase.
At the second floor, a large square by an open window served as the boot resting spot for the night. A few more steps took me past the walking stick and trekking pole depot. The final set of stairs took me to the center of action. This included the dining room, kitchen, shower, toilets, and check-in table.
It had been a long day, and my body enjoyed the reprieve while I sat on a small sofa waiting to be processed into the parish hostel. I took off my shoes and began to give my feet a much-needed massage. A stranger came and sat in a chair by me. I thought she was another pilgrim, but it turned out she was one of four volunteers who ran the operation. As she spoke rapid-fire Spanish, the only word that I could catch was “reflex massage.” It was a fleeting fantasy that quickly exited my head.
She took my passport and some basic information including nationality and point of origin for the Camino. When I asked about the cost, she pointed toward a wooden box with a slot and the Spanish word donacións written in tiny yellow characters. Sensing my confusion, another volunteer, an older man from London, asked if I spoke English. In a patient manner, he explained the procedure for this unique place.
He told me that all 40 beds were full, but their policy was to never turn away any pilgrims. They always provided mats for the excess to sleep in a spare room on the ground floor. Pilgrims were encouraged to show up at 6:00 in the kitchen to help prepare the group dinner. Apparently, the previous night’s donations paid for the current evening’s meal. An optional mass would be held at 7:00 to be followed by a group dinner at 8:00. He took me back down the stairs and opened the auxiliary sleeping room.
An altar backed by a large hand-carved mural stood at the head of the large rectangular room. It felt a bit crowded with about 18 mats but ended up being downright cozy when 25 people finally slept there. The space between the mats did not exceed six inches.
I met a family that left quite an impression on me. Joseph and Tobi were walking the path with their two children, Mateo, seven, and Pasqual, two. The love that flowed within this family was unbelievable. The mother held the little girl in her arms as the father created their homestead on the floor. Mateo was extremely polite and followed his instructions without a whimper.
Another young couple had found Camino love. The young man was from Ohio and his new girlfriend was from Finland. They could not stop touching and smiling at each other. He loaned me his phone to make some calls to the United States. It was my second chance to speak with Roberta and my brother. I tried to give him some Euros, but he refused to accept them.
My brother was very interested in the trip and wanted to know all the details of each day. We had a nice conversation that lasted about five minutes. When I spoke with Roberta, I felt a distance that was much greater than the Atlantic Ocean. I kept hoping she was just having a bad day. After saying goodbye, I watched with longing as Ohio and Finland walked out of the room holding hands.
After my shower, I decided to write in my journal, on one of two large wooden tables in the dining area. The walls were solid stone, with a nice fireplace in the corner. A few windows allowed for a pleasant breeze and some light. I had a chance to speak to the man from London who was a volunteer. He and others had come from all over the world to help make our experience more enjoyable. They provided hospitality, made the beds, scoured the bathrooms, purchased the groceries, and organized meals. While I had met other volunteers along the way, there was something special about the people in Grañón.
For starters, the volunteer from London sensed that Tobi needed a break from her children. He brought Mateo to the table and played a card game with him for at least two hours. His shirt read, “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” It was obvious he enjoyed every minute of his time with Mateo. He acted like there was not another living soul in the world. I would have sworn he was the boy’s grandfather.
This man and boy made me think of my grandparents. My father’s father, also an alcoholic, died on the day I was born. I was very close to my paternal grandmother and was devastated when she died, just seven years after her husband. My mother’s father was an extraordinary man who put himself through medical school at Northwestern by working in the Chicago stockyards. He became the first and only physician in the family. He was always open to new things and actually took up downhill skiing at age 56. For the next 15 years, he took annual trips to Switzerland to perfect this passion on the Matterhorn. His politics were right of right. During our Sunday dinners, a positive comment about Franklin Roosevelt was sure to produce smoke from his ears and possibly an invitation to get the hell out of his house. His wife was a wonderful grandmother and always made time to create fun days and nights when our parents needed a break.
I gazed out the window that overlooked the courtyard and immediately smiled at the sight of Massimo and Mom sitting by the fountain. I was so engrossed with people-watching that I had yet to put a drop of ink on my journal page. I finally delved into writing and was deeply engrossed when I felt a tap on my shoulder. The woman who had checked me into the hostel pointed to my feet and gave me the universal finger movement suggesting massage. She led me to a chair by the fire. With a constant smile, this kind lady rubbed my feet for at least an hour and would not accept any type of compensation for the good deed. Instead, she said, “Help the next person in need.” I was witness to the Chinese proverb: “If you want happiness for an hour, take a nap. If you want happiness for a day, go fishing. If you want happiness for a year, inherit a fortune. If you want happiness for a lifetime, help somebody.”
After the most enjoyable f
oot massage of my entire life, I resumed writing in my journal. Later, I found an Internet terminal at a local bar and sent my daily message to my short list of friends and family. I arrived back at the church as Mass was ending, a few minutes before eight. I was quite hungry and looking forward to a meal. For some reason, the volunteers asked us to gather in front of the church.
A tall Spanish volunteer exclaimed, “We had a problem with our meal, and the local bakery offered their ovens. But they will not release the food unless they hear our communal serenade, so get ready to march and sing.” He handed out one guitar and six trashcan lids with large metal spoons.
With that, 60 strangers from all corners of the planet began singing the chorus of He’s Got the Whole World in his Hands. In unison, we marched down the gray brick road, singing this tune accompanied by spoons smashing into metal.
When we arrived at the bakery, we received additional news about our potential to extract food from their ovens.
One of the volunteers entered the center of the group and pushed his hands outward to form a circle of people. Standing in the middle, he said, “This bakery is hard to please and they require more effort before they release the food.”
“Most people from around the world know American Idol,” he went on. “We are going to play Camino Idol. Without exception, you will all need to participate. Join those from your country, enter the ring, and sing.”
“If the performance is poor,” he added by way of warning, “there will be no food.”
I was one of four Americans who did a stellar rendition of Blowin’ in the Wind. A couple from Korea stole the show. Brazil received an ovation. A solo woman from Greece made people weep with her beautiful notes.
After hearing live performances from 11 countries, the volunteers selected five lucky people to enter the bakery and retrieve our food. Moments later, they returned to the group carrying small trays of dessert and wearing brightly colored wigs, big sunglasses, and humorous hats. With that, we all returned to the dining hall to enjoy a meal.
We sat elbow-to-elbow at two long tables. Prior to eating, one of the volunteers said a prayer. Like everything in Grañón, it was not an ordinary blessing. Instead, we were instructed to bang the table to Queen’s We Will Rock You as he did his Spanish blessing in the form of a rap. I am not kidding.
Our first course was a delightful mixed green salad with large quantities of vegetables. Two kinds of soup, garbanzo bean and lentil, followed the salad. The third course was tuna and boiled eggs. An enjoyable apple tart from our favorite bakery capped off the meal.
After dinner, the volunteers asked each of us to stand up and tell them what we were feeling. After each person answered, a volunteer translated the comments into another popular language.
My turn came more quickly than expected. I stood and followed their directions to speak from the heart.
“Early in the trip, I began to notice that every day provided a moment that literally sent chills down my spine,” I said. “It creates such a nice feeling to know that each day, some unexpected event or sight will cause this pleasant sensation. Well, this entire night has taken this to a new level. From the time we started singing en route to the bakery to this exact moment, the tingles have been a spontaneous and continuous ‘chillgasm.’ Ladies, I may finally understand.”
I heard the French translation without comprehension, but the resulting smiles told me that the message was loud and clear.
One young man spoke about seeing the film The Way, quitting his job, and feeling immense joy to be sitting at the table. Another man told a tale of his desire to have the United Nations function in a manner similar to our night. Another woman spoke of being homesick for many days, but at this moment, felt like her entire family was present in the room. At first, I thought these testimonials might get a little long in the tooth before they were over. After hearing three people speak, I was bummed that there were only 57 more.
When the festivities were complete, I returned to my mat on a hard floor in the cool basement. More people had arrived, so the real estate between each mat had been reduced to inches. Prior to drifting off to sleep, I reminisced about the day. I decided that if the previous 24 hours were my last, I could not be more content.
Day 8
Music and Walking Stick
I began this morning in the dark but used other people’s headlamps to guide me. I followed the tiny lights ahead of me, wandering down the mysterious and curvy trail.
The experiences of the night before had completely thawed me. It was like being part of a glacier for a million years, then falling into the ocean. I had melted into another world. I walked without effort, gliding across the path. Every person I met was pleasant and every song on my MP3 player was divine.
Singing had been part of my life on the Camino even before Grañón. At some point each day, I found myself singing when listening to music. Now I was a singing fool. I pitied the poor pilgrim who, while searching for the meaning of life, came upon this 48-year-old bald American man releasing his inner Beyoncé or Neil Young. Sometimes my walking stick morphed into an air guitar to accompany my blossoming vocals.
My walking stick had become an essential appendage. Walking equipment on the Camino generally fell into three categories––natural sticks (as in found along the trail), commercial sticks, or trekking poles. I became a commercial stick person on day one.
By using my arm and wrist, I could actually plant the stick ahead of my stride and then take four steps before repeating the action. When I was in the groove, it propelled me like an oar in water or a cross-country ski pole through fresh powder. When climbing up hills, it allowed me to use upper body strength to aid the ascents. On the downhill, it provided much-appreciated support for my knees.
And the stick made music of its own. The metal tip struck a distinct loud noise on almost all surfaces. The loud “clack” became another of the unique sounds of the Camino.
My affinity toward my walking stick became a bit of an obsession. I thought about giving it a name but hesitated as my ego told me that only strange people name inanimate objects. Suddenly, while listening to Duran Duran singing Love VooDoo, I suppressed my reservations, abandoned judgment, and named my stick “Duran.”
This was only my eighth day of walking. I was finding intense beauty in everything and could not stop taking pictures. Since leaving the U.S., I had taken over 600 photos and the pace was accelerating. I later sent a sympathetic preview e-mail to my friends advising them to decline any invitation to “photo night” at my house.
I met Harold from Houston and Debra from San Francisco. This friendly father and daughter combination expressed their gratitude to be spending the day on the walk. They reeked of contentment. Deep lines creased Harold’s forehead. I finally mustered the courage to inquire about his age and was astounded to hear the number 82. They were planning to complete all 500 miles over a 60-day period. My first spine chiller of the day.
I passed a large field of sunflowers in full bloom and something caught my eye. In the center of the field, someone had created “sunflower art” by pulling select seeds out to create an image. This particular flower had been transformed into a gigantic smiley face. It was so refreshing I decided to take a foot break and enjoy the view.
The hostel for the night was attached to a very nice hotel in Villamayor. Peacocks rambled around the large courtyard adorned with flower gardens and green grass.
After sending my e-mail update, I met a man lying on a chaise lounge. He stared up into the sky with a look of bewilderment. I plopped down on the next chair and joined him in gazing at a large flock of buzzards surfing the thermals. We must have watched them for at least an hour. We spoke hardly a word during that time. Tom was from Ireland. I joined him and his friend Jimmy for dinner.
Jimmy was originally from Ireland but had been living in South Africa for the past 10 years as a practicing Catho
lic priest. He was on a one-year sabbatical, which allowed him the opportunity to walk the Camino. The evening flew by as I listened to stories about Ireland and his endeavors in South Africa. These two men had met a few days ago and ended up walking the rest of the Camino together. They wove in and out of my life for the remainder of the journey. After the trip was over, I discovered Jimmy and Tom were in two photos before we were acquainted. Both of the shots were from parish group dinners at Villamayor de Monjardín and Grañón.
Their company helped me appreciate the special meaning that the Camino holds for Catholic and other Christian pilgrims. They have a spiritual connection to all those who walked the trail over the centuries for devotion, purification, and penance. Many Christian peregrinos attend a daily mass in towns where it is offered. (Evening mass generally started at seven or eight in the evening and lasted 30 minutes.)
The many beautiful Christian churches and cathedrals along the route attract people of all faiths and beliefs. The physical structures are works of art with intense and intricate craftsmanship. Religious or not, a step inside provides a feeling of serenity. The music of the Camino includes the ringing of church bells, which can be heard and felt well beyond the confines of the villages.
Day 9
Burgos Blister
I was up early, gathering my belongings in a room near my sleeping quarters. Five women in their mid-sixties sat at the table, all looking at me with serious concern. One of them finally broke the awkward silence by making a request of me.
“We have a problem,” she said with great solemnity. “The women’s restroom is without paper. We are wondering if you would do us the kind service of swiping a few rolls from the men’s bathroom?”
