by Kurt Koontz
I had been walking alone for several hours and needed some coffee. When I came upon a village, my mendicant companions Martin and Kimberli were soaking up the sun at one of two tables outside the bar. We shared a group hug and reminisced about the previous 24 hours. Knowing they were low on funds, I disappeared into the bar and emerged with chorizo bocadillos and café con leche for three. They made a feeble attempt to refuse before devouring the food.
After my late afternoon meal and social event, I resumed my walk alone again. Thoughts rolled freely in and out of my head. I retained a few while others recycled into the vast emptiness. This “non-thinking,” as I now call it, became one of the great benefits of this trip. Afterward, many people asked, “what did you think about?” or “was it great to be able to think so much?” However, as in meditation, the real insights of the walk arose from all the time spent letting thoughts flow by without focus or judgment. That is when the answers and questions appeared from within.
Toward the end of my first day on the flat grounds, the blue sky turned gray and the wind began to howl. Little did I know that this would remain constant for the next five days. Were it not for the chinstrap, my Tilley hat would surely have accompanied Dorothy on the yellow brick road. Given a choice, I wouldn’t have selected this weather feature. But since I am not in control of anything, I embraced the wind and made the best of a blustery week. The high-speed winds created a very unique movie of rapidly shifting clouds.
Here my dependence on Duran began to worry me. I was becoming as attached to my walking stick as Tom Hanks was to his Wilson ball in the movie Castaway. From my point of view, our constant companionship was developing into a deep friendship. The stick was the silent type but surely had similar feelings.
I arrived at the albergue in Hornillos del Camino around three o’clock. At 3:01, the sky let loose and the rain poured nonstop for hours. It was the kind of rain that starts by quickly changing the color of the cobblestones, then turns into a small creek, and finally acts as a pond to be pummeled by more raindrops. It was not a rain to walk in.
All of the beds were taken in the town of 100 inhabitants. A small note on the albergue door read “More beds available, back at 5:00.” With an ounce of hope, I joined a small group of pilgrims hoping for a night’s shelter.
As the clock ticked, more and more people showed up to wait in the small hostel kitchen. Given the Noah’s Ark atmosphere, each new arrival was a bit moister than his or her predecessor. The final person to arrive dripped water all over the floor and probably had water in his rain-protected backpack. Sometime around 5:30, the hospitalera showed up with the good news. She led the entire group about 20 yards to a large gymnasium.
One by one, we registered and received a blanket and pillow. In one large open room, 30 cots lined the edges of a rust-colored concrete floor. The mattresses were well worn and comfortable. The sound of the thousands of raindrops pelting the ceiling reverberated throughout the cavernous room. We all began the ritualistic process of unpacking, doing laundry, showering, and getting ready for dinner.
Day 11
Anniversary
I began my eleventh day of walking early in the cold morning. The rain from the previous night had vanished and left a moist scent in the frozen air. The stars glowed in the sky as I took my first steps.
I spent a good portion of the day walking with Sandra from Amsterdam. We talked about life and a relationship problem she was experiencing with her boyfriend. Her troubles were not uncommon, with shades of alcohol addiction, threats of physical abuse, and infidelity. I almost laughed when she told me of her need to spend a month in Spain to make a decision about this relationship. Physical threats? Infidelity? The choice seemed obvious to me. Still, I removed my hat of judgment and listened, with the purpose of giving her an outlet to drain her feelings. I am quite sure she knew the answer prior to entering the country but still needed affirmation to cement her decision.
While listening to her relationship woes, I thought of my own uncertainties about Roberta. Was I doing the same thing? Did I already know the answer but needed the time and distance to affirm it?
Walking on the Camino, Sandra and I watched for a village where we could find food and coffee. On most days, the villages, with a church in the center, were very easy to spot. However, on the flat Meseta, the villages are built into the few low areas along the plains. The first thing seen is still the nest-covered belfry, but there is little to no advance vision of the destination. Coming upon a village is like finding a hidden oasis in a desert depression.
After lunch, I parted ways with Sandra and continued my journey toward a city named Castrojeriz. A tremendously large and decaying structure loomed on a mountain above the city. The Visigoths originally built the fortified castle, which was later occupied by the Romans, Moors, and Christians. The area witnessed many battles, with the Christians becoming the final victors around the tenth century. It made me proud that a route built for conquering and stealing from enemies had transformed into a path for spiritual growth and international friendships.
I spent the second half of the day listening to my MP3 player. Not only did I enjoy the music, but it created a nice barrier to the relentless wind.
For an hour or two each day, a switch flipped in my head, indicating a need for tunes, usually at the most opportune time. For the entire trip, the first song of the day always seemed to be perfect for the moment. I never searched for a specific song, but did pass a few that did not jibe with my moods.
Often I would listen to the same song three or four times in a row. With a clear head and intense subconscious focus, I could hear fresh notes and extract new messages from the lyrics. My favorite lyric on this day came from U2’s Walk On: “All the baggage you can bring is all that you can’t leave behind.”
Each step carried me a bit further from the things I had left behind in my life. I walked away from a steady income, away from alcohol, away from co-dependency, and away from materialism. I was walking toward a simpler, less demanding, and more humane lifestyle.
Another tiny village named Itero de la Vega served as my final stop for the day. The albergue had a 6-Euro or 10-Euro option. I bucked up and found myself in a room with five beds on the floor (yippee…no bunks), sheets, blankets, and a shared bathroom. While this may not seem like much, it was sheer happiness. My roommates were all from France and our only ability to communicate was non-verbal. I did my laundry in a sink outside the room and firmly attached my clothes to the line. Normally, there is a risk that the clothes would not dry before nightfall. On this day, my fear was that they would blow off the line and fly to the moon. The wind dried them in record time.
While enjoying a warm drink in the village, I met a woman from Germany. Pilgrims frequently share stories of joy and adversity. Many are heartfelt and deal with deep emotions or physical struggles. I was a bit taken aback to hear that her biggest problem was not being able to buy stuff along the way. Her limitation was not financial; instead, the weight and bulk of items prevented the desired acquisitions. She dreamt of her arrival in Santiago so she could rack up some points on her credit cards. I thought it rather odd because most of us felt liberated to be living with few material possessions and looked forward to purging items upon our return home. It was a challenge, again, to suppress my judgment.
Letting go of judgment has been a lifelong, difficult endeavor for me. The Camino amplified my ability to discard this undesirable characteristic. At the albergue, holding onto judgment about the group sleeping arrangements would prevent me from a good night’s rest. Judgment of people would sabotage many friendships at the launch pad. As I walked, self-judgment was a load I did not want to carry. I especially wanted to avoid judgments about my relationship with Roberta.
Today was the 24th of the month, almost four years after our first amazing kiss. We celebrated that kiss on the 24th day of each and every month. We exchanged cards, delivered flo
wers, ate chocolate-covered cherry caramels from our favorite chocolate bar, sent flirty e-mails and naughty texts, had sexy dinners at romantic restaurants, and made passionate love. We missed a few due to travel or a nuclear feud, but for the most part, the 24th of each and every month was a special day to affirm our love.
Prior to leaving town for this trip, I had given Roberta a card with instructions not to open until the 24th. Inside, I had written about my hope that we could get our relationship plane leveled out with intent to continue the ascent. I had waited 44 years to meet this person and still felt she was well worth the long wait!
At the bar, I popped a few coins into the Internet terminal. My heart lifted when I saw a new e-mail from Roberta. Her one-sentence message gave me hope and doubt at the same time. “Happy Anniversary,” it read. “I love you.” It was good to read those words. But the terseness of her note disappointed me. It seemed to brush my card aside, pretending that nothing was wrong. I felt we were at a critical point. Even from this distance––or especially from this distance and experience––I wanted to share my life, her life, our lives together.
Day 12
Flowers
I silently slipped out of my sleeping quarters and began walking in the dark. The sunrise displayed a perfect mixture of blue, orange, yellow, and red. Hundreds of windmills rotated on the edge of the endless flat horizon.
After about six kilometers, I ran into Lairs, my dinner mate from the night before. We were both rather hungry and found a nice albergue serving breakfast. When we passed through the gate to the courtyard, I knew immediately that this was a special place. Orange lantanas and blue asters bloomed under large metal sculptures decorating the immaculate grounds.
We walked through the front door, and a smiling man named Eduardo quickly greeted us. His black beanie barely contained his dreadlocked hair. He ushered us into a dining room and commented that he knew exactly what we needed for breakfast. Very quickly, he arrived with a full pot of hot and fresh coffee, mounds of toast, jams, butter, and two large glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Soaking in the heat, nourishing our bodies, and enjoying the moment could not have come with better company.
Lairs had just retired and was using this trip as his bridge to a life without work. He was calm but almost giddy with his enthusiasm about visiting a specific church on this day. He was not religious but had read about a very old and plain church. He felt that because it was not gaudy, most pilgrims would avoid the facility, leaving him time to enjoy an hour or two of quiet time. On the way out, Lairs took a memorable photo of me with our gracious host.
With the exception of the people, the villages began to blur. The four major cities on the Camino had populations exceeding 175,000. Outside of these major cities, village populations ranged between 100 and 3,000 people and were more often on the small side. Most days took me through three to five towns. From afar, they appeared to be identical, with decaying, earth-colored buildings surrounding a huge, central church. Up close, the villages were very quiet. I very rarely saw children. Occasionally, I saw an older person strolling down the empty streets. In many villages, the only business was a bar, which also served as the café. With luck, there might be a little store.
In the afternoons, however, even those businesses would be closed. Siesta is a serious matter with complete shutdowns of bars and stores beginning around one or two in the afternoon and never ending before five.
The silence was often mystical and overwhelming. Beauty resided in every crack and corner of the crumbling buildings that line the Camino. Many were painted in beautiful pastel colors. Brilliantly colored flowers spilled out of pots by doorways and on balconies. Each village became an art gallery, and my camera could not stop taking pictures.
I passed a cemetery but saw no flowers. Weeds grew among the graves.
The wind had picked up and was in howling mode throughout the day. The brim of my hat flapped constantly. In addition to music, I appreciated listening to the wind. It created an interesting melody. At times I could actually lean into the gusts and had to aim my walking stick to avoid tripping over my trusted friend.
The sunflowers were magnificent. If you ever wonder how little bags of black seeds make it to the mini-mart or how jugs of sunflower oil arrive at your local grocer, I have the answer. These spectacular flowers are everywhere on the Camino. I cannot remember a single day without passing many large tracts of these beauties. Many fields were dark, dry, and ready for harvest. Others displayed long, green, leafy stems with vibrant yellow flowers. All of the plants were very stiff with faces pointing toward the ground.
During this blustery day, I passed a field that performed a most enjoyable and entertaining dance for me. Without any rhythm or synchronization, the sunflowers randomly swayed and bobbed in the wind. The exposed faces appeared to be glimpsing up at me before returning their downward focus. I was grateful again for my newfound Camino awareness. With a cluttered mind, I easily could have missed the entire scene.
Raindrops threatened, so I took the precaution of covering my pack with the rain cover. About an hour later, I took a break and needed to get something out of the bag. When I removed the cover, I discovered my scallop shell was no longer hanging from the exterior of my pack. This was a priceless gift from Peter that I did not want to lose. Fortunately, I found it caught up in my rain cover. Had I not added this layer of protection, the shell would surely be lying on the trail. Like so many things in life, it is nice to recover something special that was almost lost.
We all can become complacent and take things and people for granted. I thought of Roberta and hoped that I hadn’t begun to take her for granted in recent years. I didn’t want her to slip into the lost category.
On this twelfth day of walking, I had taken roughly half a million steps and found myself in the gorgeous city of Carrión. With my never-ending Camino luck still in effect, a light rain began to fall just at the edge of the city. With a desire for some sound sleep and privacy, I elected to stay at another hotel on this night. I found a suitable spot at a cost of 35 Euros. When I entered the room, the rain began to drizzle. After unpacking, I opened the door to see a downpour pelting the quaint courtyard.
When the rain eased enough to become tolerable, I took to the streets to shop for a poncho and find a bar with Internet. It did not take long to accomplish all my tasks. Later in the evening I enjoyed a vegetarian pizza at a local restaurant. I made an early exit to take advantage of my peaceful, private sleeping chambers.
Day 13
Chilly
Day 13 began early on a cool morning. One of my first thoughts was about all the friends I had met along the trail and how many times I was forced to say goodbye. These endings were very difficult but became a frequent reality on the Camino. On my path of life, I am hoping to learn from and practice this lesson. All relationships on the Way, as all relationships in our mortal lives, come to a natural or an unnatural end. Although I may feel regret or loss, my new attitude is to view the time together as a cherished moment in my life instead of tormenting myself with the reality of the inevitable ending.
As I mused on these thoughts the night ended, and watching the earth’s colors change with the sunrise brought me immense happiness. The cold morning began to warm. It suddenly dawned on me that there was only one person ahead of me, Eugina, who I knew as a Camino friend.
Veterans tell me the manner in which a pilgrim walks the Camino has a tendency to mirror that person’s life. Reflecting on that observation, I recognized my lifelong habit of pushing ahead early and reaping the rewards at a later time. In college, my final semester courses consisted of golf, horseback riding, and a sociology 101 class on Marriage and Family. I plowed through my business career, always trying to get ahead, and retired at a young age. I tried to justify walking more kilometers than my peers based on the length of my legs, but the real pattern began long before my arrival in Spain. The rewards were
a new flock of friends each day. I learned the trip was not about arriving. It was about living.
With the rays of the sun providing some much-needed heat, the deep bass from a live version of Joe Jackson’s Fools in Love soon lulled me into a trance. I found myself staring at the rolling clouds. The wind was still blowing hard and the sky was in a constant state of change. It took me a while to recognize the abnormality in this scene. Because the Meseta is so flat, the clouds hovered just above the ground. It was like being in a plane and looking out the window the instant before breaking through the cloud cover. With a good heave of my stick, I actually felt like they could have been penetrated.
After walking about 32 kilometers, I found myself near a tiny town looking at the beautiful Albergue Lagarnes. A lone blond-haired woman sat at a bright red table with her feet resting on a matching chair, enjoying a glass of white wine. Eugina was back in my life.
The facility had a wonderful feel, and I was very tempted to call it a day and spend time with her. Unfortunately, it would have made the next day’s walk unbearably long. We did chat for about an hour, and I resumed my walk toward Sahagún.
Throughout the day, my mind was pretty much on autopilot. Thoughts seemed to exit my head as quickly as they entered. It was pleasant to be able to spend an entire day without any retention. Just a free-flowing thought day––until about one kilometer before reaching the end of the day, when a revelation stopped me in my tracks.
I began to think about my days in college and how many drunken nights I had wasted being wasted. I did a little accounting and figured that those nights lasted for 24 years! I realized that my adult life really began on the day my dad died and I made a commitment to sobriety. I thought about my dad and how he had missed a big opportunity to regain his life on Jan 18, 1964, the day his alcoholic dad died and I was born.
