Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (10 page)

We
barely speak as we make our way outside of the city. The sun slowly
peeks its head above the horizon, and the morning cold starts to fade
away. We climb hills filled with miles and miles of vineyards as far
as the eye can see. The signature red clay of this region shines
bright under the old vines, which produce the region
’
s
wines. It is a spectacular view. A spectacular sunrise.

I
decide on no mantra for the day. No phrase to focus on. I am just
trying not to think as I am starting to drive myself a little crazy.
I am again looking for a bright flashing sign with the lesson I am
supposed to take away from this trip and trying to think about my
purpose. I have never been focused on a life plan or had a steady
career path, and it has always been a sour spot in life. Always that
thorn in my side. I have a college degree, and I like the jobs that I
have had—some I have even loved—but over time, that has faded
into boredom. Either that, or I ruin everything by worrying about
what might be next.

Maybe
this is a side effect of the incessant travel bug I can never shake
and my constant search for something new and exciting. Amy is lucky.
She has been passionate about her job as a school psychologist up to
this point and has always had that clear direction. On top of that,
she has plans to get her yoga teacher certification when we return.
Two passions for her, not even one for me.

Today,
the neon sign doesn
’
t
come for me. We continue to see familiar faces now and again as we
walk and take breaks for food, water, and coffee. But for the most
part we are alone as we trudge along through the beautiful sea of
vines. I express to Amy my all too familiar frustration and as
always, she guides me to a new line of thinking. She begins to ask me
a series of questions.

“
What
are you feeling right now?
”
she asks.

“
Anxiety.
Fear. Frustration,
”
I
reply.

“
Why?
”
she asks.

“
Because
I have spent 10 years trying to figure out what my passion is in life
and what I should be doing for a career, and here I am still without
an answer,” I say. Two pilgrims on their bikes whiz past us on the
trail. The psychological line of questioning continues.

“
Many
people spend their lives trying to find that perfect job. I want to
know
why
it matters so much to you. Why does it give you so much anxiety and
that feeling of restlessness?
”
Amy pushes.

I
think about this for a while limping forward and tightly clutching
Dolores.
“
Because
I guess
…
I
guess I want to matter. I want my life to have mattered.”
I
fight back tears as we walk.

Amy
continues to pry,
“
So
your life doesn
’
t
matter now? Because you don
’
t
have a flashy career? Because you don
’
t
make huge sums of money?
”
She
drives home her point and lets me think about it before continuing. I
let it sink in.

“
I
know. I know. I just want to do something special. Something
meaningful. Like you. Like so many of our friends,” I say.

“
Don
’
t
you think it is funny how you want to be so different from everyone?
So special. But at the same time you want to be just like everyone
else,” she wisely replies.
“
Now
what can you do about it? What
are
actions you can take to get to a place you want to be? Or at least
find peace with where you are now.
”
That
is a fantastic question. One I don
’
t
have the answer to just yet. My mind takes me into my past, looking
for the answer.

It
is 1999. I am a junior in high school. My nickname on the baseball
team is
brown eye
. I was born with a dark brown birthmark, the
size of a dime, directly under my right eye. Every time I meet
someone new they ask me the same question, “What happened to your
eye?” I normally make a joke along the lines of,
You should have
seen the other guy
, but I have become obsessed with this one
physical feature. I want it gone. It definitely does not help me feel
normal.

By
college, the birthmark is the only thing I can see when I look in the
mirror. Well-meaning friends and family tell me that it is unique. It
makes me who I am. I think it looks like a permanent black eye and
will ensure I will die alone with 10 cats. I desperately want to look
like everybody else. Eventually I go through a series of expensive
laser treatments to have it removed. With each treatment a metal
contact lens is shoved into my eye to protect it from the laser. Then
the skin is blasted with an intense beam. This is the easy part. For
weeks after the treatment, my eye is red, puffy, and oozing blood. I
avoid people at all costs until a blister forms and falls off leaving
the birthmark a few shades lighter than before. This takes years, and
costs thousands of dollars. It works, and I feel normal. No one asks
me what happened to my eye anymore. My confidence grows.

We
come to a high point with sweeping views of Logro
ñ
o
behind us and a busy highway below. I notice woven into the chain
link fence beside the trail are hundreds upon hundreds of tiny
crosses that pilgrims have weaved into the twisted wires of the
fence. They use string, twigs, plastic, weeds, or anything that can
be used as a makeshift cross.

The
pilgrim
’
s
office in Santiago keeps detailed statistics every year about the
Camino de Santiago. When you get to the office to claim your
compostela, they will ask you to check one of three boxes that
defines your reason for walking to Santiago. In 2013, 39.97% of the
pilgrims who walked the Camino de Santiago did so for “religious
purposes.” Like me, 54.56% took on the challenge for “spiritual,
cultural or other reasons.” Only 5.47% checked the box for “no
religious motivation.”
¹
The tiny crosses left here by the “religious purposes”
group
go on for a mile or so entwined into the long fence. An incredible
sight.

The
pain in my left knee is still a constant companion and starts to
swell again as the hours pass. I know they mean well, but I start
resenting every person who passes me, young and old, asking if I am
going to be alright and then giving me their opinion about how
unlikely it is I will be able to finish. I am still focused on one
step at a time as we slowly close in on a colossal 30-kilometer day.
The last hour of every day is always the hardest, and we finally make
it to Nájera for the night. We again decide to splurge on a private
room.

Nájera
is a small historic pilgrim town. With a population of about 7,000,
it has a long history with the Camino de Santiago.
²
Cathedrals in town contain pilgrim works of art, and Roman artifacts
can be found in the local museum. Like many towns on the Camino de
Santiago, pilgrims provide a huge boost to the local economy.
Sometimes the only source of income and the main industry in town.
Unfortunately, every single step counts, so I will be seeing none of
the artifacts here. If it is not directly on the path, we will miss
it. We are on a budget, too, and have to watch our extra spending
money. So far we have spent about 35 euros per person per day, which
is starting to add up. A bed at an albergue normally costs about 9
euros per person. A private room costs about 20 euros per person.
Food has been about 22 euros per person each day. Our budget is 1,000
euros per person for the entire trip, which works out to roughly 33
euros a day.

After
sitting through dinner, my body clenches up around itself, and when I
try to move again it creaks and aches and screams, “NO!” We shall
see how far we get tomorrow. I had no idea how physically challenging
the Camino de Santiago was going to be.

Trail
Days 9—10

The
day begins with the ninth sunrise seen in nine days. Little did I
know what amazing things today would hold. The Camino de Santiago is
full of surprises. Soon the orange rays of the sun peek above the
hills, and the Way is illuminated. The soreness of yesterday
’
s
walk gingerly melts into today
’
s
new and fresh
pain.

Slowly
the miles of vineyards get left behind and turn into fields of sea
green wheat spotted with bright orange and red poppies. My stomach
growls. Time for breakfast. We stop at a bar and sit with other
pilgrims who are hungrily scarfing down
tortilla
espa
ñ
ola,
or
Spanish
potato omelette, fresh squeezed orange juice and café con leche. I
spot our new friend Pepe from Tarragona who pulls up a chair at our
table.

I
am beginning to grow quite fond of Pepe, and today he tells us
about
the
castells
from
his region within Catalonia
,
Spain. He whips out his camera and shows us pictures of these human
towers that are built during festivals in his hometown. Pepe is such
a kind soul, and I love how proud he is of his culture.

“
Did
you meet your future wife yet?” I ask jokingly, recalling our
conversation from a few days ago.

“
Not
yet!” he replies. “Not yet.”

The
day passes, and I am starting to feel like I am physically improving.
The knee pain is tolerable even though it seems a new part of my body
hurts every day. The limbs take turns, and today my right Achilles
’
heel
begins to ache. We make it to our destination for the day, Gra
ñ
on,
without further issues.

This
sleepy little village exists because of the Camino de Santiago. We
enter the town, passing some pilgrims with a donkey carrying their
packs and decide to stay in a
donativo
.
Simply meaning, you donate what you can afford for the night. There
is no set price.

The
donativo is part of The Church of Saint John the Baptist, which
has
an albergue attached. We make our way through an old door marked only
with a brass Camino shell knocker. Immediately this place has a great
sense of history as we head up an old stone stairway
.
It feels as if we have entered a castle, and we are greeted by a
friendly hospitalero as we take off our shoes and survey the room.

It
appears that we will be sleeping on the floor tonight as we are given
two thin brown
mats
and,
imitating those already there, we pick a spot in the corner to make
our beds. I know I won
’
t
be sleeping much tonight. We are informed that there is a pilgrim
’
s
mass being held in the adjacent church and decide to check it out. I
am not Catholic but am open to the spirituality of the experience,
and we limp into an empty pew. An opportunity for silence. A time for
thought.