Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (16 page)

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 t
o
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 ter
rain,
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 from 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.