Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (17 page)

We
sit down to dinner, and I am steaming. It feels like another failure
to add to my list. My thoughts of being average are only emphasized
by this new event. My head tells me, “You can
’
t
even
walk
across a country.” The food comes, and not even a
particularly flavorful gazpacho can lighten my mood.

I
am sitting with Janice, the doctor now acupuncturist from Texas, and
her daughter whom we met a few days ago. They are doing their
best
to cheer me up. They remind me of the Camino shell,
“
Everyone
has their own path to Santiago. We have already taken one bus! It
’
s
no big deal!
”
I
am trying to stay positive and learn from this.

“
You
know you are the one putting all this pressure on yourself,” Amy
chimes in. “No one else on planet Earth really cares if you take a
few days to rest and then continue on. If you take a break and cover
some of the trail by train it doesn
’
t
mean you have not finished the Camino de Santiago.”

Our
new plan is to take a train tomorrow to Le
ó
n
and rest for one full day after that, in hopes that we can then
finish the rest of the Camino on foot. Thankfully, Amy
’
s
usual positive outlook on things is helping a little. I am so glad to
have her on this journey with me.

Defeated
and depressed, I head upstairs with a bag of ice to rest. Our outlook
is shaky at best. My mind won
’
t
turn off tonight.
Is
this this end? Did we fly all the way
to Spain to fail? Have we failed? What is wrong with me? Why am I so
average?

“
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.

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
w
oke
up late, and our
plan
for the day is to get to Le
ó
n
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-some
thing
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 Le
ó
n.
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. Le
ó
n
is supposed to be an amazing and beautiful city.