Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (23 page)

We
say our goodbyes after letting the noisy group walk ahead for a while
and pop some euros in her wooden
donativo
box. I am thankful for our chat with this stranger. Our slow pace has
allowed us time to have these unrushed improvisations.

Hours
pass back on the trail. Unfortunately, there are even more giant
school groups crowding the Way, and they are singing. I am in a bad
mood, listening to a group of school kid’s versions of Lady Gaga
and trying my best to focus on learning patience or any kind of
lesson from this. I just want them to go away and be quiet. We work
to find gaps between the school groups and try to walk in these quiet
pockets of solitude. I notice other pilgrims, haggard looking from
weeks on the trail like me, who are doing the same.

“
Stop
being such a grumpy old man!” Amy snaps at me as I glare at yet
another group we let pass.

“
I
can
’
t help it!” I
reply. I decide to stop wanting silence and at least embrace
conversation with other pilgrims. Amy has a point, and I need to
change my mood. She has a habit of doing this.

My
mind wanders back two years in the blink of an eye. I have a hoodie
on in our small apartment in the middle of Granada. It is January,
and as usual, our apartment is freezing because electricity is too
expensive in Spain, and I am too cheap to turn on the heating. It
also happens to be our birthday. Our birthday because Amy and I
happen to have the same birthday.

“
What
is the matter with you?” Amy asks.

“
I
am freaking depressed,” I reply from under a blanket laying in the
dark on the couch in the living room. “I am 30, Amy! 30! I also
found a gray hair! I am dying in front of your eyes!”

“
So
what?” she replies. “When you are 40, you will wish you were 30.
When you are 60, you will wish you were 40, and when you are 120 you
will be dead and won
’
t
have the chance to worry. Here.” She hands me a cupcake. It is from
a particularly amazing bakery in town. “Happy birthday.”

She
always manages to do something special even though I piss and moan
every year. I hate birthdays. For someone who hates to be reminded of
his own mortality, birthdays are the worst. A sick way to remind you
that you have one less year to live on this Earth.

“
Happy
birthday,” I reply. Instantly I am filled with gratitude for her.
My other half. I know that no matter what, she is the best thing that
has ever happened to me. Something that actually matters and if all
else goes to crap it will still be enough.

“
Seriously,
stop being such a drama queen,” Amy snaps me out of my daydream as
the school group has finally passed us on the trail.

We
continue on and throughout the day meet a virtual traveling United
Nations. We meet people from South Korea, Poland, Australia, England,
Ireland, and more. Each person here for a unique reason. I continue
to be pleasantly surprised by what an international experience this
is. You truly are walking with the world. The human experience and
the struggles people come here to work through and walk through have
a very common thread. Money problems, loss, anxiety, relationship
difficulties, religion, life crisis, all answers to the most common
question on the Camino de Santiago,
“Why
are you here?”

When
we finally make it to Portomarín, we sit down to rest at an outdoor
café and order a pitcher of ice cold sangria. As we sit, Tezka from
Slovenia, whom we met a few days ago at the albergue El Beso in the
middle of the woods, pulls up a chair at our table. I love these
random second meetings, and we enjoy a drink and refreshing
conversation. I soak up her words as she seems to be a sort of
spiritual guru who also has been sent here to teach me not to be such
a grumpy old man.

There
is a straggler from one of the school groups outside throwing an
absolute tantrum as her teacher or dad begs her to keep walking. She
refuses, and the battle rages on while everyone pretends not to
stare. They argue in Spanish.

“
Noooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!”
the girl screams at the top of her lungs.

“
Por
favor. Vamos!” the man pleads with her.
Please.
Let
’
s
go!
His
nerves are clearly frayed, and he looks exhausted.

“
No
camino mas!!”
I
am not walking any more!!
She
sits with her arms crossed on the bench outside. Tears are streaming
down her face, which is red with teenage rage.

“
Well.
That is some birth control for ya,” I glance back to Amy and Tezka.

“
No
kids?” Tezka asks.

“
All
of our friends have kids. Some have several already. But for us, not
yet,” Amy replies.

Our
conversation turns to these school groups, and Tezka says she handles
the annoyance by seeing herself in the school kids and
remembering
how she used to be.
“
They
are simply on a different path and part of the Camino of life. If you
see yourself in people it is harder to dislike them,
”
she
says.

“
Gabe
throws fits like that every year for his birthday,” Amy jokes. We
both laugh. She has a point. Living in the moment, Tezka decides not
to stay here for the night so continues on after our drink. Who knows
if we will ever see her again, and we exchange hugs before she walks
off into the afternoon sun.

After
being turned away from several full albergues, we eventually score a
room in a small albergue with only four beds. Translation: a good
chance of sleep tonight!

This
small village, situated next to a giant reservoir, feels very
Scottish. As we are dining on a delicious dinner of lomo with
pimientos
de padron
(small
green peppers fried in olive oil),
we
hear
bagpipes playing in the town square. We head towards the music to
find a small group playing bagpipes and drums as the sun begins to
set on this incredible scene. Pilgrim
s
dine outside of the multiple restaurants that surround this central
plaza. The sound of the bagpipes echoes off the medieval looking
Romanesque church of Saint Nicholas, which has managed to catch the
last rays of today
’
s
sun. A little boy rides his bike
zigging
and zagging over the cobblestones, imagining the crowd is watching
him.

“
Happiness,
not in another place but this place … not for another hour, but
this hour. Walt Whitman,
”
Amy says out of nowhere.

I
turn to look at her and ask,
“
Since
when do you quote Walt Whitman? Are you on Pinterest?
”

She
points at the guidebook,
“
I
cheated.
”

“
Wise
man,
”
I
laugh.

We
sit simply enjoying the music. And taking Mr. Whitman
’
s
advice, I shut off my mind. Soon the sun is down, and the musical
group parades out of the square, pilgrims slowly follow suit, making
their way to bed, the music and crowds fading along with the day.

Trail
Day 27

“
Happy
4th of July!
”
Amy
jokes. The fog is thick today, and we can
’
t
see very far ahead on the trail.
I
am starting to grow fond of the fog of
Galicia.
It
is like a calming security blanket that eases you through the day.

“
Happy
4th!
”
I reply.
“
Feels
like we are a long ways away from the U.S. of A!
”

The
sun eventually starts to burn off the clouds and the day gives way to
the heat of summer by the afternoon. My knee pain has returned,
reminding me to take it easy and giving me something new to worry
about. We may be close to our destination, but there is still a long
way to go. Sleep deprivation, constant pain, drying clothes on my
backpack, and not shaving for 27 days now is increasingly turning me
into a sort of homeless looking hiker. My hat has been soaked too
many times with rain and is sort of sagging off my head in a sad worn
state. I feel a lot like my hat today
.

We
decide
to stop for lunch at a busy trailside bar and are surprised when
Aaron, one of our Australian friends whom we met at the beginning of
our Camino, sits down next to us! I did not think we would see him
again because of my injury break in L
é
on.

“
How
is it possible that you caught up to us!
”
I
asked actually wanting to know. “Did you take a bus?”

“
No, no.
Training,
mate. Training,
”
he
replies in his thick Australian accent.

We
devour
a
bocadillo and fresh squeezed orange juice as he tells us about a hike
he took in Papua New Guinea a year earlier called the Kokoda Trail.
It
’
s
a sort of rite of passage for Australians, Aaron explains,
“
That
hike tore me up. I was the last of my group to finish, and I was in
so much pain that I cried several times.
”

In
front of me, I see this tall, muscular man
’
s
man and have a hard time imagining him crying.

He
c
ontinues,
“
I
didn
’
t
train at all for the Kokoda Trail. So when I decided to walk the
Camino de Santiago I spent every weekend walking with a heavy pack
over long trails. Hours at a time. This time my body was prepared for
the shock, and I am in good shape because of it.
”

I
think about my training, which involved walking to
REI
from my
house in downtown Denver to break in my shoes. That took about one
hour. No wonder my body is in such bad shape.

When
I first met Aaron somewhere near Pamplona, he was walking with a
friend from Australia who he traveled here with named Blake. We
shared dinners with them both as well so I am a little confused. We
finish our breakfast and before continuing on I ask,
“
Where
is Blake?
”

He
stares at his coffee and frowns his reply,
“Thirty
days is a long time to walk with someone, mate.
”

I
decide to leave that one alone, and we say goodbye. We walk through
thick woods over natural paths of dark soil for hours. It feels like
walking through yet another idyllic emerald green Galician postcard.