Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (5 page)

The
Barista pauses in some shade for effect and says, “Make sure you
always have something to learn from people or else they become your
enemy. Everyone has something to teach you. Once you master that line
of thinking you will be both happier, and you will also not answer my
question in the way you did before.”

“
What
do you mean?” I reply confused.

“
I
asked what do you do, and you said nothing important,” he explains.
“You have something to teach people. I am learning from you right
now. Don’t sell yourself so short. Have you ever met anyone
important?” I look at him and nod in acknowledgment as we wind our
way through the woods.

“
I
have. I used to interview a lot of famous people. I guess they are
important,” the words sound wrong as I say them.

“
What
did you think of the important people?” He asks. I think about this
for a few minutes before replying.

“
I
didn’t like most of them to be honest. They also thought they were
important. It doesn’t make someone fun to be around when they
believe they are more important than you,” I say. The Barista
smiles.

“
You
see! You know the answers to your own questions. You just don’t
know it yet,” he pats me on the shoulder.

The
Barista is a foodie and a philosopher. This Hungarian is my kind of
guy. I am trying to soak up all of my conversations on this trip, and
I love what he has shared about his approach to life.

Because
of my slower pace and knee pain that seems to be getting worse, we
finally separate and wish them a buen Camino. Who knows if we will
see them again. We just spent about an hour talking and walking. The
Barista looks back with a concerned look on his face.

“
Will
we see you again?
”
he yells back.
“
I
want to share a good cup of coffee!
”

“
I
hope so
!
”
I yell back.
“We
will see you again on the trail!
”
We
continue on, limping past the recommended stopping point in
Larrasoaña.

As
I put one foot in front of the other, I can
’
t
help but think about the millions of people over thousands of years
who have walked this very trail. The ghosts of pilgrims past seem to
walk with you and en
courage
you on. Centuries of hopes, dreams, and questions have made this
trek. If only these trees could talk.

After
another hour or so, I literally cannot walk any more. My left knee is
throbbing, and we stop on the edge of a waterfall to soak our feet.
The cool water feels like morphine rolling over my aching bones
.

As
we rest, a man who is the spitting image of Santa Claus rounds the
corner. A giant of a man who must be at least 6 feet,
5
inches tall with a big white beard and a Robin Hood hat complete with
a feather sticking out the top. He says hello with a thick British
accent.

A
very peaceful soul, he is from Austria, and as we talk, his voice
soothes me just like the cool water running over my feet. He has
already been walking for four weeks and started somewhere in the
middle of France.
“
Too
many people on this part of the Camino,
”
he
says with a frown. Just like that, he says buen Camino and is gone.

Gingerly
putting my shoes back on and hobbling back to the trail, we start
again. I feel like a 90-year-old man struggling to move forward. A
metal walker sounds like an enticing idea. After
only
five minutes, a pleasant surprise awaits us around the corner. A
brand new albergue that is not in the guidebook! We check in and
after a full day—10 hours or so—of walking we pay for two beds
and slump into chairs. John from New Orleans, our cube mate from last
night
’
s
albergue, surprises me with a slap on the back!
“
How
ya doin?
”

“
Hey!”
I say, surprised to see him again staying at this random albergue.
“My knee is killing me, to be honest.”

He
examines the swelling of my left knee with a grimace on his face.
“That doesn
’
t look too good.
It
’
s settled then.” Not
allowing me to argue, he kindly trades us our bunk beds in the
communal room for his private room he had booked for himself. A
small, wonderful act of kindness.

After
showers and laundry, which is done in a sink, we go downstairs to
enjoy a well deserved communal style dinner with new friends. Working
around the large rectangle table, we meet the dinner guests, which
include a father and son from Spain. They are walking a section of
the Camino together to bond before the son heads off to university.
Seated next to them is a man from France who introduces himself in
English, “I am Adrien. Nice to meet you.” Adrien is middle-aged,
has salt and pepper hair, is tall, and is in very good shape.

John
joins us and finally we meet the albergue owner and his wife, who
have carefully prepared our Spanish feast. Tonight
’
s
conversation is in Spanish and broken English. Adrien does not speak
either well, so we speak slowly. The conversation is rich as we stuff
our faces full of chicken simmered in tomatoes and olives. There are
enough bottles of wine on the table to satisfy a small army, and I
can start to feel the physical pain of the day melt away with each
sip. It feels good. “So, Adrien, why are you here?” I ask.

“
Ummm
I, a girl. Mmm a,” he struggles to find the words in English.

“
Girl
problems!” John proclaims, laughing as he refills everyone
’
s
glasses to the brim with wine. “Amen, bother!” His glass clings
against Adrien
’
s as a way to
say, Welcome to the club. Adrien continues with a grin on his face.

“
My
wife, yes?” he asks making sure he has found the right word.

“
Wife,
yes. You are married?” Amy encourages him to continue. He has the
full attention of the table.

“
My
wife. I am here to. How do you say?” He pauses to retrieve the word
from somewhere in his brain. “I am here to get away from her.”

Silence.
“To get
away
from her?” I ask emphasizing the word
away
.

“
Yes,
away? Not with her,” he repeats. “She is. Umm. What is the word?
Yes. Evil.”

Suddenly
the room bursts into riotous laughter. I have not laughed this hard
in quite some time. Poor Adrien looks very confused as he has just
shared something personal and can
’
t
quite understand why we are all laughing so hard. This of course
makes me laugh harder.

“
Well,
here
’
s to that evil woman!”
John stands up and toasts to the room. I stand up to join him in the
toast and when I stand up an unexpected sharp line of electric pain
shoots from my knee, through my hip and directly to my vocal cords. I
let out an uncontrolled, raw groan that is far too loud to hide.
“Eeeeehhhhhhhhhhaaww!” I am stunned by the sound that has just
come out of my own mouth. Embarrassed, I look around the room. The
laughter erupts again, even louder than before.

“
¡Es
la hora de acostarte hombre viejo!” The owner of the albergue says
as he grins.
It is time for bed, old man.

In
the morning, my abs hurt from laughter. Evidence that we had an
amazing night with new friends. Amy is seated trailside in the shade
of a large tree. “Still damp,” she says as she repositions her
clothes, which we washed last night. They are now secured with wooden
clothespins to the outside of her pack. A walking dryer.
“How
ya feelin, old man?” she asks.

“
Ha
ha very funny. I can feel my heartbeat in my knee. I am getting
worried,” I say. The pain in my knee is almost unbearable today. “I
looked on Google last night, and I have come to the conclusion that I
am completely screwed. The internet said that people seriously injure
themselves on the Camino.”

“
We
get to choose our attitude. Worrying is praying for what you don
’
t
want,” she says as I fuss over my injuries.

“
Ok,
ok,” I reply. “You have a point.”
I
am
angry
this morning and feeling sorry for myself
.

Amy
’
s
body is in pain too, and she explains that the outside tendon of her
right knee just feels wrong. The euphoria of
day
one
is gone as the expectations start to fade into reality.

Hours
pass as we make our way west, and by noon we make it to Pamplona. Due
to its ease of access, many pilgrims choose Pamplona as their
starting point for the Camino de Santiago, instead of St. Jean. Made
famous by Ernest Hemingway
’
s
1926 novel
The
Sun Also Rises
,
today this city enjoys worldwide fame for the running of the bulls
during the
San
Ferm
í
n
festival, held annually from July 6th to the 14th. Pamplona also
shares deep ties to the Camino de Santiago and has served as a
stopping point for pilgrims over the centuries.
¹
Many people we have met along the Way plan to stay in Pamplona for a
rest day to enjoy the sites. We don
’
t
have the luxury of time, unfortunately, so we’ll be enjoying
Pamplona briefly as we pass through.

We
admire the gates of the city when my knee again begins to scream.
Every time I put weight on my left knee, a fire ignites directly
under my kneecap. “I cannot walk anymore!” I tell Amy. “Let
’
s
take a break.”

Full
of fear, for the first time I begin to seriously think to myself,
I
might not be able to finish this.
I start to feel sorry for myself. This is
only
day three! I try to describe the symptoms to Amy. I see fear in her
eyes, too, as she looks at my knee, which is beginning to swell
.
She
is
normally
the calm one, and the look on her face scares me even more. Could
three years of planning end this quickly?

Just
at this low point of the day, sitting on a sad bench at the gates of
Pamplona, we see our Hungarian crew round the corner. I am glad to
see them.

“
I
told you I would see you again,” I joke to my foodie friend The
Barista.

“
You
will be glad you did,” he answers as he starts to pull out some
seriously amazing stuff from his pack. “Eat,” he says. I am
starting to think I need to visit Hungary.

He
pulls out a little jar and sprinkles the contents into my
outstretched palm.