Language

Much of how we communicate is without words.  Not being able to speak Spanish has turned me into a body language expert.  I have been witness to thousands of interactions where I understood what was going on, even if I didn’t know the accompanying conversations.  Fights between spouses, irritated muttering in a slow moving grocery line, the finesse of boredom of teenager hanging out with friends while they all click away on their cell phones.  Waitresses stomping and chasing animals out of their restaurant.  Family cooing and ogling over a wide eyed infant.

But sometimes communication requires words. Pointing at things that I have wanted or playing various games of charades is exhausting and limiting.  I have repeatedly ordered food that I didn’t really want because I learned how to say a few food items.  I have choked down undercooked burgers, one of my least favorite things, because I had no idea how to explain well done.  I prayed that the undercooked meat wasn’t going to make me sick.  I have nodded and smiled when I have absolutely no idea what someone is saying to me. 

One of the most awkward language barrier experiences I had on the Camino was during a pilgrim meal in Villafranca, just outside of Burgos.  Most eating establishments along the way have a pilgrim menu.  This is typically a salad or soup, followed by a simple main course, such as a pasta dish, chicken with French fries or some sort of pork (no thank you) concoction.  Water or wine was the available beverage and the meal was followed by a small dessert such as a single scoop of ice cream, some rice pudding or a flan.  The Albergue that I was staying in was attached to a fancy hotel, so the eating establishment was relatively fancy. 

I arrived at the restaurant alone, most of the other pilgrims that I had spoken with had stopped earlier in the day, so when I arrived at the Albergue I didn’t know anyone.  When I got to the restaurant there were several other pilgrims already eating.  The hostess seated me across from another pilgrim.  I think that she was trying to be helpful by not having me sit alone. 

The pilgrim that I was sitting across from looked to be in her mid 60s.  She was short and stocky. Her hair was short and stocky too, sticking out at various wild angles.  The auburn color of her hair was grey at the roots.  She did not speak English.

Sitting across from someone watching them eat while not being able to talk to them turns out to be a very unpleasant experience.  I tried not to stare at her while she ate, but there is only so much you can look at when you are directly across the table from another person.  I tried to watch the waitresses and listen to the conversation in French that was happening at the table next to me, but I didn’t want to be rude by not acknowledging the lady across the table either so every so often I would look at her and smile weakly.   

Her fingernails were elaborately manicured.  Seriously?? I thought.  What kind of a person has manicured fingernails for an extended pilgrimage?  There was some sort of design on her fingernails that I couldn’t make out because she was eating rather quickly and so her hands were ripping bread to sop up the sauce from her pasta dish.  She took the last piece of bread in the shared basket that was on the table.  I only got one slice compared to the three that she helped herself to.  I was hungry too.  I had walked over 40km. 

I was feeling frustrated and grouchy and decided that I didn’t care for the pilgrim across the table from me and then her hands slowed down.  Her fingernails had been painted blue.  On top of the blue was the yellow scallop shell alternating with yellow direction arrows on each of her fingers.  She had an El Camino manicure.

I pointed to her finger nails and smiled.  I motioned her for permission to take a picture.  She happily obliged.  It ended up being the coolest manicure that I had ever seen.  It turns out that extreme awesomeness trumps any language barrier, but I still desperately wished that I could talk to her and asks her more.    What was her story? 

Later in my travels, while walking along a particularly boring section of El Camino I saw three pilgrims stop by the side of the road.  I greeted them briefly.  I had heard them speaking Spanish as I approached them.  I couldn't figure out what they were looking at.  Why were they just standing there? 

A small field was being cut just below the road.  I head the buzz of a what sounded to be a weedwhacker below.  I walked on a few paces and then was hit by a wall of scent so delicious and fragrant that I felt enveloped on both the inside and out.  Mint, lemon grass, something floral and sweet.  The smell was magical.  It literally stopped me in my tracks. 

I turned around and one of the pilgrim smiled and said “Si” in a long drawn out knowing way. 

I finally understood why they had stopped.  But what were those smells? If I spoke their language could we have discussed and identified them together?  What memories did those scents evoke for them?  Was the moment as magical for them as it was for me? 

I walked with a fellow pilgrim who lived in Miami but commuted to New York City for work.  We talked at length about our experiences on El Camino. 

“I think that the only think that would have made my El Camino better, was if I had learned Spanish prior to coming.”  I said. “I feel like I am missing out on so many connections only being able to speak one language.”  I felt somewhat embarrassed.  Most of the Europeans that I had met spoke 3 or more languages proficiently, what was my excuse? 

We both agreed that the El Camino experience would be richer if we had learned Spanish.

“There really was no excuse for me not to have learned Spanish.” He said.  He explained that especially living in Miami he could access Spanish tutors easily and inexpensively.

I agreed.  The trip would have been better if I could have communicated with more people.  My efforts with French were subpar at best.  There is nothing worse than knowing that someone is awesome and has something to share and offer but being unable to receive it because there is really only so far that you can get with preschool language skills and hand gestures.   

“Let it be known,” I said in a declarative proclamation, “when I go home I am going to diligently study both French and Spanish.”  When something is said out loud it gains power and momentum.  (Posting that same something on a blog can only be MORE powerful, right?)

I had kept saying that my rudimentary French education had broken my mind for Spanish, but even if there were some kernels of truth to the difficulties of learning Spanish with French words rattling around in my brain I need to sort both out in my mind.  Urgently!!

My future friends and connections are worth the effort.  And if we play charades it will only be because we want to. 

Gratitude

The week before I started El Camino I attended a work barbecue where someone asked me “Why do you like to hike?”

I didn’t have a good answer.  I can’t remember what I said; probably something trite and boring.  However, I have been thinking a lot about this question and if I could have a conversational do-over my answer would be gratitude.

Walking long distances or hiking is like a gigantic gratitude reset button for life.  So many self help books and happiness experts instruct individuals to think of at least three things that they are grateful for and in order to promote happiness. Many of the experts advise individuals to write these gratitude items down prior to going to bed.  I have been walking El Camino and I can think of so many things that I am grateful for. I am constantly reminded of the many luxuries that are in my life while I am spending an extended time living simply.

For example, I am grateful that I own both a washer machine and a dryer.  I am grateful for shampoo and conditioner. I have washed my hair for three weeks with bar soap and it feels gross.  I am grateful for Q-tips (I just used my last one a few days ago).  I am grateful for fluffy towels instead of the squeegee type quick dry mountain towel that I have.  I am grateful for a bed with sheets. Crisp Egyptian cotton high thread count sheets.  I am grateful for the variety of food that is available to me in my neighborhood within walking distance.  Thai, Mexican, Indian (I love the spicy combinations).  I am grateful for my friends and family that I am missing.

The initial gratitude list might make it seem like I am not grateful on El Camino and that I am just waiting to get home to my luxuries, but that is not quite true (although I am starting to look forward to home).  I am so grateful for my time on El Camino.  Time that is free from distractions.  Time for prayer.  Time for meditation and reflection.  Time to listen for answers to prayers.  The quiet that allows me to hear my thoughts and to hear the answers that I already have inside of me but that often get drown out by various noise and distractions.  Time to contemplate the amount of life around me, touch the grass, rub the dill or mint, hear the birds, smell the earth.

I am grateful for the fellow pilgrims that I met. I am grateful that my fellow pilgrims also had time.  These people taught me, listened to me, helped me with an unhurried grace.  The quality of the conversations that can unfold when there are no distractions and there is ample time is immense, perhaps priceless.  To have someone share what is in their heart is such a gift.  Here on El Camino I am not too busy to receive these moments.

I am grateful for realizing how little I really need.  Knowing what are luxuries instead of necessities is powerful.  And then I began to see the luxury in the necessity.  How delicious the meals were when I was truly hungry.  How wonderful the squeaky bed felt when I was truly tired.  How welcome was some shade when the sun beat down unrelenting, but equally welcome was a break in the rain when I was completely wet. 

So the answer is gratitude.  Walking makes me feel grateful, and I suspect it will continue to do so, so I take one step and then another and then thousands or maybe even millions more.  And perhaps the so-called experts are right, that gratitude promotes happiness, because that is how I feel. 

Albergues

Pilgrim hostels, also known as albergues de peregrinos are the accomodations reserved for pilgrims walking El Camino.  In order to gain access to an albergue a pilgrim passport (also known as a credencial) as well as a government issued passport are required to be shown. There are albergues typically every 10-20 kilometers and most are directly on the El Camino route, although a few are a small distance away .  The albergues are generally bunkbed dorm style rooms but they vary, some variation for good and others not so much.

There is a definite rhythm to staying in an albergue.  When arriving at an albergue after checking in the receptionist often assigned me a bunkbed number.    Generally a bottom bunk was considered preferable, because the last thing that I (or my fellow pilgrims) wanted to do at the end of a long walk was climb a ladder to get into and out of bed.  Some of the top bunks didn’t have any side rails or the side rails were very partial and shallow.  I heard of pilgrims falling out of top bunks with hard thuds in the middle of the night.  There were rumors of a pilgrim that fell out of her bunk and broke her arm, although this is not verifiable and it may be part of pilgrim myths and folklore. 

The bottom bunk however was not always preferable.  There were a couple of times when I crawled into a bottom bunk and had to immediately switch to a top bunk because I felt like I was in a coffin, the top bunk was so close to me that I was afraid that I would be squashed in the night.  When I couldn’t change from a claustrophobic bottom bunk I dreamt of small spaces, crowded elevators, clown cars, telephone booths, and caves in vivid various crushing scenarios. 

Many albergues provide plastic sheets and pillow cases to put over the actual mattress and pillow.  The plastic covers were a weird medical plastic fabric that remind me of  disposable examination gowns.  They crinkled in a similar way.    After I spread out my sleeping bag liner on my assigned bunk (over top of the mattress cover if provided) I headed to the shower.

Gratefully, every pilgrim hostel that I stayed at had hot water.  The dispensing method of the aforementioned hot water was variable.  Most places dispensed the water in limited doses.  Each dose of water required a button to be pushed.  It was a joyous moment in my pilgrim day when I arrived at an Albergue where the shower would stay on for as long as I wanted.  The other problem that I often ran into with the showers (and bathrooms in general) was that with the energy efficient culture of Spain most of the lights were on motion censors.  I got caught in a shower while wet and covered in soap lather and then suddenly the lights went out more than once.  It was actually such a frequent occurrence that I started to check where the motion censors were before I got naked so I could whip my towel around in the general direction of the motion censor to motion the lights back on. 

After taking a shower I then needed to clean my clothes.  Many of the municipal albergues were extremely basic and had limited facilities which meant that I washed my clothes by hand on a washboard.  At the albergues there were deep sinks with washboards built into the sinks.  The water ran out of my clothes a dirty grey-brown through the washboard groves and down the drain.  The level of my daily filth never ceased to amaze.  I scrubbed each clothing item multiple times on the washboard and then rinsed.  I found that the best soap for my laundry was plain bar soap.  Several of the albergues had bristle brushes as a washing aid that proved useful.  I never mastered the washing.  I felt like I had just taken a few layers of dust off but I wasn’t ever able to achieve a true clean.  The scent of my stink lingered in the fabrics, faint but present.  Some of the albergues had washing machines but they were expensive (generally 3-4 euro for a wash and another 3-4 euro for a dry).  A couple of times I broke down and washed my clothes in a machine, but generally my frugality (others have called this ‘being cheap’) prevailed.

After washing my clothes came the drying.  I would wring and wring to get as much of the water out of each clothing item as possible before line drying.  Some of the albergues had drying racks, which were awesome because the clothes tended to stay on the drying racks better than the drying lines which often were very bouncy and would sag in the middle with the weight of clothes.  If a fellow pilgrim was not careful laundry would often go flying off the line into the dirt or on to the pavement below.  I had six clothes pins, however when I started wearing multiple socks each day I would have more clothing items than pins.  I got creative with using one clothes pin to hold two clothing items and link my laundry together, the edge of one sock overlapping my pants and getting a single clothes pin. 

Almost all of the albergues had WIFI, or at least they advertised that they did.  I think that there were certain limitations on the number of users allowed to be online at a time so there were several occasions that I had difficulty with getting on-line to upload photos, update my blog or check my e-mail.  This was irritating and inconvenient.  I had gotten into the habit of uploading daily updates and I didn’t want people to worry about me when that pattern was broken.  I realized that it was probably just my parents that were worried, but still. 

The rest of the evening at an albergue was devoted to preparing food or finding a place nearby to eat.  If there were limited eating options in the town or village that I was staying in I would typically purchase a can of beans and some tomatoes or mushrooms from the local supermarket and prepare a simple meal in the albergue kitchen.  Many other pilgrims would make pasta or rice, some were very creative with various egg  dishes but the majority were single pan style meals that required minimal clean up. 

The smells in the albergues can only be described as complex and layered.  Onion or garlic from a pilgrim cooking.  Body odor in various degrees of ripeness.  Earthy dirt being tracked in on shoes.  Flatulence.  Tiger balm, so much tiger balm in all its mentholated glory, and Vaseline.  I appreciated the albergues that had air freshener a or that had burned incense prior to the pilgrim’s arrival, a pleasant addition to the olfactory experience. 

Around 10pm there was an unwritten expectation that pilgrims were in bed with the lights out.  Some of the albergues actually had rules around this,  others were more lax and lenient.  This is when the cacophony of snoring began.  I had never heard so many different snorers in my life.  The wispy light breathing snorers, the snort and gasp snorers, the rumbling train snorers.  Intermixed with the snoring sounds were the squeaking bed noises.  Inevitably the bunkbeds would squeak every time a pilgrim rolled over or shifted sleeping positions.  Earplugs were often inadequate.  My noise cancelling headphones, a last minute addition to my pack, were amazing and helped me block the night time cacophony in the albergue.

The morning was its own type of dissonant symphony that generally began around 5:30am.  A phone alarm. Someone grunting to get out of a top bunk.  Flip flops slapping against the bottoms of feet on the way to the bathroom.  A phone alarm a second time.  And then the pack rustling.  A Ziploc bag being shut.  A plastic food bag being opened and closed again.  The zipping of zippers, a whole variety of pitches and sounds from small pants zippers to large pack zippers.  The clang of metal of walking sticks against each other.  A thud of something being dropped.  Small moans from pilgrims still trying to sleep and the bed squeaking when they rolled over forcefully away from the light.  I generally would haul myself out of bed around 6:30am when I finally accepted that I was awake and the morning cacophony volume was continuing to amplify.

And then I started another day of walking and I wondered what the next albergue would be like at the end of that days travels.     

Cruz de Ferro

Cruz de Ferro is a high point on El Camino at 1504m (4934 feet).  The trees are much more brushy and there is an openness of space below.  A simple iron cross stands atop an unassuming weathered pole.  The place is a symbolic point on the Saint Jame's pilgrimage. Pilgrims will add a stone or other token of love and blessing to the great existing collection of rocks around the pole that has been forming for years. 

The tradition is to leave a stone here, brought from the place of origin of the pilgrim, symbolizing what the pilgrim wants to leave behind in preparation for rebirth on the last part of the Camino.

The moment in the journey feels significant.  A woman clutched a rock to her breast and wept on the hill of rocks.  Another woman was kneeling with her head bowed.    Many notes and memorials had been carefully tied to the pole.  Bits of broken shell lay intermingled with the rocks.  Rocks that had been painted or carefully written upon with messages had been placed at the base of the pole.

I spent several minutes reading other’s tokens and monuments.  I thought of the reasons for my own pilgrimage.  I said a prayer and hoped that prayer had more momentum, and was more unencumbered and freed on the winds towards heaven with what I chose to leave behind.  

Feet

At my last appointment with Dr. Mike Smith, my awesome rehab chiropractor, before I headed to Spain he said to me “Make sure to take care of your feet.” 

“No problem!  I’ve got this.” I thought in a very self congratulatory way.  I had denied myself from getting any pedicures all summer  in order to toughen my feet up.  I hadn’t had any blisters from my training hikes.  My feet were going to be just fine.  If only.

Earlier in my travels I met Melanie from New Jersey who was walking El Camino with her father and his wife, her step mother.  Her father had wanted to do El Camino for several years and they were finally on the journey.  I walked with Melanie for several miles.

“How are your feet doing?” I asked her.  Basically the thing that all pilgrims seem to have in common is foot pain (including various treatment strategies) and the weather.

“I don’t have any blisters but they are burning terribly.” Melanie said.  “I think that I have some sort of tendinitis.”

“Oh, that’s no good.” I said as empathetically as I could.  I wasn’t actually feeling very empathetic since she didn’t have any blisters and mine were basically hurting me with every step.  No blisters and complaining of foot pain seemed ludicrous.  If I didn’t have any blisters I certainly wouldn’t be advertising that fact to a suffering fellow pilgrim I thought. 

“Yeah, I have been thinking about how to train your feet for El Camino.” She paused for what I assumed was dramatic effect. “Basically you hit the ball of your foot repeatedly with a hammer until it is swollen.  Then you grind up some shards of glass and step on that.”

OK, maybe she did get how bad things could feel even if she didn't have blisters.  I started to laugh.

“But you have to make sure that the glass is really sharp and you really need to dig that into your foot… And THEN you walk for 15 miles.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.  “If only they would put THAT in the guidebook!”

She nodded and we both hobbled on together. 

Now I have an entire foot care strategy.  Taking care of my feet is like an El Camino hobby.  Firstly, each  morning I have an entire taping routine.  I have come to love the Omniflex tape that is available here at the local Farmacias.  The tape is soft and stretchy so it contours on my feet very easily.  Also the Omniflex is perforated so it feels like I am still able to get air to my blisters that I am trying to protect to promote healing.

Another product here that is used for blister treatment is called Compeed.  This is a super sticky padded tape that you put directly over an undrained blister and then leave on until it falls off. 

At the Farmacia, the pharmacist, who looked to be about 16 years old, examined  my blister and then handed me a 5 pack of Compeed (for almost 10 euro I feel compelled to add here!!) 

“Don’t drain the blister.” She instructed. “Just put the Compeed straight on top.”

I was dubious.  The blister on my heel was very angry and full of fluid.  A couple from Texas was behind me in the pharmacy line and they confirmed what the pharmacist was saying.  They said that they had used it per the pharmacist’s instructions with success.

“I have heard that the Compeed actually has some sort of topical pain treatment in it so the blisters feel much better.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” One of the Texans said.

“Well I guess that some people are just spreading El Camino rumors then.” I said.

It would be a good idea to have some sort of topical pain medication as part of a blister treatment product I thought. 

I can now tell what blisters need to be drained and which ones need to be left alone just by looking at them.  After seeing layered infected blisters I know that my needle needs to be wiped with iodine to sterilize it before I insert the needle into my blister to drain the liquid.  I also wipe down the drained blister with iodine for good measure prior to taping it. 

I also now have an entire sock changing routine.  Because it is so dry here I am able to put my socks on the outside of my pack and they will dry very quickly.  I now change my socks approximately every 3 hours and dry the worn pair in a mesh bag on the outside of my pack.

In the mornings I will rub my feet with deodorant to try to promote my feet staying dry. Every night I massage my feet with a heavy cream to prevent cracking and to try to keep the callouses soft and healthy.

So, Dr. Smith was right.  Take care of your feet was (and is) excellent advice.  I don’t know what I would have done differently to take care of my feet better.  Sometimes even with the best warnings life can be a little reactionary because maybe sometimes that is where the best learned lessons are. 

Miracles

Perhaps my favorite Albergue was the San Miguel in Hospital de Ortiga.  The Albergue smelled of fresh incense.  When I arrived I was the first pilgrim to check in and the place was immaculate.  The bunk bed was relatively comfortable and there were storage lockers for each persons backpack.  It was awesome. 

Perhaps the most interesting thing about this place was that you could paint.  There were hundreds of canvases on the wall from fellow pilgrims. It was fascinating to see through the eyes of hundreds of pilgrims what the Camino meant to them based on what they had created. Some canvases had very crude images, some were very intricate and it was obvious that some of the pilgrims were trained artists, however all of the images hung side by side.  The canvases were as varied as the pilgrims traveling El Camino.  It was collectively beautiful and I felt like I was meeting more pilgrims and getting to know them through their art.  

In the morning when we were eating breakfast I learned even more about what made the Albergue so special. 

“Where are you from?” One of the other pilgrims that was eating breakfast asked our host as we were all fueling up before heading out on the road.

“Venezuela.” The host replied. 

“How did you get here?” The pilgrim inquired.  I agreed that rural Spain seemed a long way from Venezuela. 

“You know that there are miracles on El Camino.  Our story is one of those miracles.” The host stated.

I felt the energy and intensity of the conversation shift to make room for his story.

“There is much corruption in the government in Venezuela.  Life there is very difficult.  Just to get food you have to stand in lines on certain days based on your government issued number.  Old ladies would wait in line for hours for food.  I would see people be turned away from the food lines in tears.”

I couldn’t imagine getting my food only on certain days with limited selection.  I thought about how irritated I would get if I didn’t pick the most efficient grocer at Fred Meyer or if someone had more than 12 items in a clearly marked express lane.

“Most people in Venezuela only eat once per day.  If you are lucky you eat twice per day.  My wife and I knew that we needed to leave our country.  We thought that we would go to Italy because my wife has family there.  We were studying Italian and looking for some work, but nothing was working out.  We knew that we needed to be self sufficient instead of looking for a job because it would be harder to get good jobs as foreigners.”

They had really thought this through.  You could tell that he was sad to have had to leave Venezuela, he still had family back there that had not escaped.  They frequently sent back boxes of food and basic medicine such as hypertension drugs and ibuprofen, at great expenses, to their family members that remained in Venezuela.

“We found this Albergue for sale and decided to purchase this and make our life along the Camino.  We mobilized as much of our assets as we could to make the initial down payment for this place.  We had several months to sort out the balance of the sale price in order to complete the purchase.  Then everything went crazy with the government and inflation spiraled out of control and all transactions came to a stand still.  No one wanted to buy or sell anything because everyone was just waiting to see what would happen.”

Everyone around the breakfast table leaned forward to hear how the story ended.

“It was three weeks before the sale deadline.  We thought that we were going to lose our down payment because we didn’t have the balance of the money.  Then a very wealthy man purchased our home.  He had a house here and his mother had a home here and he wanted a place nearby for his daughters.”  He moved several cups on the table to show the location and proximity of the “here” and “here” providing context to his story. 

“The wealthy man said ‘Name your price.’  We were so scared.  We didn’t know what the price should be to ensure that we got the sale but that we would have enough money.”  He described the agony of this decision. “Finally we named a price.”  Before the paperwork of the sale of the house had been drawn up the money was in their account.  The wealthy man told them that he trusted them.  They were able to complete the purchase of the Albergue. 

“It was a miracle. The Camino is full of miracles.” The host said. 

"That story gave me goosebumps." My fellow pilgrim said while rubbing her arms.  

I rubbed my arms too.  

Glass

The cathedral in Leon is renowned for its magnificent 125 stained glass windows.  This is equivalent to over 1800 square meters of glass.  The cathedral is also appropriately called The House of Light. Each window is set high in the walls resulting in a lightness of touch that illuminates the interior. My El Camino guide book reported that it has been described as “…a conservatory that instead of keeping out the light, as most Spanish churches do, actually invites it in, showering this mosaic of colour all over it to become the [most brilliant] church in Spain” (V. Morton). 

The pictures in glass show the stories of the Gospels and legends of various Saints.  The images are intricate and beautiful.  The details are amazing.  There are plant motifs, a variety of vines and leaves climbing upwards.  There are depictions of virtues and vices.  There are saints and sinners all frozen in glass but they appear to be alight and burning from the exterior sun.

The glass is noticeably different depending on its relationship to the sunlight. Where the glass is directly lit by the sun the warmth of color is vibrant, almost like it is on fire.  Even the cool blues burn.  Where the glass is not directly lit by the sun there is a coolness of color, even of the most warm color tones of the glass are subdued.  The colors and images seem to be different and  constantly changing depending on their relationship with the sun.

I wandered around the cathedral taking it all in,  my neck ached from looking up for so long, but I did not want to leave.  As I stood in the middle of the exquisite masterpiece I couldn’t help but think of the glass of a parable to life.  How are our lives masterpieces (by no doing of our own, just that we are a creation of God) and how do we change depending on our relationship with the Son?

Bus

 “Will you be disappointed with me if I take the bus from Burgos to Leon?” I asked my husband Brian on the phone.  I knew what he was going to say before he even said it.

“Of course not. I am so proud of you.”  He replied predictably. 

But that wasn’t the real question, the real question was more complicated and didn’t have an easy answer.  I took a deep breath and asked it.  “Do you think that I will be disappointed in myself if I take the bus from Burgos to Leon?”

We talked.  “I feel like I am missing the Camino at my current pace.” I explained.  “I mean it is not outside the realm of possibility for me to still make it to Santiago within my timeframe, but I am not sure that I want to. Right now I would need to average 37km per day, and I have done a few days at this distance, but the last 10km are so awful.  It is like I get tunnel vision that is so narrow that I am not really experiencing what is around me.  And I meet these great people, but I keep passing them, so I am not connecting, you know?”

I paused lost in thought, thinking about what I needed this walk to be.   

“The bottom line is that three weeks isn’t enough to time for El Camino, but that this is the time that I have and so I want to make sure that I am making the best decisions with the time that I have.”

“So take the bus.” Brian said. 

I thought back to a few days earlier when I was talking with Dorte from Denmark.  It had been a particularly brutal day, the heat oppressive and draining.   I had trudged into Ventosa in the heat and arrived at the Albergue late and in rough shape.  I was resting in the courtyard at a table across from her.  

“It was so hot in the vineyards today, wasn’t it?”

“SO hot.” I agreed.  “It never gets like this in Seattle.”

“It doesn’t get like this in Denmark either.” She informed me. 

We began to talk about our families and our lives back home.   

"I have three daughters.  One is an architect, one is an artist and the other is a student." 

I asked if she had any grandchildren.   

"No, my one daughter who was married is now divorced.  It was for the best.  So it is." 

 "Are you married?" I asked her.

"Yes.  I was married in 1969 and I stayed married through all the ups and downs.  So it is. "   She paused.  I could tell that she was thinking about something. 

"Why isn't your husband walking with you?"  I asked her.  

"My husband recently had a stroke so he cannot walk El Camino.  He can walk, but not this far.  Plus he is still working part time.  So it is.  I come alone and he will book my flight home when I am ready to go back."  She explained that she had retired a few years earlier. 

She had previously walked from St. Jean to Logronos several years ago.  She had just restarted her pilgrimage the day before.  She had walked 16km.

She didn’t have a ticket home and she didn’t have a timeline.  She sat stretched out on the plastic garden chair, her feet up on a nearby chair.  She was slightly overweight, but in that sturdy, could get through anything kind of way.  She had her grey hair pulled back into a utilitarian pony tail, a few wirey strands escaping her hair clip.  There was a contentment to her that felt earned.    

“I just walk until I don’t want to walk anymore or my feet hurt too badly, then I stop. So it is. Now that is real freedom.”  She stretched a little further as she said this.  

I told her that I was probably going to need to skip a section.  I had been trying to average 40km per day but was not having fun.  If I was being honest, my goal was making me miserable.  However, I was frustrated with myself because I had been walking 40km at home on my training weekends without any problems.    

“Anyone can walk 40km," she said unimpressed, "but it is doing it day after day.  The second day and the third day build up.  So it is.  Maybe after a week things start to feel better again, but it takes a toll on your body.”

She could sense my disappointment.

“Don’t punch yourself.” She said. “Women always punch themselves.” I smiled, I think that this was her way of saying don’t beat yourself up. 

I had to admire her.  I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to give up my original goal.  Everyday that I walked I was pushing to achieve some distance goal to make my deadline.  It was getting stressful.  I was jealous of those that could truly walk their own journey.

“Maybe modern pilgrims take the bus.” I said unconvincing even to myself.

“Maybe you take the bus three times, however many times you need to, just don’t punch yourself.” She said again.

And so when I got on the bus and watched the Spanish country side roll by me from my window seat I tried not to punch myself. 

Caring

Outside of Viloria de la Rioja heading into Beldora I saw a pilgrim that was walking in obvious pain.  The pilgrim was practically completely bent in half leaning heavily to her left, supporting herself on her poles.  Her whole body seemed to be collapsing on itself.  When I got to her I was told by another pilgrim that she was having back spasms. 

“Last night I had a terrible cough.  I was coughing so hard that I threw my back out.” She explained as she bent over even further.

Wow!  That must have been some cough I thought.  I can’t say that I have ever coughed that hard before.

“Do you want some Advil?” I asked her.  “I have plenty to share.”  I hadn't needed any Advil for myself for the past few days so I could definitely spare some.  

“That's OK.  I have some super pain medication, but I don’t want to take it because I think that if I take it I will just want to fall asleep.”

“Well the Advil might take the edge off your pain and it won’t make you tired.” I told her. 

She eventually accepted, she took my Advil gratefully and then proceeded to lie down on the side of the gravel road.  It was a relatively ugly stretch of El Camino, the gravel road closely parallel to a busy highway.  

“I just need to stretch for a minute.” She said with a wince in her voice.

I didn’t know quite what to do.  I couldn’t just walk away from someone who had literally collapsed in front of me, could I?  She waved me on. 

“I just need to rest, you keep going.”

“Are you sure?” I asked dubiously. 

“Yes, thank you for your caring.” She said in a matronly and dismissive tone.

“Well OK," I paused trying to think this through, "there are many other pilgrims coming just a few minutes away, so if you need help make sure you ask them, OK?” 

She nodded and grimaced at the same time.  She brought her hands to her face and covered her eyes.  The last thing I heard her say as I turned to walk away was “I hope that I can recover from this.”

I left her thinking firstly that the bar for caring must be pretty low.  To be thanked for caring when all that I did was provide two Advils and then essentially walked away seemed crazy to me.  But perhaps sometimes doing even the most little something is all that is needed.  How much better is a little something than nothing?  

I also thought about how much she must want El Camino.  To be lying in pain in the dust at the road’s edge and to verbally wish for a goal that might not be in her future.  I thought about what are the things that I want so badly that even if I was literally laying down in the dirt I would still fight for.

Volunteers

In the evening at the Santo Domingo hostel, a huge hostel with over 160 beds, I was having  a hard time getting on to the available WI-FI.

I sat down at one of the communal tables in the dining area across from a lady that was working on her lap top.  The lady had a blunt cut bob hair style,  she was wearing a yellow sleeveless shirt and was looking relatively fresh and eager. I thought it was impressive and a little crazy at the same time that someone would be carrying their laptop hundreds of miles, but to each their own.

“Can you get on the WI-FI?” I asked her.  I assumed that since she was working on her computer that she was probably connected. 

“Yes, just try the 2nd network instead of the first.”

I changed WI-FI networks and punched in the password.  After a few minutes I was connected.  Sweet success. 

“Thanks so much.” I said and proceeded to check my e-mail and start working on my journal entry for the evening. 

“How was your walk today?” I asked her assuming that she was a fellow pilgrim. 

“Oh, I am not walking El Camino.  I am working as a volunteer here.”

“Oh, that is awesome.  What is that like?” I wondered.

“I don’t know! We just got here today.  I didn’t even think to ask what my duties were going to be, I just knew that I wanted to come back to El Camino.”  She seemed excited. 

She told me that her name was Denise from Ireland.  Her and her husband were going to be working at the Albergue together for the next month.  I told her my name and where I was from as well. 

“Did you do El Camino?” I asked her.  It seemed odd to me that she would just volunteer out of the blue.

“Yes, 11 years ago in 2005.  My father had just died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I replied with the obligatory conversational acknowledgement of someone’s death, but she waved me off and continued.

“I went with my husband, kicking and screaming for miles and miles but then I found what I was looking for.”

It didn’t feel appropriate to ask her what it was that she found.

“I wasn’t Catholic before I went.  I mean I am Irish so I was Catholic, but not really, you know?”

I nodded my understanding.

“But now I am Catholic.  El Camino changed me.  There is such a spirit to this place.  Even just being back as a volunteer I can feel the spirit of all these people, all these travelers.”

“Does it get easier?  When will my feet stop hurting?” I asked her.

“It will get easier, but when I did it my feet never stopped hurting.  I bought boots and wore them and broke them in around the hills of my house in Ireland.  No problems.  But when I got to El Camino my feet bled the whole way.”

“I think that I need to skip a section.  It isn’t any fun to try to walk 35-40km per day to make my timeline.” I told her.

She waved her hand at me.  “So skip a section, do what you need to do.  Find a buddy.  Then find what you need here on El Camino.”

She told me I was brave for being here on my own.  I didn't feel brave.  Exhaustion can override several other emotions.  I wanted to bottle up her encouragement.  I had a feeling I might need it soon. 

“ I don’t even know what I am supposed to be doing here.” She said again as she looked around the huge common area.

“I have a feeling that you are already doing it.  Thank you.” I was grateful that she shared her time and her spirit revive me. 

The Irish woman’s husband came bustling up to me a few minutes later.

“My wife tells me that you are Canadian.  I lived in Canada for awhile but I didn’t like it there, it was too boring.” He said.  “But my brother liked it.  He moved to Toronto in the 60s and he was into the whole drug scene so that suited him fine, but I didn’t like it.”

I was surprised, I haven’t met a lot of people that say they don’t like Canada or Canadians.

He told me that his brother was very successful in Toronto.  Apparently he had been some sort of film producer and had made health promotion type videos for the government.  His brother still lived in Canada.  He shrugged this off like it wasn’t the true story and he then continued on with his own.

“And I never had a problem with women,” he continued, “ but in Canada I couldn’t get a woman.”

He launched into what he thought was wrong with the Canadian system and how “strict” they were because of some of the tickets that he had gotten while living there.

“Once I came up to a stop sign.  This was in the middle of the prairies, you know?  I slowed down and I could see for miles and miles, you know?  And there were no cars coming, so I proceeded through the intersection.  And this Mountie pulls me over and gives me a ticket for not stopping at a stop sign! He was a nice enough fellow, you know, and we talked for maybe 20 minutes, but he still gave me a ticket.”  He still seemed slight annoyed and incredulous decades later. 

“Well people say that Canadians are nice.” I told him.

He shook his hands like I was proving his theory. “It is like they are too nice though.  Sometimes you’ve just got to stand up and say ‘This is bollocks!’ You know?”

He paused and then abruptly changed conversation topics.

“You know the scripture, be an instrument of peace?” He asked me with some urgency.

I shook my head.

He waved his hands.

“Well that is too hard, you know, you just need to be at peace with yourself in order to be and instrument of peace, you know, BEFORE you can be an instrument of peace.”

I nodded and he continued.

“I am going to write a book about how to do this.  I figured out that writing this book is my life calling.  You know the reason that most people aren’t at peace with themselves is because of their ego.”

He told me his proposed book titles.  I nodded, slightly stunned by the intensity of the conversation.

“First you need to be at peace with yourself in order to be an instrument of peace.  Can you imagine what this world would be like if more people could do that?”

“I imagine it would be pretty incredible.” I replied.

“Have you read ‘The Power of Now’?

I shook my head.  I actually had read it but I could not remember enough to engage in any conversation. 

“You need to read it.  Just live in the moment and this will help you to be at peace..” He said emphatically.   

“What is your name, I need to know how to look out for your book.”

“Robert Anthony Downing, you know, like the actor? But I actually go by Tony Downing.”

I made a note of this. “I will keep my eyes peeled for this book.” I promised him. 

“OK, now give me a hug.” he said and then he marched around the communal table and wrapped me up in his arms.  His energy was frenetic and exuberant. 

I thought about my ego and letting go of this to continue El Camino in peace.  Could I do it?

A few minutes later the Irish couple could be heard sending people to bed and clearing out the garden area.  It was time for me to go to sleep.