Read A Million Steps Online

Authors: Kurt Koontz

Tags: #Spiritual, #Love, #Camino de Santiago, #A Million Steps, #Alcohol Addiction, #The Way, #Pilgrimage

A Million Steps (8 page)

BOOK: A Million Steps
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Day 7

Singing

On this particular morning, I awoke to a new sound. It took me some time to decipher the new auditory sensation. When the dots connected, I heard chanting monks on a stereo system. A scent of incense also drifted on all floors of the albergue. Trying to be as quiet as possible, I took my belongings to the kitchen to begin my packing routine.

I was the only person in the quiet kitchen and had most of my items strewn across the table when a small contingent of walkers from France joined me. They seemed to be irritated about something. Finally, one of them pointed at my clean socks on the table and pushed them onto the floor. They were completely offended that I would allow my clothes to touch a surface where food would eventually be served. My initial reaction was to confront and argue, but common sense prevailed and I went with the flow.

Here, at this early hour, the Camino presented another lesson for me. Pilgrims often used albergue tables for a wide variety of activities, including writing, snacking, and folding clothes. I thought I was being considerate to pack in an area that would not be disruptive to other pilgrims. But this group found my actions offensive. Cultural perspectives, even among Westerners, can be widely divergent.

The power of the Camino to teach is greatly underestimated. The lessons come without warning. This was another of those moments. It really made me think about how every life decision, big or small, has a real consequence.

My choice of childhood friends, for example, planted the seeds for my future hobbies, sports, and interests. Choosing the University of Puget Sound was the crucible for a whole new set of friends and experiences. Selecting Micron Technology as my post-college employer resulted in travel to all 50 states and an early retirement.

In 1992, while riding my bike in town, I took a wrong turn down a street. I passed a home that looked appealing and happened to know the realtor listed on the sign. I walked in, called her name, Shula, and moved in 30 days later. That was more than 20 years ago, and I still live in the same house.

I was about 20 minutes down the road and walking in complete silence when I suddenly realized that there was no “clack” from my walking stick. It could not be heard because it was still back at Albergue San Saturnino, taking in the ambience of incense and Gregorian chants. I had a vision of my companion as an orphan in its “stick” canister at the base of the albergue stairs. I immediately turned around and retrieved my friend.

I pondered how this small detour might affect my day. Who might I meet because of my decision to retrieve the stick? Who would I miss? Would I make different stops? What would the consequences be?

Thus began my seventh day of walking on the Camino. I had left behind much of my physical and mental baggage. While there were some issues in my life, none could be solved while walking in Spain. With that attitude, I resolved not to worry about anything that was beyond my control––which happens to be almost everything! Life can only be lived and experienced in the moment. An adage in my guidebook summed this up well: “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift––that is why it is called the present.”

When the sun pierced the horizon, the sky became a chameleon of constantly changing brilliant colors. At the end of the grassy flatlands, several mountain ranges provided a silhouette against the new light. Beauty was everywhere, and I was enjoying every bit.

With my never-ending need to take pictures, I snapped many shots of this gorgeous sunrise, including one of my shadow stretching what seemed like 40 yards. Since this walk is predominately east to west, I gained an ability to judge time by looking at my shadow. Like my energy levels, it was always grandest in the early mornings.

Walking alone, I heard random explosions on the outskirts of Najera, a larger town with 7,000 residents. As I entered, a fiesta surrounded me. Teens dressed in camouflage and carrying large boots filled the streets. They were blocking traffic and collecting Euros for some type of fundraising event.

I took a little break to enjoy a warm latte. This was a particularly cool morning. I did not realize how cold it was until I entered a restroom and had trouble unzipping my pants. Many pilgrims will help with just about anything, but I decided to master this one on my own.

Toward the end of the day, I noticed a man walking with one sandal and one boot. When I got closer, I recognized the man by his walking stick and red backpack. My detective friend Peter was suffering from some type of inflammation that made wearing a boot impossible. We sat and chatted for about 10 minutes. His pain was obvious, and I felt bad for him, but there was not a thing I could to do help. We took a few last pictures, and exchanged hugs and e-mail addresses. This was the last time I saw Peter. I later found out that he had an infection caused by shin splints, forcing him to take five days off.

I ended up walking a very long day of 38 kilometers (24 miles). Most days, I got so deep into my head that China Syndrome was a concern. This day was long on the miles but light on the head. By suspending thoughts about yesterday and not anticipating tomorrow, the Camino guided me into the Now. I enjoyed each and every minute. Frequent attacks of smiling were becoming part of each day. I was building quite a streak of great days and began to wonder when or if my luck would run out.

My final stop for the day was a small village with about 300 residents. The hostel in Grañón was attached to the Church of Saint John the Baptist. Unlike my previous albergues, this was a parish facility, owned by a local Catholic diocese.

When I arrived at the church, several people were sitting on old benches in the pristine courtyard by a fountain. The sound of the splashing water provided a serene complement to the voices of the people. To enter the facility, I had to duck under an archway and climb the stone staircase.

At the second floor, a large square by an open window served as the boot resting spot for the night. A few more steps took me past the walking stick and trekking pole depot. The final set of stairs took me to the center of action. This included the dining room, kitchen, shower, toilets, and check-in table.

It had been a long day, and my body enjoyed the reprieve while I sat on a small sofa waiting to be processed into the parish hostel. I took off my shoes and began to give my feet a much-needed massage. A stranger came and sat in a chair by me. I thought she was another pilgrim, but it turned out she was one of four volunteers who ran the operation. As she spoke rapid-fire Spanish, the only word that I could catch was “reflex massage.” It was a fleeting fantasy that quickly exited my head.

She took my passport and some basic information including nationality and point of origin for the Camino. When I asked about the cost, she pointed toward a wooden box with a slot and the Spanish word
donacións
written in tiny yellow characters. Sensing my confusion, another volunteer, an older man from London, asked if I spoke English. In a patient manner, he explained the procedure for this unique place.

He told me that all 40 beds were full, but their policy was to never turn away any pilgrims. They always provided mats for the excess to sleep in a spare room on the ground floor. Pilgrims were encouraged to show up at 6:00 in the kitchen to help prepare the group dinner. Apparently, the previous night’s donations paid for the current evening’s meal. An optional mass would be held at 7:00 to be followed by a group dinner at 8:00. He took me back down the stairs and opened the auxiliary sleeping room.

An altar backed by a large hand-carved mural stood at the head of the large rectangular room. It felt a bit crowded with about 18 mats but ended up being downright cozy when 25 people finally slept there. The space between the mats did not exceed six inches.

I met a family that left quite an impression on me. Joseph and Tobi were walking the path with their two children, Mateo, seven, and Pasqual, two. The love that flowed within this family was unbelievable. The mother held the little girl in her arms as the father created their homestead on the floor. Mateo was extremely polite and followed his instructions without a whimper.

Another young couple had found Camino love. The young man was from Ohio and his new girlfriend was from Finland. They could not stop touching and smiling at each other. He loaned me his phone to make some calls to the United States. It was my second chance to speak with Roberta and my brother. I tried to give him some Euros, but he refused to accept them.

My brother was very interested in the trip and wanted to know all the details of each day. We had a nice conversation that lasted about five minutes. When I spoke with Roberta, I felt a distance that was much greater than the Atlantic Ocean. I kept hoping she was just having a bad day. After saying goodbye, I watched with longing as Ohio and Finland walked out of the room holding hands.

After my shower, I decided to write in my journal, on one of two large wooden tables in the dining area. The walls were solid stone, with a nice fireplace in the corner. A few windows allowed for a pleasant breeze and some light. I had a chance to speak to the man from London who was a volunteer. He and others had come from all over the world to help make our experience more enjoyable. They provided hospitality, made the beds, scoured the bathrooms, purchased the groceries, and organized meals. While I had met other volunteers along the way, there was something special about the people in Grañón.

For starters, the volunteer from London sensed that Tobi needed a break from her children. He brought Mateo to the table and played a card game with him for at least two hours. His shirt read, “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” It was obvious he enjoyed every minute of his time with Mateo. He acted like there was not another living soul in the world. I would have sworn he was the boy’s grandfather.

This man and boy made me think of my grandparents. My father’s father, also an alcoholic, died on the day I was born. I was very close to my paternal grandmother and was devastated when she died, just seven years after her husband. My mother’s father was an extraordinary man who put himself through medical school at Northwestern by working in the Chicago stockyards. He became the first and only physician in the family. He was always open to new things and actually took up downhill skiing at age 56. For the next 15 years, he took annual trips to Switzerland to perfect this passion on the Matterhorn. His politics were right of right. During our Sunday dinners, a positive comment about Franklin Roosevelt was sure to produce smoke from his ears and possibly an invitation to get the hell out of his house. His wife was a wonderful grandmother and always made time to create fun days and nights when our parents needed a break.

I gazed out the window that overlooked the courtyard and immediately smiled at the sight of Massimo and Mom sitting by the fountain. I was so engrossed with people-watching that I had yet to put a drop of ink on my journal page. I finally delved into writing and was deeply engrossed when I felt a tap on my shoulder. The woman who had checked me into the hostel pointed to my feet and gave me the universal finger movement suggesting massage. She led me to a chair by the fire. With a constant smile, this kind lady rubbed my feet for at least an hour and would not accept any type of compensation for the good deed. Instead, she said, “Help the next person in need.” I was witness to the Chinese proverb: “If you want happiness for an hour, take a nap. If you want happiness for a day, go fishing. If you want happiness for a year, inherit a fortune. If you want happiness for a lifetime, help somebody.”

After the most enjoyable foot massage of my entire life, I resumed writing in my journal. Later, I found an Internet terminal at a local bar and sent my daily message to my short list of friends and family. I arrived back at the church as Mass was ending, a few minutes before eight. I was quite hungry and looking forward to a meal. For some reason, the volunteers asked us to gather in front of the church.

A tall Spanish volunteer exclaimed, “We had a problem with our meal, and the local bakery offered their ovens. But they will not release the food unless they hear our communal serenade, so get ready to march and sing.” He handed out one guitar and six trashcan lids with large metal spoons.

With that, 60 strangers from all corners of the planet began singing the chorus of
He’s Got the Whole World in his Hands
. In unison, we marched down the gray brick road, singing this tune accompanied by spoons smashing into metal.

When we arrived at the bakery, we received additional news about our potential to extract food from their ovens.

One of the volunteers entered the center of the group and pushed his hands outward to form a circle of people. Standing in the middle, he said, “This bakery is hard to please and they require more effort before they release the food.”

“Most people from around the world know
American Idol
,” he went on. “We are going to play
Camino Idol
. Without exception, you will all need to participate. Join those from your country, enter the ring, and sing.”

BOOK: A Million Steps
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