Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (12 page)

I
have been thinking about death a lot lately. Maybe it
’
s
because of the underlying issue that Amy was able to pin down a few
days ago. How do you make your life matter before you are gone? I
really want to know. Maybe I am a bit too introspective for my own
good, but I can
’
t
help it. What happens after we die? What is the point? I think about
Tom from last night
’
s
dinner. Where is his daughter now?

St.
James seems to have gained some sort of immortality. People have been
walking in his name for thousands of years. But is that the kind of
life that really matters?
I
have to admit that as a pilgrim, I don
’
t
care much about St. James. The stories about him appearing on a
battlefield hundreds of years after his death to lop off the heads of
Islamic soldiers seem like a bit of a stretch. It also seems sort of
wrong that we are celebrating this kind of violent sto
ry.
As my mind has a vigorous debate and conversation with itself, the
Camino gives me my
answer.

Amy
is far ahead as I am making very slow progress up a hill. I take off
my headphones for a second as I watch the wind blow waves over the
fields. I pass a woman filming the ground with her phone. She yells
to the camera as she is alone, “See! Look!”

I
look at the ground as I pass, and someone has spelled out in small
purple and white flowers, “Enjoy yourself while you are here.”

A
smile spreads across my face
.
“
Thank
you,
”
I
say to no one in particular and continue on my way. This moment is
all that matters and is truly all we have. I think about a quote by
G.K. Chesterton that fits this situation perfectly:
“
Happiness
is a mystery, like religion, and should never be rationalized.
”

After
eight hours, we eventually make it to our destination. We decide on a
private room for a total of 36 euros including breakfast. I want to
sleep tonight, so the wall is key. We head downstairs to grab a snack
and run into our Brazilian friends and the Portuguese massage man
from last night who are staying at the same place.

“
Hello!”
I say to the massage man. I am happy to see him again.

“
Olá,”
he replies in Portuguese and points to my legs to ask how I am doing.

“
Not
good,” I frown. I point to the swollen part of my kneecap, and he
makes massage gestures, asking if I need another treatment. “Maybe
later,” I smile, patting him on the shoulder. He looks very
concerned, which worries me more. He doesn
’
t
like the look of my leg at all.

No
one speaks any English or Spanish, so we communicate through gestures
and hilarious tones. I am able to get his name, Eloi, and get a
better look at him than I did last night. Eloi wears a black beret
that makes him look French. He is a shorter man with a snow-white
beard and kind blue eyes. I guesstimate him to be in his late 60s,
and he has the muscular build of someone who has spent a lifetime
working outside.

Eloi
is putting his fingers to his lips and rubbing his belly. The
international symbol for an invite to dinner. Both Amy and I are
introverts and love not being around people sometimes, so we debate
with each other until we finally accept. I am so glad we did!

Eloi
skillfully prepares the food in the common area kitchen. We enjoy an
amazing meal of home cooked soup, cheese, and bread. Because of the
language barrier, I have no idea what anyone is saying, but somehow I
still feel like we are making new friends. It
’
s
amazing how much you can communicate through gestures.

I
learn that Eloi has olive trees back home in Portugal. He whips out a
tiny green plastic bottle with no label, which I recognize as the oil
he used on my legs last night. He pours it on our salads. The
homemade olive oil is liquid gold. Absolutely delicious! One of our
new Brazilian friends unpacks a guitar during dinner and starts
playing some tunes.

Music,
the only true universal language. We all sit sipping Spanish wine,
eating Portuguese soup, speaking three languages and listening to the
man sing relaxing songs while his skillful fingers play the
guitar.
Everyone content to just listen, think, eat, and
relax.
I think again about the flowers that spelled out my lesson for the
day on the trail,
“
Enjoy
yourself while you are here.
”

We
head off to bed after this fantastic meal with new friends. The
soundtrack of the evening playing over and over again in my head. I
can
’
t
even lie on my chest in bed because it makes my knees hurt. The
swelling is bad, and the dinner was a welcome distraction. We have a
challenging climb ahead of us tomorrow through an immense oak forest.
I hope my body is up to the challenge. Before falling asleep, I
glance at some bug bites on my hand. They are neat and tidy little
red bumps, all in a row. A shock of recognition hits me. I think I
have been bitten by bed bugs.

Trail
Days 11—12

“
We
are running out of money,” Amy says as she checks on our funds in a
hidden backpack pocket.

“
We
haven
’
t seen an ATM for
days. The guidebook lies,” I reply. I am a bit worried. Credit
cards don
’
t get you very
far out here. We need cash.

“
We
can eat unripe blackberries. At least those are free,” Amy jokes,
pointing to the rows of blackberry bushes that line the trail.

The
last 30 hours have passed in a slow walking blur. It is midafternoon
on day 12, and I can feel the miles we have completed as we make our
way towards Burgos. My body groans and creaks like a rusty old truck
as it sputters forward, step-by-step. We have walked so far but have
a huge chunk of land still ahead of us.

We
make our way through a dense oak forest. Welcome shade covers the
trail during the hot afternoon sun. A section of the Camino that in
the 16th century was notorious for bandits and robbers who would
steal pilgrims
’
possessions and quickly disappear back into the forest.
¹
As I walk, a pilgrim catches up with me and starts walking at my pace
beside me.

I
recognize him immediately. It is Peter
the
Ir
ishman,
who gave me sound advice to take it easy a few days ago. “Hey! How
ya doin?” I enthusiastically greet him.

“
Pretty
good tanks,” he replies in a thick Irish accent. “How
’
s
the knee?”

We
have some great conversation, which makes the walk speed by. He is a
teacher and has done the Camino de Santiago before, during the winter
months, which he does not recommend.

“
During
the winter, your clothes never dry, and your bones are never warm,
”
he
explains. “I have never smelled so bad in my life! The clothes
develop a sort of musty sweat odor that you can
’
t
shake.”

“
So
why are you here again?” I ask. “Glutton for punishment?”

“
Just
for the adventure. I love the adventure of it out here. It is also a
cheap way to spend my summer break and meet lots of interesting
people,” he replies. “And sometimes you just need a break from
real life ya know. It will be my 40th birthday soon, and I am
freaking out a little.”

Eventually
we separate, and say our temporary goodbyes. If the first 12 days are
any indication, I know we are likely to see him again.
My
back is itching, a lot, so when we stop for a snack at a café in a
small village I visit the restroom and take off my shirt to see why.

“
Shit
!”
I
blurt out in disgust and surprise. What I see on my skin is
disturbing and a confirmation of one of the most dreaded enemies of
the Camino de Santiago. I have a bed bug problem. My back and hand
have the telltale bites of these little pests. If you see three bug
bites in a neat little row, chances are these devils have eaten
breakfast, lunch, and dinner, as they say. They look like mosquito
bites but the bite pattern gives them away as they criss cross the
tops of my shoulders in uniform.

Unfortunately,
bed bugs are a growing problem on the Camino de Santiago. Due to the
bed bug
’
s ability to
hitchhike and the transient nature of the Camino, they are spreading
quickly. These small, reddish brown oval insects have flat bodies
that, like mosquitos, live on the blood of animals. They cannot fly
like mosquitos, but they do feed by sucking blood. They are most
likely hitching a ride in my sleeping bag, and I probably picked them
up somewhere along the Way from a mattress. I have no way of knowing
for sure where I got them. Bed bugs come out at night to feed on any
exposed areas of skin while you are sleeping.
²

Back
in the café, I tell Amy the bad news, and she decides to go check
herself as well. She returns and shares good news. She is bed bug
bite free.

We
make a quick decision that we should book a nice hotel in Burgos
using hotel rewards points and take care of the problem. Using the
internet at the café, we learn that the solution is to strip down to
nothing and put everything we own in a scalding hot wash, then dry
everything in a big dryer at the hottest temperature possible. Bed
bugs are extremely sensitive to heat, and this is the only way to
kill them.
³
Burgos is a big city, so we think that our chances of finding
somewhere to do laundry are good. Even better if the hotel has a
laundry service where they can scorch the little bastards that have
hitched a ride in my pack.

We
slowly make our way into Burgos, and I don
’
t
like what I see. Everything is closed. It is not siesta. It is not
Sunday. The city should be bustling at this hour. We stop someone on
the street, and they confirm my fears: Today is a local Spanish
holiday. In Spain that means that nothing will be open for business,
especially a laundromat. Our only hope is the swanky hotel we booked.
Surely they will cater to my bed bug ridden, panicking American
state
.

A
Spain Day
is something we experienced every once in a while
during our time living in Spain. It basically describes a day when
you miss the convenience of the 24-hour American culture. I envy the
Spanish culture for its laid back approach to life. They have
perfected the art of working to live, not living to work. But for
someone who grew up in the American culture of capitalistic
convenience, this can be incredibly annoying. This was part of our
culture shock when we first moved to Spain. For example, if you want
to buy something during the afternoon siesta, good luck, everything
is closed!

As
we near the hotel, Amy and I debate whether or not we should mention
the bed bugs.

“
We
should probably tell them right?” Amy asks.

“
I
guess,” I reply. “But what if they turn us away?” My conscience
is not quite as guilty as Amy
’
s.

“
Internet
etiquette says that the best thing to do is to tell the hotel so they
can take appropriate precautions,” Amy argues.

“
I
don
’
t care what some
blogger says about travel etiquette!” I counter. “The internet
doesn
’
t have to walk
around town looking for a new hotel if they turn us away!”

In
the end, I win, and we decide not to tell them why it is imperative
we get our laundry done today. We already look homeless, and telling
them that I am also carrying bed bugs will not help. Automatic glass
doors slide open welcoming us into the well-decorated modern lobby. I
can
’
t help but feel like
a criminal with a giant secret.