Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (14 page)

“
Que
Americano,
”
she
laughs.
How
American
.

This
catches me off guard, and I ask her what she means. Finding your
passion for work, she explains, is such an American way of thinking.
She tells me that she would be happy to get any job as long as it is
secure and stable. The concept of loving your job is not something
most of her friends strive for. We work to live. We don
’
t
live to work. Sure, it is great if you like your job, but she cannot
understand my angst wanting to find my passion. Her identity is not
derived from what she does to make money.

Fernanda
reminds me that so many countries, even worse off than Spain, have
people who would love my banker
’
s
hours of 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., retirement benefits, and my
air-conditioned office. They might even appreciate the cubes, which I
loathe with a burning intensity. Finding your passion is a luxury
reserved for those who are lucky enough to live in a country that has
a multitude of options. She sees the embarrassment on my sweaty face
as her words sink in, and she begins to use a kinder tone.

“
But
it
’
s OK,” Fernanda
says. She kicks a small stone off the dry dirt trail. “We all come
from different places and have different paths. Just try not to take
life so seriously, peregrino!”

There
are probably hundreds, if not thousands, of people walking the Camino
de Santiago at this very moment, and somehow I continue to meet the
ones who hold the very lessons I need to learn.
³
An international perspective, I am reminded, can help you see
yourself and your worldview in a whole new way. I need to start
cultivating gratitude and focus on what I do have instead of what I
don
’
t.

We
continue on the trail as the sun blazes down. I embrace the
Meseta
and try to think my way to some answers.
What
do I have? What can I be grateful for?
My mind takes me back to downtown Denver. It is 2007. Amy and I have
just moved in together. A big step in any relationship. I am two
months into my “soul crushing” job at CBS. It has been a full
year since my stint on the Travel Channel has ended, and I have been
desperately trying to land another hosting gig. On a normal Tuesday,
as I sit in my cube at work, miserable, my phone rings. It is the
offer I have been waiting for. A small production company has been
given the green light to produce a new travel show. They need a host,
and I am offered the position. I would be traveling the world,
seeking out the best summer music festivals, and my experiences would
be put into season one of this yet to be named show. The vision is an
Anthony Bourdain
style
approach but for music, not food. I am ecstatic. The only catch is
that I would leave to begin filming in three weeks. Our first
location would be Edinburgh, Scotland. I rush home to tell Amy the
good news.

“
Wait,
what?” she replies to my explanation. “How long will you be
gone?”

“
Four
months to start. But if the show goes well, and we get to film a
second season, who knows.” I explain.

“
So
you are just going to leave?” she says. She looks angry. Without
saying another word she walks out of the apartment. After an hour,
she returns with her thoughts composed. I can see she has been
crying.

“
I
don
’
t
know if I can have a relationship with someone who is never home. If
you are successful with this career path, you will never be here. Is
that really what you want?” she explains.

“
I
don
’
t
know what I want, dammit!” I am frustrated because I know she is
right. “All I know is I can
’
t
do what I am doing now for a second longer! Do you know what it is
like to hate every second of the day while you are working?”

“
When
you make decisions out of emotion, the results will lead you to more
frustration,” she whispers in response to my raised voice.

I
already know what I am going to do. Above all things, relationships
are more important to me than any job. Deep down, I don
’
t
want a transient life full of long distance relationships. In the
end, I make the excruciating decision to turn down the job and have
now been happily married for five years. The one part of my life
where I feel truly successful. Of course my mind still tells me that
even though I made the choice, TV and radio is failure number two.

Resting
in the sun on the side of the trail, I spot a man slowly approaching
us. He looks like a wavy mirage through the heat rising from the
ground. But as he gets closer I recognize him immediately. It is the
Italian Thong Man! I elbow Amy, and we observe him as he approaches.
He is still angry. Yelling to himself as he walks. A flood of curse
words in multiple languages pours out of him, scattering on the trail
in his wake. We wave buen Camino, but he barely looks up as he huffs
and puffs down the trail. I wonder what he is mad about today and why
he is here. I also wonder if that is what I have looked like today
while lost in thought, limping through the brown fields. Ten hours of
walking. Ten hours worth of thoughts as numerous as the stones on the
trail.

Trail
Days 14—15

“
I
need a day off,” I tell Amy. My body simply does not want to walk.
We both are dragging, and the morning
’
s
trek proves to be very slow going. Our 30-day timeframe leaves us no
time to rest. A big mistake in the planning process, which I am now
regretting. Despite the pain, it is a beautiful morning in the
Meseta
.

“
I
know, me too. Just take it slow today. We can take lots of breaks.”
Amy replies. We pass through old ruins along the trail as the amber
golden light makes it
’
s
way through the morning air hitting the crumbling stones,
illuminating them as if just for us.

I am
focused on each slow step, willing my legs to carry me forward. Amy
seems to be moving more slowly than normal, too, as we continue on,
mostly in silence. There are not many people on the trail today,
which I love. We are walking in the footsteps of Romans. Literally
following a 2,000-year-old Roman road which used to carry common
folk, politicians, and legions of Roman armies.
¹
I imagine horses pulling chariots speeding by. Historical records
show that the average horse drawn cart and chariot could travel 40 to
50 kilometers per day (25 to 31 miles) using these ancient highways.
²
We have been averaging 25 to 30 kilometers per day on foot. The trail
is unusually straight today, which is a mark of Roman technology that
allowed for such precise construction. Many of the roads are even
built in such a way as to resist rain and flooding.
³
The trail is in great condition today.

We
continue on for hours, stopping first for breakfast then lunch. The
day seems to crawl by as the physical exhaustion is making it
impossible to speed through the ancient terrain.

“
It
is nice to slow down and take it all in, don
’
t
ya think?” Amy asks. “So far, I think the Meseta is beautiful and
kind of peaceful.
”

“
I agree,” I reply. “Not
sure what all the fuss was about.”

Conversation
seems almost wrong in the solitude, so we both become lost in the
rhythm of walking. Out here, silence truly is golden. By late
afternoon, we have finally made it to Boadilla del Camino. A
depressing sleepy village, population 140, with nothing more than a
church, dusty streets, and a couple of albergues.
⁴
We stop at a fountain under the shade of a large grove of trees as we
enter town.

A
man surprises us, seeming to appear from nowhere, and strikes up a
conversation. I can tell he is not a pilgrim.

“
Where
are you from?” he asks.

“
United
States,” I reply. I can
’
t
place his accent, but his English is very good.

“
Here,
let me get you a drink of water,” he says while reaching for our
water bottles. “This is a Roman fountain you know.”

At
this point I feel uncomfortable. You can tell when someone
’
s
intentions are not conversation. I just haven
’
t
yet figured out what this guy is selling, but my instincts have put
me on the defensive.

“
Really?
A Roman fountain?” Amy replies while handing him her water bottle.
“How do you know?”

He
fills Amy
’
s bottle then
mine and hands them back to us encouraging a sip, “Drink, drink!”

I
take a long swig of the cool refreshing liquid. “It
’
s
good! Thanks,” I nod.

“
This
is the best water on the Camino de Santiago!” he proclaims. “The
Romans built their fountains in a way that keeps the water cool. The
water is always cold no matter the temperature outside.”

“
It
does taste like it came out of a fridge,” I agree, nodding a bit
too enthusiastically.

“
You
are drinking from a fountain that has been here for many years. The
water of kings!” he continues on.

“
Are
you looking for somewhere to stay tonight?” he casually asks. There
it is. He is a hospitalero. I glance over his shoulder, and behind
him I see an albergue. The courtyard is completely empty and
unnaturally void of any signs of life.

“
No,”
I lie. My gut is telling me not to stay at his establishment. “We
are going to walk to the next town today.” His smile fades, and
without saying another word, he pounces on a pair of unsuspecting
pilgrims who have just entered town.

“
Peregrinos,
welcome! Did you know this is a Roman fountain?” he repeats the
script. “Come, sit, drink!” We get up and unceremoniously leave.

“
Do
you think that was really a Roman fountain?” I ask Amy as we begin
our search for somewhere else to stay.

“
The
guidebook did say there are Roman fountains scattered throughout this
part of the Camino, so it could be,” she speculates. “But who
knows!”

We
randomly select an albergue called
En
El Camino
and enter the front gate to find an incredible oasis inside! A
beautifully manicured dark green lawn, incredible Camino artwork, and
a swimming pool for our aching bodies.

We
take off our shoes, grab a bed for only 7 euros per person, and after
the daily laundry and shower, head to the pool to soak our feet. The
ice-cold water feels amazing on my aching lower half. We enjoy a
well-deserved lazy afternoon sipping light Spanish beer poolside in
the summer sun. A familiar face sits down next to us and pops his
feet into the swimming pool. It is the man we saw the first day
crossing the Pyrenees who was walking barefoot!

We
strike up a conversation, and it turns out that he is from
Bulgaria
.
To me, he is the spitting image of “the most interesting man in the
world” from the beer commercials. He has slicked back gray hair and
a well-kept beard. His feet seem to be in good shape, and he is a,
for lack of a better word, buff man.

He
is now retired, and it has been his dream to walk the Camino de
Santiago for 30 years. He is also walking with his wife who is
napping inside. Explaining that we saw him on the first day, I can
’
t
help but ask him about his feet.

“
Ahhh
yes they are good!” he laughs. His English level is very basic, so
he struggles to explain. “I wear ummm. How do you say?” He points
to his feet.

“
Shoes,”
Amy helps him out.

“
Yes
shoes! I wear shoes when I walk on the black road. The. How do you
say? Road. Pave road,” he explains. “The black road is too hot!
It burns my feet!”