Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (18 page)

Trail
Days 19—20

Upon
arriving by train, we spend the afternoon and evening in Le
ó
n
simply staying off of our feet. Glorious. We have opted for a hotel
since most albergues on the Camino de Santiago require you to leave
after one night. We have discovered a new problem as well. Amy has a
fresh set of brand new bed bug bites. As an easy solution, we chuck
her sleeping bag in a dumpster before checking into the hotel. We
have rarely needed it due to the heat this time of year in Spain, and
it won
’
t
be missed. She repeats the heated washing process on her clothes,
washing them with care in the sink and drying her clothes with a hair
dryer in our room. She then sprays the inside of her bag with the
powerful bug spray.

We
sleep well. In the morning, we decide to hobble into the city center
to see what this city is all about. My frustration from yesterday is
turning into peace with our decision. I am trying to focus on the
quote from our guidebook about making your own weather. I make a
decision to let go of the disappointment and embrace the adventure.
Le
ó
n
proves to be a beautiful city.

This
is my first time back since living in Spain, and dammit, I am going
to enjoy every second no matter what my body is doing. We gingerly
stroll through the cobblestone streets, past Roman remains, ancient
city walls and bustling cafés as the signature Spanish legs of
jamón
hang above patrons
’
heads. We make our way to the cathedral in the city center. It
’
s
a spectacular structure, towering hundreds of feet above our heads
almost sparkling in the midday sun. Pilgrims mix with locals and
tourists alike as we all stare up at this giant work of art, mouths
half open.

We
choose
a café and
sit
al
fresco in front of the cathedral in the center of town. I am making
an effort to eat what Google tells me is good for repairing injuries
and
order
a
fresh squeezed orange juice (Vitamin C is supposed to help repair
your body), and we simply sit, enjoying one of the greatest spectator
sports in the world, a busy
plaza
mayor
in Spain. Like flies on a wall, we observe weary pilgrims entering
the square sitting down and staring up. A pilgrim enters the square
riding a horse and his panting dog follows. Tourists treat him almost
as a celebrity asking for his picture, some lying down on the ground
trying to get an artsy shot attempting to catch the cathedral in the
background. A man selling giant balloons slowly circles the crowd
every now and then, handing a bright balloon to an excited child. I
overhear some American study abroad students who are sitting nearby,
sketching the cathedral for an art class.

All
of a sudden, we see Tom emerging from the crowd! This is the man we
met many days ago in Gra
ño
n
who is walking in memory of his recently deceased daughter. He pulls
up a chair, and we share a relaxing hour together. I really like this
man, and we talk about the journey so far, our injuries, and how
ev
erything
is going. I can tell his deep-seated pain still hangs around him like
a ghost, barely visible but there. After a while, it is time for him
to move on, and we say our goodbyes. As it turns out, we will never
see Tom again.
“
Buen
Camino,
”
I
say with sincerity as he walks away. I love these random meetings
with pilgrims. There
’
s
no pressure to make conversation, and we are free to live completely
in the moment, just enjoying the company and then moving on.

Amy
and I decide to make sure our tour of the city is very brief because
I am supposed to be resting, and every step counts. Before we head
back to the hotel, we feast on some delicious Spanish fare. Lentil
soup, salmon, and stuffed red peppers baked with Manchego cheese.
Between courses, we savor big green olives, roasted almonds, and
Jamón Ibérico
. The dark red cured thin cut slices of meat
holding the complex nutty flavor I have grown to adore. Iberian ham
is about as free range as you can get and comes from the black hoof
pigs that are allowed to roam in oak groves to feed on herbs, acorns,
and grass. All of these combining into a cured meat that has a flavor
all its own. Oh, how I love Spanish food!

Between
bites, we map out the rest of our adventure. Tomorrow we will take a
bus far enough to allow ourselves to finish the Camino by walking
fewer kilometers per day. Instead of 25 to 30 kilometer days, we will
plan for an average of 18 kilometers per day to finish as we walk
through Galicia. This seems like a good plan as Galicia is supposed
to be beautiful. Of the three sections of the Camino de Santiago,
physical, mental, and spiritual, Galicia is the spiritual leg of this
journey. It seems appropriate that we slow down for the last leg.

We
will be missing out on essentially four recommended walking days or
stages of the Camino de Santiago. We will be seeing those stages by
bus. A total of 132.2 kilometers, or about 82 miles. I don
’
t
mind missing the outskirts of León, as we have heard they are very
ugly, but a ping of regret and resentment again surfaces. I grab my
Camino shell yet again as a bit of comfort, rubbing my fingers over
the grooves. I am focusing on 82 miles out of 500, letting them make
me bitter and angry. Isn
’
t
that how life is? Instead of cultivating gratitude for what we have
accomplished, allowing it to grow within us, we focus on the few bad
seeds in life. Allowing them to cast a shadow far greater than the
actual problem.

My
anger shifts its focus to life back home. Many pilgrims out here
don
’
t
have a set day they must finish by. If they need to rest, they do it.
They are simply walking, as carefree as the wind, taking as many days
as they need to finish. I, on the other hand, have a flight to catch
and only 30 days before I will be whisked away to a job I must get
back for. It is hard to take a full month off work, and my vacation
is
unpaid. I feel like a caged creature who has been let out into the
wild to roam, exploring with the pent up thirst for a
more
natural habitat. All the while realizing it is temporary, trying
to
squeeze every last drop out of my freedom, before the inevitable
return to the cage. The cubicle.

After
strategizing and our midday feast, we head to our room to sit and
rest. We binge on television news, catching up on what has happened
in the world over the past few weeks. After a good night
’
s
sleep I wake up feeling refreshed. I do a body scan to see how rest
has affected
my
body. I am happy to see the swelling is going down in my heel, but
mentally I am still terrified that any step could cause a snap of my
Achilles. My knee swelling has gone down as well. We catch our bus
and head to Villafranca del Bierzo. I stare out of the window at the
pilgrims we speed past. Trying not to let myself think about what
should
have
been. We are not the only pilgrims on this bus.

“
How
ya doin?” I ask Amy.

“
I
’
m
great!” she replies. “And side note. I think if St. James himself
had the option to take an
ALSA
bus for part of this walk, he
wouldn
’
t have hesitated
for a second. Especially if he had holy anointed Achilles
tendinitis!”

After
a few hours, we find ourselves in a green and lush countryside that I
don
’
t recognize as
Spain. It looks more like Scotland. We find an albergue that the
guidebook says has a reputation for bed bugs. But I don
’
t
want to walk anymore than I have to, so we check in anyway. We have
already had a bout with these creatures, and I guess my fear is gone.
The bites are not any more annoying than a mosquito bite, so we will
live if they get us again.

As
we settle into our new accommodations, I look around and do not
recognize any of the pilgrims staying here. We have left our group
far
behind. I feel like the new kid in school as we keep to ourselves in
the corner. The solitude doesn
’
t
last for long, though, as a group dinner with pilgrims brings yet
another incredible night and opportunity to make new friends.

We
sit at a large long wooden table in the large dining room, which fits
in with this medieval looking town. The conversation is rich, and as
we dine on local veggies, wine, and homemade olives from the
hospitalero
’
s
olive trees, we learn about this albergue and
its
storied past. The hospitalero, an older Spanish man in his late
70
s
dressed in a bright yellow shirt and suspenders, tells us the story
of his albergue. He is filled with pride at his life
’
s
work.

He
and his brother built this place 18 years ago, stone by stone. Even
some of the stones in the walls come from exotic internation
al
locations.
“
We
wanted the soul of the Camino de Santiago reflected in the building,
”
he
passionately explains. “This albergue is a vehicle for peace. It
took us four years to finish it. During construction, we asked our
friends to bring us stones from all over Spain and from all over the
world. They would usually bring one stone, so it took a long time! I
have
touched almost every stone in those walls, and everything you see I
built with my hands. Do you see that one there?” He points to a
small rounded rock in the wall near the floor.

Our
eyes follow his extended finger.

“
That
one is from Portugal,” he points to another. “That one up there
in the corner. The white one. That one is from Germany.”

All
of our eyes are examining the walls, completely engrossed in the
story. There are pictures on the stone walls from the man
’
s
youth, and dark wooden exposed beams cross the ceiling high over our
heads. A dusty Brazilian flag hangs from under one of the windows.
Next to that a plastic leg of Jamón hangs from a wooden pole
embedded in the wall. On another window seal rests two golden plastic
maneki-neko cats from Japan.

“
The
food is really good,” I say, complimenting the chef. “How do you
make the olives?”

“
Well
my trees make them,” he laughs. “It is pretty simple. Just pick
them, put them in salt water and leave them for a few months.”

“
Did
you make this wine, too?” I ask.

“
No,
but it is from Galicia,” he replies. Apparently it is too expensive
to bottle so most wines from this region go directly from the cask to
your cup. Including the wine we are having with dinner.

“
We
reuse these wine bottles. My neighbor makes the wine. I just buy it
from him, and he fills up these wine bottles every few days for us,”
he explains. A foodie and a passionate soul. My kind of guy.

Day 13: Virgen del
Manzano Church

Day 15: Pilgrim Highway

PART
THREE

THE PENCIL

What
would you do if

you
knew you couldn’t fail?

Tezka,
Pilgrim from Slovenia

Trail
Day 23

The
Camino de Santiago sharpens you