I woke up before the sun and lay very still in my very small bed, in my very cold room, in the dark. I was stiff and in pain all over. Nothing in me wanted to walk anywhere today. I didn’t even want to be here. I didn’t care about the Camino. I didn’t like Spain. I was tired of this entire effort and was ready to go home.
I couldn’t remember why, for the life of me, I felt the need to do this. Walk across an entire country? What on earth was I thinking? My toes felt like they were ready to fall off, and my butt muscles ached like mad. What was the point?
I had gotten what I needed. I didn’t need to suffer like this for one more day. And I wouldn’t.
I chased around my mind for an escape route. I could take a bus to Burgos, which was the next big city, and from there I could take a train to Madrid and then fly home. I didn’t care what it cost. I was over the Camino, big-time.
“That’s what I’m going to do,” I decided. “I can be home by tomorrow afternoon.” The thought was liberating.
I turned on the light. Right next to it sat Gumby, looking at me as if to say, “You are kidding, right? Since when do you quit at the first twitch of discomfort?”
“Twitch of discomfort? I am about ready to lose my toes. This is more than a twitch—this is torture!” I argued back. He just smiled at me.
Ignoring him, I headed for the shower. I was freezing and needed to warm up. I could tell from the small window in my room that it was once again raining outside, which only added to my now substantial resentment toward all things “Camino.” Groaning, I turned on the nozzle in the shower and “spritzed” myself with the trickle of barely warm water that came dribbling out for about five minutes. Then I gave up because this sorry experience wasn’t at all doing the trick in helping me warm up.
Sighing, I stepped out and dabbed myself with the thin, miniature towel hanging up next to the shower. A Kleenex would have worked just as well. Then I sat down on top of the toilet and examined my toes.
Barely touching them left me shrieking in pain. Each toe was bright red around the toenail, and the nails themselves were nearly black. I had really bruised them, and the daily pounding that they took, going up and down the hills, didn’t help. I had hoped to find a shop along the way that would sell some type of open-toed hiking shoe, but so far I hadn’t come across a single one. I was still wearing my lightweight shoes, but the bottoms of my feet were getting almost as bruised as my toes were.
Getting dressed, I layered on more clothing than usual to fight the shivers. On top of the usual gear, I also donned a down vest I happened to bring along (thank God) and topped it off with my heavy windbreaker and cashmere hat. Then I headed down to breakfast.
The dining room was crowded with pilgrims, all happily chatting with one another. As soon as I walked in, several familiar faces cheerfully greeted me with bright smiles and warm “Good morning’s.” A fellow pilgrim named Joseph, from Canada, walked up behind me at the buffet and started up a conversation.
“How are you today?” he asked, with a cheery look on his face.
Not wanting to ruin his good mood with my surly one, I rallied and lied, “Great. And you?”
“I’m fantastic!” he said. “Do you mind if I join you for breakfast?”
“Not at all,” I answered, not sure I’d be good company.
Yet, as soon as we sat down, I was glad he did. He laughed so easily and was so overjoyed to be doing this pilgrimage that his positive energy was contagious.
“This has been a lifelong dream for me,” he said, wolfing down his toast, “and now that I am retired and in good health, I am so happy to have finally begun. It is a privilege to be here on this sacred road, with other pilgrims such as yourself.”
I began to feel ashamed that I had been thinking of quitting only moments earlier. He was so enthusiastic that I started once again to reconnect with the spirit of the journey that had somehow slipped away in the night.
“You inspire me, Joseph,” I confessed. “When I woke up I was not at all in the mood to walk anywhere today, let alone 20 kilometers. In fact, I was planning on quitting and going home early.”
“Oh no, you weren’t,” he responded, brushing off my confession as if were nothing more than an insignificant passing thought. “You are just about to enter a new level of experience, that’s all. It always happens like this. You’ve peeled away the first layer of your mind, and are about to start unraveling the second one. Don’t worry about it. Just put one foot in front of the other and keep walking, no matter how you feel, and it will pass.”
“Have you ever felt like quitting, Joseph?” I asked, just wondering if he were always this cheerful.
He laughed hard. “Every morning. I just don’t pay attention to those thoughts. I just keep moving.”
Then he turned to me and asked in earnest, “You don’t really want to quit, do you? You’ve come so far. Over 110 kilometers by now from St. Jean to here.”
“No, I don’t. I’m just frustrated because my toes hurt so much, and it is so hard to walk in this much pain.”
“Let me see them,” he said.
“I’m too embarrassed to show you,” I shot back, shocked that he asked. “They aren’t pretty.”
“Aw, come on. Since when are pilgrims’ feet pretty? You should see mine.”
That made me laugh.
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
I slipped off my shoes and pulled off my socks and pointed to the damage.
Taking out his glasses from his front pocket to get a closer look, he turned to me and said, “No wonder you’re in so much pain. There’s a lot of pressure under your nails because there is so much blood accumulated under there.”
I nodded in agreement, glad to have some sort of explanation for the immense agony I was in.
“I used to be a nurse in the Army a long time ago,” he said. “I’m going to tell you how to make your toes feel better. You must get a needle and gently, slowly go under each toenail and lift it off the bed just enough to release the blood. It will be painful at first, but once you do this, the pressure will be relieved. You’ll feel much better, I promise. Do you have any alcohol pads?”
“I do.”
“Perfect. And antibiotic cream?”
“Yes, I have that, too.”
“Then you are ready for surgery,” he said, laughing. “Just be certain to wipe off the needle with the alcohol pad before you begin so your toes don’t become infected, and then put on some antibiotic cream after you’ve finished.”
“Okay. I’ll do it right after breakfast,” I said, laughing with him. “Anything has got to be better than this pain I’m in. Thank you, Joseph. You are my first Camino angel on this pilgrimage”
“I am honored!” he said. “Good luck.”
Finishing up our breakfast, we wished each other a “Buen Camino,” and he headed out while I headed back to my room. Once inside, I grabbed my first-aid bag and fished out a needle, the alcohol pad, as well as the antibiotic ointment, and whipped off my socks. I was ready to do this.
Slowly, I worked the needle under my first nail. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” I said as I maneuvered the needle as far down as I could stand it. Then just as Joseph had promised, the nail released a lot of blood. I was surprised just how much, in fact. Fascinated, I then squeezed it to release more blood and instantly felt much better. How I wished I had known about this days ago!
Oh well, no use lamenting the past, I thought as I began to work on the second, then the third, and then the fourth toe, each one as relieved as the last to be freed of its misery.
I flopped back on the bed, taking in a deep breath of relief, before I began working on the second foot. Then I was at it again.
I proceeded a little too fast this time, and jabbed my toe with the needle, sending myself into more pain. Learn from this, Sonia, I said, talking to myself, Gumby closely watching me from the nightstand. Go slow. Everything works out better for you if you go slow.
Once I had finished the grand operation on both feet, I slathered antibiotic cream all over my toes, and then added some more for good measure, before putting on my socks. I was amazed at how much relief I felt as I eased my shoes back on. My toes were still sore, for sure, but not like they were only moments ago.
Suddenly I knew I could walk again and was even eager to get going.
“See, Gumby,” I said, feeling more cheerful as I packed up Cheater and got ready to go. “We never know what good things are coming our way. I didn’t expect a Camino angel today, but I got one anyway. And now, I can continue on without being in agony. Isn’t that great?”
And because I was so happy to feel so much better so quickly, rather than stuff Gumby into my bag, I decided he could ride up front with me today, and placed him just under my backpack strap across my chest, looking out.
“Let’s go,” I said, not exactly running out the door, but certainly moving a whole lot faster than I had been the last few days.
After dropping off Cheater, checking out at the front desk, and getting my pilgrim’s passport stamped, I walked outside into the heavy rain and started looking for the yellow arrows.
I saw one straightaway and followed it to a roundabout, but from there I simply could not locate the next arrow for the life of me. A man working in a garage not far from where I was standing was watching me walk around and around the roundabout. On the third round, he mercifully came out and pointed to the arrow I kept missing, and set me on my way.
“Apparently, it’s my day for Camino angels,” I said, grateful to be relieved of the frustration of going in circles. “Thank God.”
I stopped to say my prayer for the day.
Holy Mother God, thank you for bringing me a Camino angel named Joseph this morning. I am so grateful for his help in relieving the pain in my toes. I especially appreciate the gift of his laughter and enthusiasm when I was sadly out of both. I ask for help on the path today, especially in finding the arrows and shells and not getting lost. Please make me aware of all the gifts the Camino will bring to me this day.
Thank you, and amen.
That said, I was finally on my way and looking forward to the 20-kilometer walk ahead of me. The first two kilometers led me through a suburb of Estella, an uninteresting walk winding toward a steep, rising hill. For the first time I was actually glad to see the climb ahead, as it promised to rescue me from the concrete dullness that I found myself passing through.
With my toes still tender but far better able to manage each step, I started uphill with less pain than I’d had in the first few days. The more I walked, the more beautiful the route became. The fog clung close to the ground as I strolled through vineyards with tall pines all around. I felt as though I were being bathed in clouds.
My spirits lifted more and more with each step, and soon I was singing at the top of my lungs as I ambled along. Nothing about this day felt strenuous, and I loved traveling all alone through such a magical reality.
The pines smelled wonderful and reminded me of the Sunday car trips our family took to the Colorado mountains every summer to picnic and play in the mountain streams. Suddenly I found myself feeling the same vitality and joy I’d felt as a kid.
The colors all around me seemed to pop with a brighter-than-normal hue, the sky a charcoal gray, the deep green pines dancing against waves of various other shades of green grass, with lots of tiny red budding flowers paving the route as if rolling out the red carpet for me as I walked.
Several times the route was so spectacular all I wanted to do was sit and take it in, and did. Just being in these glorious surroundings was pulling sadness and grief out of my bones. I could actually feel the energy of the ground underneath my feet, with a pulse and a force of its own. It was so strong that at one point I was compelled to slide off the tree stump I was resting on and sit directly on the ground instead. I didn’t care that it was wet—my rain poncho kept me from getting entirely soaked. I even allowed myself to lie on the ground, wanting the earth to work even more magic on my heavy heart.
The path curved and wound through gentle pastures and eventually tumbled into a place called Irache, where there was a private family-owned vineyard, and just next to it, a fountain where pilgrims could fill up their flasks with free wine for their journey.
Not surprisingly, there were quite a few pilgrims waiting to fill up their flasks and water bottles to the brim. Not wanting to miss this free nectar, I took my place in line.
The young Frenchman in front of me was having a fit. Apparently, he didn’t have a water bottle or flask in which to collect his wine. So I offered to give him the water pack around my waist. He was completely taken aback and asked me several times if I were sure, as he could tell that it was expensive.
I told him I was absolutely sure and, in fact, would welcome the opportunity to be rid of the extra weight. Besides, I had a water bottle with me, as well.
He took the flask and hustled up to the front of the line, where he filled it to the brim, laughing with glee as it spilled all over him. His friend stepped in front of me to take a photo of him, and then asked if I minded taking one of both of them as he, too, filled his flask. I gladly obliged, charmed by their boyish joy in getting free booze.
As soon as I handed back the camera, the two of them were off, and I stepped up to fill my bottle with a little wine as well, not wanting to miss my share of “the blood of Christ.” The minute I turned on the spigot, a few drops spilled out and then nothing. The fountain had apparently run dry for the day. I couldn’t believe it! I was so surprised that I had to laugh.
No good deed goes unpunished, I said to myself, half-kidding.
Oh well, I certainly didn’t need to have wine so early in the morning. It was only 9:30. I’d wanted to partake of the ritual more than anything else, and that I did. Shortly after, two women approached the wine fountain, eager to get their free spirits for the day, and were as disappointed as I was to find it dried up.
We all shrugged in acceptance and decided to take a few photos of each other, if for nothing else than to remember the free wine fountain in the middle of nowhere.
The drizzle continued, as did the fog, as I once again set out on the path. Just a little past the wine fountain there was a monastery that had served pilgrims since the 10th century and had only closed in the last 30 years. It was locked up, as were all the churches and monasteries I had passed since starting out in St. Jean.
What is up with that? I wondered, frustrated at finding yet another locked door. I sat down for a minute just outside and pulled out my PowerBar, as I contemplated pilgrims walking by this very spot for over 1,000 years. It must have been brutal for the pilgrims back then. They did not have transporters carrying their Cheater bags, and they probably didn’t have very good shoes either. I could only imagine what sort of devotion and faith must have powered them forward.
Although I was still moving very slowly today, I felt no desire to hurry up. I sat by the side of the road and watched as other pilgrims passed me by. I saw German, Japanese, Australian, Spanish, Italian, Thai, and Polish pilgrims; and that was in only 20 minutes. I marveled at how many cultures, races, and ages were still walking along this ancient route toward Santiago. Soon a chill spread over me, and I knew it was time to go. The only way to warm up was to start walking fast. I walked in silence and listened to the sounds of nature all around.
There were so many little birds singing to one another, and to me, at one point it felt as though I were listening to a choir. Their songs were soothing and made the kilometers go by quickly. Before I knew it, I had arrived at a small café, where I was greeted by even more pilgrims, most notably a group of Italians who were so animated and welcoming I felt as though I were stepping into a private party thrown just for me. I shuffled over to the one open seat at their table and decided it was time for a Coke.
Giuseppe, the self-appointed leader of the group, an exuberant and extremely handsome man, with thick dark hair, bright eyes, and a contagious smile, jumped up and introduced himself to me the minute I sat down. When I said my name was Sonia, he threw his arms up in the air and declared that he considered me an honorary Italian. “Ciao, Sonia!” he said, pronouncing each syllable the way it’s supposed to be pronounced and never is. “So-knee-a, So-knee-a.” He must have said my name five more times. It made me laugh.
I also met Cristiana and Augustina. Cristiana eerily resembled a woman who had caused me a considerable amount of pain in the past year. When I had first seen her on the Camino a few days earlier, I freaked out, thinking, You’ve got to be kidding. She followed me here! Soon enough I realized she was not my nemesis back home, but still I had a “yuck” reaction to her and had kept my distance.
So of course, being the Camino, here we were face-to-face. And, not surprisingly, this quiet woman sitting before me was perhaps one of the kindest and gentlest souls I could possibly encounter.
I listened to Cristiana as she tried to “show-and-tell” me, her Italian hands waving like crazy as she talked, that walking the Camino was her lifelong dream. She was a devout Catholic and had prayed to be able to do this for years and years, but never thought it would be possible. Then, out of nowhere, her boss at the hospital where she worked quite unexpectedly gave her the time off and the means to come this year, saying she was too old to make the journey herself so she wanted Cristiana to make it for both of them. And so, here she was. Cristiana cried when telling me her story, and I was so moved that I cried with her.
All of this unfolded while huddled under the one umbrella covering the table, trying to protect ourselves from the now heavy rain once again pouring down on us. We quickly finished our Cokes and agreed that it was time to get moving again. I pulled my rain-poncho hood over my head before I set out. Happily, the combination of rain poncho over windbreaker was like being wrapped up in a big plastic bag and took the sting out of the cold air. I looked at my watch. It was one o’clock.
I had another eight or nine kilometers to go before I arrived in Los Arcos, and with my feet still tender I hoped I would make it by four. Considering I was on an all-out “Camino strike” this morning, I was happy with my progress. Who knows? I might even get there in time to take a nap and then actually show up for a real dinner for a change. And with that I grabbed my poles and set off. I had a goal, and I wanted to accomplish it.
Once I started walking, I found my toes hurt a little less, mostly because I was so intent on following the arrows and not losing my way that I had little time to think about them. As much as the morning seemed to fly by, the afternoon dragged on and on. Never had it seemed as though I were going as slow as I was now. I felt like I was treading water and making no progress whatsoever.
“Help me!” I prayed when I thought I had no more gas to go on in me. “I have to get to Los Arcos today. I have no choice—Cheater is waiting for me.”
Just then, a man walked up beside me, as if out of nowhere, and said, “Buen Camino.” He was a cute guy, 6'2'', thick head of white hair, friendly face, big smile, nice energy, and seemed to want to talk. Normally I preferred not talking on the Camino, as I talk all the time at home. I wanted to listen, to meditate, to pray, and to walk in silence.
Yet he seemed so kind, and I was really struggling to keep going, so I started talking to him as a way to distract myself, hoping that as we walked together I might make more progress than I had been crawling along in my own thoughts.
We exchanged a few pleasantries and the next thing I knew, I was pouring my heart out to him. With only the slightest urging on his part, I told him I was nursing a broken heart and was trying to heal from a lot of very old grief and pain that I had ignored my entire life. I shared with him how ashamed I felt over my marriage ending, how angry I was with my soon-to-be ex-husband, and how miserable I was with all the changes I was facing. I was making this pilgrimage to heal my heart and leave the past behind.
It was as if I were talking to a long-lost friend. I marveled at how much I just dumped on him, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he encouraged me to talk.
Eventually he asked me what my name was and I said, “Sonia.”
I asked what his name was, happy to make such a wonderful acquaintance.
He said, “Patrick.”
I was silent. I silently asked the Universe, “You are kidding, right?”
The first person I’d had a meaningful conversation with and openly shared my pain and grief with and his name was Patrick! I couldn’t help but laugh out loud as I shook my head in disbelief.
Then I said to myself, Of course it is. And of course I would meet him now, an hour after I just realized, with Cristiana, how important it is not to project my feelings from the past onto someone innocent in the moment. What a divine joke!
Patrick asked me why I was laughing.
I told him my husband’s name was Patrick.
He paused, and I could see that he was disappointed to hear that.
Then he said, “Let me guess. Irish, charming, good-looking, dark, argumentative, holds a grudge for years, moody, messed-up family, unable to get along ever?“
“Do you know him?” I answered, laughing even more.
“Well, I know the type. I was born and raised in the U.S., but I’m as Irish as they come, and those are my people. But, I hope that you don’t hold that against me,” he said, smiling but in earnest.
“Of course not, Patrick. Not at all.”
In a few hours we were in Los Arcos. He was so light on his feet he was almost dancing, even with a huge pack on his back.
I shuffled in as though I were 95 years old, feeling as if I could barely take another step.
As we walked into the center of town, he asked where I was staying. I told him and asked him the same.
“I’m staying at a pilgrims’ albergue if I can find one that still has beds,” he said. “But I’ll walk you to your hostel first if you’d like me to.”
I told him that wasn’t necessary, but was taken by his good manners and generous spirit. He walked me there anyway.
I urged him to get going, as it was late and the pilgrims’ albergues might all be full.
Then he said, “You’re right. I do need to find a bed. I tell you what. I’ll meet you back here at 7:30. We can have dinner together.”
I looked at my watch. It was four thirty.
“Oh, and by the way,” he continued, “I promise I won’t hit on you, so you can relax and enjoy my company.”
That made me laugh all over again, and relieved me at the same time, as it had crossed my mind.
“I appreciate that,” I answered. “I’ll see you in a while.”
He was my first dinner companion since I began this pilgrimage. I promised myself that I wouldn’t talk about my pain with him anymore. I didn’t want to.
At dinner we ran into other pilgrims we had separately met along the way and ended up having a fun time together, with lots of red wine flowing, although I couldn’t keep up with the rest, and especially with Patrick.
Having been mostly antisocial up until now, I really enjoyed being with others and sharing our stories. The night flew by and before I knew it, it was almost ten, far later than I had managed to stay up since the day I began the Camino.
After dinner, Patrick asked me if he could walk with me tomorrow. I said no, but told him it wasn’t personal. I liked his company a lot. I just needed to be with my own thoughts for now and found walking alone to be very healing, bringing with it tremendously valuable personal insights. He was gracious and said he understood. We then said good night, wished each other a “Buen Camino,” and went our separate ways.
Before going to sleep, I wondered if I should have said yes to Patrick. But my heart and intuition were adamant. I needed to walk alone and in silence as much as I could. That was how I would heal. So I sent him good vibes and let it go. He was my last Camino angel of the day. There was no need to give it any more thought.
Drifting off to sleep my last thought was, Patrick. Really, Camino?! Patrick?
Then I was out.