Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (7 page)

A
group approaches the bar and a very friendly girl with a huge smile
walks up to Amy and me and says hello. Her name is Kate, and she is
from Seattle. “How is your Camino going?” she asks. I tell her
about my knee pain, and she gives me some fantastic advice, “You
need a walking stick! Seriously!”

Kate
has been walking for weeks already, having started in Le Puy, France,
and tells me exactly what I need to hear.

“
I
cried everyday for the first week because the pain was incredible,”
she explains. “You need to push through the pain of the first week,
and it gets better. It always gets better. Your body will find its
groove.”

She
goes on to explain that t
he
walking stick, if used properly, removes 30% of the weight from your
legs
.
Low and behold there are walking sticks for sale at this particular
bar. Amy and I thank this stranger for reviving our spirits, buy two
walking sticks, and continue on our way.

This
stick is amazing! Amy names her stick Alejandro. I name mine
Dolores.
A girl’s name, which I derived from the Spanish word for pain,
dolor
,
which seems appropriate. I already feel the difference and the slight
relief on my knee. I am filled with hope once again that we may be
able to finish! All thanks to Do
lores
and our angel from Seattle!

As
we continue to walk,
John
from New Orleans catches up to us and
yells,
“Hey!”

“
How
are you not hours ahead of us already?” I ask him. “We aren’t
exactly breaking speed records this morning.”

“
Slept
in and I’m a bit hungover. Too much wine last night!” he replies
with a big smile. “Took advantage of that private room. Amazing!”

He
immediately notices the new gear, and after I tell him how much it is
already helping, he tells me that this is exactly what he needs and
decides to buy one in the next town.

“
Isn’t
it weird how the Camino provides exactly what you need right when you
need it?” John asks.

I
smile and nod,
“
You
have no idea.”

We
eventually separate again as John’s pace is much faster than mine.
We take today slowly and stop for snacks in most every village and
town. I am leaning heavily on the right leg and noticing something
disturbing. My right knee is starting to burn as well.

“
How
is your knee?” I check in with Amy.

“
It
still hurts but I think it is getting better,” she replies. “Must
be all that yoga I was doing before we left! My joints are juicy!”

After
only 8
miles
total
for
the day, we sit for yet another rest, planning to continue when a guy
named Peter from Ireland sits down to
join
us for a coffee. Peter has done the Camino de Santiago before and
offers some sound advice. He tells us to stop here for the day and
take it easy. He reminds us that this is not a race. Yes, part of the
Way is suffering but you will be angry if you permanently injure
yourself and have to have some sort of procedure when you go home.
This is apparently more common than one might think. People get into
a sort of crazed zone out here and refuse to stop.

He
tells us to remember there are many ways to Santiago. I pluck this
advice from the air and chew on it for a while. Incredible food for
thought and a life lesson I desperately need to learn. I repeat it
over and over again in my head.
There
are many ways to Santiago.
This
is not a competition. The advice sinks in, and we decide to stop here
for the night. There are six or seven albergues in this village, so
before deciding on one, we buy a fresh tube of Voltaren, a strong
pain cream, from a drug store. I rub the cream into my knee as Amy
chooses an albergue from the guidebook.

Despite
the conversation with the Irishman, I am still sad and deflated. The
feelings of being average race to the front of my mind. In all of my
jobs and all of my failed projects, I have always been just “OK”—or
at least that is how I’ve felt. I have never excelled at one
particular thing, and this situation is not helping. We may have to
take a bus, which will further confirm how average I am.

My
mind takes me back decades in an instant. I am a kid exploring a
river in the mountains of Colorado. My river. My mom and I lived next
to it. In a tent. I didn’t know it at the time or really get it,
but we were pretty poor. For me, we were camping for a while. Now, of
course I understand that we were homeless. People don’t normally
live in tents. Even temporarily.

My
parents were already divorced, and my dad was in prison, serving time
for drunk driving. I was too young to understand alcoholism or that
my absent father was dealing with his own demons. They both loved me,
which was all that mattered. I am lucky in that regard. My mom
cleaned houses to make ends meet, and as an only child, I spent a lot
of time alone.

As I
got a little older, I noticed the cookie cutter houses and the
“
normal” families. The
families that sent their kids to school with Lunchables, drove their
kids around in new cars, and parents that were still married,
families still whole. I started to play baseball in high school,
which made me feel normal. Dad was out of prison and doing better. We
spent hours together practicing, pitching, hitting, bonding. I was
decent. I thought I was great. I wanted to play professional baseball
for the Colorado Rockies. I wanted to excel at everything so the
world would know that I was normal. Better than normal.
Extraordinary. They would welcome me into their
“
normal
club,” and people would admire me. People would read about this kid
from a small town while sitting in their fancy houses and they would
approve. They would envy me.

Baseball
became my obsession. I spent hours practicing, improving and doing
everything I could t0 become better. My dad and I would make the long
drive from our small mountain town in Colorado to Denver to watch the
Rockies play. I remember looking at the larger than life players,
gawking wide-eyed at the immense size of Coors Field and wanting with
all of my soul to play on that field someday. My dad wanted this for
me, too. I was so focused on this outcome, on this goal, that I
started not to enjoy playing the game that I loved. I based my
self-worth squarely on baseball.

If
I didn’t play well, I would feel like the world was ending. I would
throw tantrums, hurling bats, balls, and equipment through the air.
After a game in which I played particularly bad, I remember a
friendly parent telling me, “Good game, Gabe!” to which I
replied, “Screw you!” I was so focused on the future, on getting
to college ball and the pros that it had ruined the present moment.
My obsession took away from simply enjoying the game, which
ironically probably would have made me a better player.

Baseball
didn’t work out. Failure number one.

“
You
OK?” Amy asks. She is standing in front of me with her pack on.
“Let’s go find a place to stay.” I realize I am in a
competition here on the Camino. A competition with myself.

We
check into our chosen albergue, collect another colorful stamp,
shower and down a delicious cold sangria which helps to
dull
the pain. During
dinner
Amy
tries to use her psychology skills to unsuccessfully talk me out of
this “average”
line
of thinking
.
I
am thankful she is here.

The
dining hall reminds me of a school cafeteria, and I glance around to
see a giant group of French school kids who are staying here for the
night. They seem to be on some sort of Camino de Santiago school
trip. These kids, who are a bit of an annoyance, end up providing me
with a good laugh. As we lie down on our bunks for the night and the
lights are turned off, the fun begins.

Our
albergue has around 40 beds tightly packed into a giant concrete
room. I notice an Italian man stripped down to a tiny green thong,
walk past my bunk, and lie directly on the mattress. I know he is
Italian because he has a patch of the Italian flag sewn on the
outside of his pack. My “Americanness”
finds
his thong hilarious, and I mentally nickname him The Angry Italian
Thong.
The
school kids were chatty, granted it was only 8:00 p.m., and the
Italian man was getting very, very angry. He started huffing and
puffing in his bed.

Then
I hear a couple of Americans chatting outside of the room. Their
voices carry and the entertainment escalates as The Angry Italian
Thong gets up from his bed and starts pacing around all of the bunks.
He gives the French kids his loudest, “SHHH!” He simply stands
there in his tiny thong staring at them ready for a verbal fight. His
angry thong walking accelerates as he starts mumbling, “Mama mia!”

He
again makes his way past my bunk to the second door and stares at the
Americans who continue talking, somehow ignoring the man. He darts
behind the door and again lets out a loud “SHHH!” This goes on
for about 15 minutes, and I can’t take it. Laughter lightens my
mood.

We
wake up before dawn. I did not sleep well, yet again, because of the
symphony of snoring common to all albergues. It does not help that I
am a light sleeper. Before this trip, many people told me that I will
get used to the snoring, and I
’
ll
be so tired that I
’
d sleep right
through it. I have not found this to be the case at all. I think that
advice must have come from people who snore. My most valued purchase
before this trip, which I admit Amy had to convince me to buy, was
earplugs, but they help only a little.

We
begin
the
day
’
s
trek greeted by a clear, cool, crisp summer morning, and my body is
feeling better.
Yesterday
’
s
short hike
has really helped me recover, and I mentally thank Peter the Irishman
for urging us to take it easy and stop for the day. I begin to really
enjoy today
’
s
walk. The morning light changes the colors of the wheat fields and
bright red poppies almost by the minute. As minutes turn into
hours,
pink fields fade to golden yellow then to a sea of green. We walk
slowly, but it doesn
’
t
matter. The Camino de Santiago simplifies every
thing,
and our only job for the day is to put one foot in front of the
other. I can tell it is going to be a hot day as I begin to sweat
even before breakfast.

Many
people come to the Camino for religious reasons, others for personal
growth. Most, like me, seem to be searching for inspiration of some
kind. All along the path, you begin to see small sayings written by
the pilgrims who came before you. Some written on stones with
permanent marker and others on guardrails or walls. You can
’
t
help but read them and ponder their messages as you walk. Sometimes
they really hit home and speak to you, telling you something you
needed to hear.

My
mind is deep in thought about my next move in life. Worrying about my
career. Worrying about how to figure out what my purpose might be.
Worrying about worrying. My walking stick lands on a little gem in
the path, and a big grin spreads across my sweaty face. Someone has
written these words on a stone,
“
It
’
s
about the Way, not about the destination.
”