Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (9 page)

Back
on the trail we meet an incredibly nice man from Spain named Pepe.
Walking with us for a while, he explains the customs and food of his
region of Spain
.
He is from Tarragona and
is
in his mid 40
s.
When asked why he is here, he tells us,
“
To
find peace.
”

He
is single and feels it may be too late to meet “the one.”
His
voice saddened by this thought
.
This is something that lately has been filling him with a lot of
anxiety.

“
You
never know,
”
I
say trying to cheer him up,
“
Today
could be the day!
”
I
tell him the story of how Amy and I met. It was nearly eight years
ago in a coffee shop in Colorado. When I saw her, I told the friend
who introduced us,
“
I
will marry that girl someday,
”
and
I meant it. A few minutes on a random day changed the course of both
our lives.

“
Today
could be the day,
”
I
repeat. We eventually separate as I am walking far too slowly for his
pace, and we say our goodbyes.

We
are alone again. The fields of wheat surround the trail in nearly
every direction as far as the eye can see. Giant gusts of wind skim
the tops of the fields,
remind
ing
me of sitting on a beach
watching
the ocean ebb and flow. The scene is spectacular as each individual
plant bends in unison as if guided by an invisible hand.

We
make our way to Los Arcos by late afternoon and decide to splurge on
a private room. I do feel a pang of guilt for electing a private
room
and feel like maybe we are missing out or cheating the experi
ence
in some way. I soon get over that notion as we enter our room. Oh,
the luxury! Towels, a bed, a private shower, electric outlets,
internet, and most importantly, total silence! I can leave the
earplugs
in the pack tonight. After a shower and an afternoon nap, we scan
this tiny quaint town for a pilgrim menu and some much needed
calories
.

We
dine in an old Spanish plaza surrounded by kids playing soccer and
hungry pilgrims devouring fish, fried potatoes and
lomo,
a
Spanish
pork
dish. We wash down the food with a fresh pitcher of sangria and sit
to take in the scene.

A
large group of pilgrims speaking Portuguese sits to our right
enjoying giant steaming bowls of soup. A young pilgrim in his early
20s from Belgium sits at a table to our left with a few guys from
Australia. They are stuffing their packs with bottles of Rioja wine,
bread, Manchego cheese, and Spanish
Jamón,
or c
ured
ham. They have decided to continue on and find a place to sleep in a
field somewhere under the stars. The tired pilgrims contrast with
well-dressed locals who stream into the cathedral in the square. They
look so clean in their Sunday best. The scene is so European, so
perfect, and so wonderfully unique.

“
Have
a good night, guys,” the young Belgian says as his group gets up to
leave.

We
wave goodbye as they walk out of town into the twilight, in search of
the perfect campsite.

Chances
are that if you drink wine, you have heard of the Rioja region of
Spain. Here they produce world-renowned red wines aged in oak barrels
that help them develop their trademark vanilla notes. They have been
making wine here since medieval times, and I know many a pilgrim
before me has indulged in the deep crimson liquid gold while passing
through La Rioja.

“
I
wonder if those guys who were going to sleep in a field last night
slept here,” I say to Amy pointing at a large open field. There is
an empty bottle of Rioja wine and evidence of a makeshift fire pit.
It is almost noon on our seventh day on the trail.

Today
we cross from the region of Navarre into La Rioja, and after a
17-mile walk, I am looking forward to a foodie
’
s
dinner fit for a Spanish king. We follow the yellow arrows of the
Camino that are becoming a constant comfort guiding us through Spain.
My mantra for the day is simply, “Enjoy yourself,” which I repeat
as we walk through the fields.

We
are behind schedule if we are going to make it to Santiago de
Compostela in 30 days. But today I decide to try and stop acting like
a crazed marathon athlete set on breaking a world record. I try to
remember the point of this trip. It is about personal growth, not
competing with the other people on the trail. I see a quote in our
guidebook that resonates:
We are
speeding up our lives and working harder, in a futile attempt to slow
down and enjoy it. —
Paul
Hawken

Taking
Mr. Hawken
’
s
advice, we decide to take a break at a small bar in the heart of a
charming little Spanish village. We grab a seat outside to enjoy some
sun, and at the table next to us is the first interesting person of
the day. An artist from California who has been keeping a journal of
her trek via paintings. She looks to be in her mid 50
s,
and she reveals herself to be an eccentric soul as she shows us her
art. I am blown away by her talent.

We
slowly savor an afternoon café con leche as she tells us that she is
also keeping a blog about her Camino. In fact, the majority of the
Americans we have met so far have told me the same. I am keeping a
blog, too. Does this say something about our American
culture?
I am starting to feel like a blogging American clich
é
.
We say our goodbyes as she is planning on taking a taxi today. She
invites us to come along and I politely decline. I catch myself
judging her despite my best efforts. Just like I did to the teachers
a few days ago. A taxi. How could she? Again, I think of the shell
strapped to my backpack. There are many ways to Santiago.

We
near the border of Navarre and La Rioja and find ourselves in the
middle of nowhere. There is not a building in site. We soon hit a
sheep traffic jam, and I grab my iPhone to capture the scene. A
shepherd guides his flock towards us, and as we make room for them to
pass, I feel as if we are walking upstream through white puffy water.
The bells on their necks call out constantly. I smile at the shepherd
and wave hello. He does not wave or smile back. He has the frown of a
man doing work he does not enjoy. I recognize it all too well.

The
wind picks up, and the fields of wheat are gone. It is bone dry out
here and tumbleweeds roll by, speeding through the dust to their own
destinations. Up ahead I spot a small van, and a man starts to yell
at us through a megaphone.

“
Bienvenidos
a La Rioja, peregrinos!
”
he
screams kicking up dust with excitement.
Welcome
to La Rioja, pilgrims.

It
’
s
a ridiculous scene. Two American pilgrims, in the middle of nowhere,
looking on in bewilderment, maybe a bit of embarrassment, as a man
stands in front of his van drowning out an invisible crowd with his
megaphone. As we near, he continues to yell but I am too tired to
translate from Spanish. He is selling snacks and water. We politely
decline and continue on our way.

The
afternoon is hot, and we are dead tired as we near Logro
ñ
o.
The scenery turns increasingly
ugly.
The smooth dirt path turns into cracked paved roads as we pass
crumbling buildings covered in graffiti. This makes the last part of
the day seem especially long as we just focus on putting one foot in
front of the other. The black pavement seems to amplify the heat. By
about 4 p.m., our feet drag us into town, and we check into an
albergue.

The
room is clean but packed with 15 rows of bunks. The door swings open
and in walks a rowdy group of 15 bicycle pilgrims. I am feeling
claustrophobic, so we quickly wash off the day
’
s
muck and head out to eat. Logro
ñ
o
is the capital of La Rioja, and my expectations are high for a great
meal with great wine.

We
head to a place called
Café
Moderno
and have a fantastic pilgrim menu for 9 euros. Our waiter is rude,
which is a good sign. During my two years living in Spain, I have
learned if your waiter is
nice
to you, then there is a good chance that you have fallen into a
tourist trap.

The
meal starts with some pickled asparagus drenched in olive oil and
vinegar. Delicious
!
This is followed by
bacalao,
salted
white fish, smothered in a delicious red pepper sauce, which we wash
down with a
bottle
of red wine. For dessert, homemade
flan
.
A creamy, gelatinous, sweet glob of goodness, flan is arguably the
national dessert of Spain and found on almost every menu.

The
café is filled with senior citizens playing some kind of card game
at the tables. They make their moves in between sips of wine and seem
to be right at home yelling at each other in protest when the cards
don
’
t
go their way. The waiters speed around the large café, yelling out
orders with frowns on their faces. A wonderful scene.

The
wine is delicious and is having the right amount of numbing effect on
my tired feet. Not quite ready for bed, Amy and I decide to head to a
wine bar to sample some
Crianza
. Crianza is basically a step
up from the house reds or the basic cheap bottles you get everywhere.
It spends a year in oak and at least a year in the bottle before
being served.

Dear
God, the glasses of wine are glorious. We get the bill, and my head
spins. Only 1.20 euros a glass! By American standards, that is one
cheap glass of wine. Another reason I love Spain.

Over
our amazing glasses of wine, Amy and I start to recalculate the rest
of our walk and new hope rises in us both. We scan our map and
guidebook, crunching the numbers and relishing in the mathematical
good news. If I can maintain our pace without new injuries and deal
with the current knee pain, then we actually may be able to finish
within our planned 30-day time frame. A couple of 30-kilometer days
stand in our way but there is hope! Amy lifts her glass. “A toast,”
she says with a glimmer in her eye. “To finding the joy in
everything. To feeling inspired. To hope.”

“
And
to cheap wine that tastes expensive!” I reply.

With
new optimism still fresh in my mind, I wake
up
at
5 a.m. and groggily look around. The cyclists are still snug in their
beds snoring like a herd of dying sheep. We head outside and walk
through
the dark morning before sunrise. The cobblestone streets of Logro
ñ
o
are empty, and the only sound is the constant tap tap tap of our
walking sticks and the echo off the buildings in reply. The streets
are wet from overnight rain, and the air smells earthy, full of life,
clean, and delicious. I have noticed that on the Camino, your body
can either wake up ready to go or just simply resist your every
attempt at moving forward. Today, both Amy and I are dragging. Every
step is a focused effort, and I am a little hungover from last
night
’
s
wine.