by Santiago | Dec 11, 2016 | Blog
I left Villar de Mazarife and walked out though corn fields in the dark. At 6 in the morning it was warm enough for short sleeves. I don’t know about you, but walking through cornfields in the dark in Busted Whistle Spain makes my mind wander.
I thought about every one I know, and why in this godforsaken world we beat each other up, why we beat ourselves up, and put each other through so much shit when all we want to do is be happy. I guess everyone has a different idea about what makes them happy and they’ll do what they need to do to get it. I may have written about this before, but I’m tired and I walked 30k with a shin splint that caused me pain with every step I took so I ain’t checking my past posts (that would be a foreshadowing- am behind on my posts so I’m writing this a few days hence).
In the end, it’s probably ourselves that’s holding us back. For me I guess it gives meaning to my life by understanding that those bruises and wounds are the lessons I need to learn from. And in the end, hopefully they teach us to stand up for ourselves, love ourselves, and figure out what it is we need to make us truly happy.
As the sun came up and lit up the fields around me, Amanda’s voice whispered to me. Sometimes, when we’d be sitting somewhere, say a bench at the Starbucks where we used to meet during the day for a coffee break, she would shove my shoulders back, reminding me to have good posture- remember how she’s always right?
And it’s not just me, she’s had other people tell her that she was intuitive. I hope I don’t sound like a fool, or like I’m slobbering over her I’m just stating facts here. And hell, I’ll probably always love her (now’s not time to get into the “being in love”, etc discussion).
Another habit of hers- she used to tell me things, things about myself I didn’t want to believe. And it was usually the bag of shit I was holding that I indeed needed to think about, to consider, but didn’t want to.
Men know there’s things we need to fix but we don’t want to because it takes work. And it’s easier just to have another beer and not think about them. And frankly, most don’t have the time or energy. I mean we do the work we must to get paid, and then we barbecue and get drunk on Saturday and then watch football and get drunk on Sunday. Vice Versa when it’s college football season. Thats just the way it is.
Once in awhile Amanda would even, well not go into a trance, but her voice would change a little and she would go into a very stream of consciousness monologue about certain things (Hannah, my divorce). She would couch things as “I think”, but It seemed like she was touching something, someplace i couldn’t reach.
Like I say, she’s usually right. And I’m not just saying that. We went through some shit together, and I even knew deep down at the beginning that she was right although I didn’t want to admit it. After awhile, I just stopped disagreeing and started to admit it.
I agreed with her on the posture too. But my argument always was: telling me to have good posture is one thing, but how do I change my habit of standing, walking, something that’s been ingrained since birth is another. I think back and I believe my dad sort of stooped, so I probably simply copied him.
So, I took a deep breath, pushed my shoulders back, and walked on. And you know what? I felt better. Now if I could just keep doing it, and change that habit, along with the other million things that need changing…
I walked on an came across yet another field of sunflowers so of course I had to stop and take a million pictures: 
I walked on a dirt road in between two farm towns. In the morning light everything looks beautiful, so it makes walking more enjoyable. That and the fact that it’s not as hot as eating a habanero souffle in hell. Since I was consistently walking east to west, the sun was always behind me.
Off in the distance I could see the mountains I’d be climbing soon. I’d been hearing about them for a few days now. It would be difficult but worth the effort. I’ll reach the highest point on the camino and it shouldn’t be too tough- after 2 weeks I’m in much better walking shape and my posture is excellent (little did I know, at this point, about the fore-mentioned shin splints)
I walked through the town of Vilavante and caught up with Clive and Jerique. We walked over the bridge out of town, and they moved on ahead. There were new pilgrims all over the place, many having jumped on the camino just recently. I just hoped that perhaps St. Peter would give me preference at the gates of heaven since I will have walked the entire path.
I passed over an ancient roman bridge that had been restored to it’s original glory. Well, maybe not glory. It didn’t hold a candle to the glorious Spanish bridges I’d seen. It was much older, and was simply an efficiently built bridge.
I walked on the original cobblestones that Charlemagne had trodden. By the way, his ol’ man was named Pepin the Short. I think his brother was Fred the Portly. The bridge went down into the town, a thin, two storied street like the towns from the first days, beautiful cobblestoned streets, many bars and cafe’s waiting for eager pilgrims.
At the end of town, the path turned to dirt and went alongside a garden where a woman was tending to her vegetables. She offered up a “been camino” as she dug out a rutabaga. Probably wasn’t a rutabaga. I just think “rutabaga” is a funny name for a vegetable. Kind of like kumquat.
After a few kilometers, the road straightened out and was wide open. There were newly graded roads heading in a few different directions, unmarked, making it difficult for us pilgrims, although by this time I was going more and more with my gut (translate right side of brain) as opposed to over-analyzing the map in Brierley (left brain).
Has this ever happened to you? You look at something like a map, and you can sort of feel your brain pulling you away from your in depth analysis of a map and hearing it say: “trust me, just listen to me. Go that way”. It happens to me. It’s your heart trying to override your brain.
I chosen to take an alternate camino so I didn’t have walk along side the highway. which went straight into Astorga, hence the lack of the ubiquitous yellow arrows left by the mad monk. There was no one else around, and I wanted to confirm that I was going the right way so I pulled out Brierley and studied the guide.
After a few minutes, an older smiling gentleman seemingly out for his midday stroll appeared out of nowhere, dressed in long pants and a button down shirt. He spoke no English, and my Spanish is certainly circumspect as discussed in an earlier post.
But he insisted on giving me directions, pointing in both directions down the road at different times during the conversation. When I asked him questions it only led to more confusion. We laughed, I said gracias, and went on my way, heading in the same direction I had been. I think he just wanted to talk to someone out on that lonely road. I was glad I obliged.
I walked through a town called Santibanez de Julio Eglasias, or something like that. I tried to duck int he church just to feel the silence but it was locked. It made me think- should a church ever be locked? I thought the idea was to be accepting of everyone- the rich, the poor, the sinners, the saints, the meek, the obnoxious. And in their time of need. I guess you have to schedule your time of need these days.
2 or 3 kilometers out of Julios’ place, I walked through rolling hills. There was a lot of broken shale on the path so it was slow going. A lot of other pilgrims were on the road with me, sweating in the afternoon sun. lot of shale and rocks on path. At lest there was some intermittent shade along the way. I passed a few places with some interesting iconography.
A note to hopeless romantics: Don’t do it. Don’t walk off that cliff while your gazing at the stars. Be careful when you sing your song with reckless abandon. Remember to wash your shirt when you wear your heart on your sleeve…
…after the recession, we were better off than most it seemed. But maybe that’s just my shitty assed opinion. I thought love would get us through. But it lost out to money. And at the time, I was susceptible to the shit that was thrown in my face, and was unable to fight back. And it scarred me. And it hurt me. But it was one of the things that put my boots on the camino and helped force me to face myself.
Some say love is a burning thing
That it makes a fiery ring
Oh but I know love as a fading thing
Just as fickle as a feather in a stream
See, honey, I saw love,
You see it came to me
It puts its face up to my face so I could see
Yeah then I saw love disfigure me
Into something I am not recognizing…
-Phosphorescent
THE SENTENCE
A little while ago, I got released from prison. I’d been in for awhile. Going in, I didn’t know much about it. I was like the Tim Robbins character in “The Shawshank Redemption”. I was as naive as an accountant. And, like Robbins character, I was unjustly accused of a crime. Yeah well, so is every inmate in every prison movie ever made.
Before being thrown in prison, I was convinced I had committed the murder. I was ashamed of what I did. I closed the windows and locked the doors waiting to be arrested. I didn’t talk to anyone, or look anyone in the eye. I could only think that with one slip they’d discover me, and I’d be banished to solitary forever.
They never found me. They didn’t have to. I finally gave my self up. They arrested me and interrogated me. I had a trial. The jury of one found me guilty and they locked me up. They didn’t even need a key. I gladly stayed in my cell. It felt good to be isolated. Who in the fuck wanted to talk to me anyway?
Prison, though, is a good place to reflect. I thought about the things that got me there, the things that convinced me that I didn’t deserve to live out in the world. I got mad about a lot of things, laughed about a few, and cried about my losses.
And then after I had pretty much cut off communications with everyone, it happened. You’ve heard this story before. Someone started writing me. Me, the inmate, guilty of the crime, banished to prison. I started getting letters.
What sort of person starts communicating with a dude in prison they don’t even know? Maybe somebody who’s a little crazy. Or, maybe someone who’s been imprisoned themselves.
All I know is that those letters gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time. They gave me hope. They lit a spark, they gave me an inkling that maybe I do have something to say, that maybe I am worth listening to. And most importantly, that I didn’t commit any crime.
They also gave me courage. And strength. The strength to let go. The courage to stand up, to dance, to sing, to write, to say “I love you” first. It might not have happened overnight like it does in the movies. but it did start happening, one beautiful moment at a time.
And I’ve got the letter writer to thank for that.
by Santiago | Dec 10, 2016 | Blog
I left Astorga walking the cobbled streets of the ancient town. Being from California where anything older than 50 years has been torn down and replaced by a strip mall or McMansion, it was cool to step out onto the street and see this:
Well, it would have looked like this if it was light out. I walked out of town, and once again the city turned to fields. It was still dark out, so of course it sent my mind to wander. But, I was out here to wander.
After about 5 clicks, I reached Muruias de Rechivaldo. The town was quiet as I walked through. At the end of the town was a fountain and a little square, and a place to have breakfast.
I stopped for a cafe con leche and the waitress was singing to some fine ‘Merican rock and roll. It was so cheery, albeit the internet slower than a sloth on quaaludes, I decided to stay and finish my previous days post.
I walked off with the sun directly behind me, casting my shadow directly on the path, and my future, the sun throwing a beautiful yellow/orange hue on the yellow and greens in the fields around me.
The camino reminds you that the only certainty in life is the footstep you are taking, in the moment. Behind you is the past which has taught you some lessons, but also given you wounds that haven’t healed, that you’ve been hiding, you’ve only bandaged, and not fixed. The future is still a choice- the choice of healing those wounds, or simply carrying on. It’s up to you.
Around Santa Catalina de Samoza I met up with Michael (as I refer to him) and Maciaj (Hebrew for “gift from god”) his wife. In case you forgot, I referred to Michael as “the polish dude” in a previous post.
Michael did more of the talking than Maciaj, partly because his English is impeccable, and partly cause he’s got a lot to say. Michael reminds me of the Kerouac quote: “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars”. So of course I love conversing with him.
We got off on a tangent talking about the West Coast Jazz movement of the 50s and 60s, which was big in Poland, artists such as Chet Baker et al. One of the places it gestated in the states was The Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach. My dad, who lived in San Bernardino at the time, used to travel to Hermosa and go to The Lighthouse back in the 50’s, which i didn’t know until after I moved there. Theres a large picture inside of 4 cool looking guys with shades. I swear one of them could be dad.
Michael was also a font of information about the camino, and informed me that the first American to understand the cultural significance of, and walk the camino, was a woman who did it in 1917, although John Adams mentioned while hanging out on the Galician coast, said that he always regretted that “we could not find time to make a Pilgrimage to Saint Iago de Compostella.”
After awhile, Michael, Maciaj, and I moseyed (finally, an opportunity to use the word “mosey”!) into to El Ganso to check out the Cowboy Bar. Yup. Shit howdy. There were no cowboys. There was a bar. And a sign with that said “Cowboy Bar”. It did have some western shit on the wall, and there was a dude out in front plinking on a banjo. I thought of asking him if he knew any Boxcar Willie but then thought better of it.
The three of us moseyed on. Both Michael and Maciaj are smart, funny, and great to walk with. After being with them for awhile, I noticed how Miciaj lightly and laughingly ropes Michael back in when he goes off on a tangent for too long. They seem to have a great relationship, you can just tell from their banter. We walked together for awhile longer, talked about more of everything under the sun, and had a great time. I knew I would see them again.
After awhile i walked on ahead alone, through a shady grove, past a homemade fence with wooden crosses constructed from branches lashed to it. Sometimes when I’m out here I feel at peace with myself. I feel like there is nothing negatively affecting how I feel and what I say. Life just flows. Like it’s supposed to. Its the good, the right, the free person – you’re speaking and acting from the heart. Hopefully that feeling will stay with me, and inform my soul, and maybe even lift up those whose lives I touch when I get back home.
I walked another few kilometers to Rabanal del Camino. The camino always goes by the church. The church is always at the top of a hill, the town having grown around it. Rabanal del Camino was not exception, so I stopped for coffee and OJ on the street heading up to the church.
Otis Redding was blaring in my ear. I tried to order but the guy at the counter was on the phone (maybe the girlfriend, or perhaps bill collector) and the wife came out from the kitchen and helped me, while giving her husband shit in Spanish, looking at me and shaking her head like I was a sympathetic ear. I didn’t understand a word she was saying but I smiled and nodded my head in empathy.
Clive and Jerique were there, and Asia showed up, so we got caught up, and then she moved on. I finished up and joined Clive and Jerique on the camino. We began to climb. The trail was dirt with a lot of shale, making it hard to walk. There were a lot of butterflies. Clive and company moved ahead, I lingered, walking at a leisurely pace.
After walking through brush, Foncebadon emerged. Hmm…a very rustic town. The few buildings that existed were sparsely situated along the road. 
I checked into one, taking a lower bunk below a young girl from Wyoming – Aviva. It was nice to meet another American /English speaking person, besides the fact that she’s a cute, young kid (ok, young adult) with her whole life in front of her. And she was walking the camino alone. That probably says more about the kind of person she is than anything.
Anyway, I went across the road to eat and write, then went outside to finish my wine on the deck, and watch the show that was the remains of the day. There were clouds out west, so there wasn’t much of a sunset, but there was a cheerful South Korean guy named Lakchung who spoke pretty good english (bad grammar intended- supposed to be funny).
I shared some of the bottle of wine they had plopped in front of me for dinner (even if there’s only one of you they plop down a bottle in front of you). He kind of reminded me of a sunflower. You can’t help but be in good spirits and humor when you’re with someone who loves to laugh and smile like him. We shared a few stories about our journeys, and bid each other goodnight as we finished the wine. I went back to my bunk. It was cooler up here in the mountains, and I drifted off to sleep easily for a change, dreaming of dueling banjos and sunflowers.
by Santiago | Dec 9, 2016 | Blog
I stepped out of the auberge in Foncedebadon onto the camino alone and in the dark. The path snaked up through the town and kept climbing. I was surrounded by …darkness and the sound of the wind rustling through the brush. There was no one else around, I was in a strange country, I was climbing up a mountain in the middle of nowhere, hopefully I was going the right way… I guess I could have been scared. But I chose not to be.
In the past I probably would have thought too much, freaked out a little, and maybe in this case I should have. In fact, fear is a great example of what Alan Watts spoke of in the video I embedded many posts ago. I think it’s important so I will use this situation to elaborate on what he said.
Out here in the dark, perhaps I should be assuming that anything could happen – a wild animal could attack me, a Spanish gypsy could rob me of all my valuable stuff, a Sasquatch (are there even any Sasquatches in Spain? Is Sasquatches even a word? Wait a minute, does Sasquatch even exist?) could jump out of the darkness and take me to his lair and force me to watch Threes Company reruns with him…
You get the picture. My brain could have come up with a million things that could go wrong, and turn me into a shit bag of defensiveness, ready to lash out at the sound of a snapping twig, going over and over what could happen if I didn’t have my guard up, and consider options as to how I could defend myself.
Or, it could accept that I’m here in the moment, and simply put one foot in front of the other. As Alan says, no matter which way you choose to be, “it’ll all come out in the wash”.
And I think this is a testament to the camino and what it does to a person, at least the way being out here on my own has begun to affect me. What are the odds of something happening to me? Based on what I had experienced up this point, about 0, since nothing even close to bad had happened. In fact, the only thing that had affected me negatively has been…myself. So, I decided to put one foot in front of the other and get on with it.
I kept on climbing uphill in the dark and came to a great cross. Nobody knows for sure who put the cross there or why, which makes it even better. There’s not enough mysteries left in this world. I thought maybe it had been some lonely pilgrim who’d had his heart broken. Maybe someone close died, maybe a lover left him, maybe he had begun to lose faith. So he traipsed up here and built this cross as a reminder to all not to lose hope. Or maybe it was just some dude with too much time on his hands.
Another half a kilometer brought be to Manjarin, a funky place, from the outside. It’s essentially an abandoned village that’s been converted into an auberge, but a rustic one with mattresses on the ground and an outhouse. Very basic. Asia stayed there and said it was rather primitive, although it sounds like she had a good time with the California girls (you haven’t met them yet) sleeping outside under the stars.
I took a few photos and walked down the mountain as it got light, although it was still foggy. I hit a paved road, and sat down for breakfast at a mobile food truck as the fog rolled by. It didn’t have the glamour of some of the other places I’d had breakfast, but it hit the spot. It was a little cold so I didn’t stay long.
After another kilometer or two, the fog still rolled in, but it wasn’t too foggy to see some fine advertising- a good sized sign (4X8 feet or so) advertised “the best auberge on the camino”. Being from ‘Merica, 
where advertising is a constant barrage, and affront to the senses, the lack of advertising here reminded me of how much we like our stuff. We like to buy stuff. Hence the “need” for advertising, for companies to compete for our dollar.
Are we materialistic? I don’t know, Which feeds which? Our incessant need for stuff (to replace, I suppose some void in our collective souls), or does the advertising promote the idea that we NEED stuff? I’ll let you ponder that one. Refer to the classic George Carlin monologue about stuff if you need help.
About a kilometer later, I started a great downhill slog. At the bottom was another picturesque little town (Acebo). It seems the success of the bar/restaurants that line the camino in these small towns isn’t dependent on advertising, but simply on which place is first. I went in and grabbed a drink and sat down. I talked a little with both Asia who I hadn’t seen in a day or two, and Aviva who I had just met the night before.
After I left, I caught up with Aviva, who told me she was going to be studying in Madrid, and that her program orientation was going to be in Santiago so…you do the math. She had heard about the camino and decided to just do it. And as mentioned, doing it alone. I gave her some sage advice- I reminded her that, when faced with tough decisions in life, remember to reflect on this walk, and to consider her instincts and her heart to help her make that decision, instead of overthinking it. Then again, what the fuck do I know?
Since I was on a roll, I told Aviva my theory of how emotions evolved (ok, well hypothesis maybe. Well, how about unfounded conjecture based on a whim?). An Australian dude named Jimmy-san (he made it clear this was his camino nome de plume) overheard me and recommended reading a book called “Sapien”. He said it has to do with how brutal a species we really are. And if we’re truly happy. Hmm….
Aviva and I walked out of the hills and into Molinaseca. We stopped at the bridge and snacked, I walked on alone and into rolling hills, and started to see vineyards, which reminded me we were nearing Bierzo, another wine region becoming famous in Spain. I walked on and started thinking about Jimmy-san and his book, the crazy species (humans) that I am a part of, how we perceive ourselves, and the effect it has on our actions. This was also due to a few comments I had gotten on the blog.
I had gotten a few positive comments on a recent post. For example: “…it made me cry” (they may have been referring to the grammar). I had been struggling as of late, trying to be consistent in posting, and trying to get back to where I had started, I felt like I had sort of lost my way, my voice wasn’t clear.
The post I had written was, I felt, pretty good and I had rediscovered some of the spark that was there at the beginning. But it made me look at myself in a new light. Other people actually think I know what the fuck I’m doing. And they like it. And it’s this light that the people around me back home have told me shines at times, but gets dimmed by dark clouds from my past.
I always used to discount everything else I did in life, for the most part. I never thought of what I had done as a big deal, even though it may have seemed so to others. This may be a curse of low self esteem. But maybe it was because I just wasn’t passionate about the other things I was doing. Maybe there really is true callings in life, and maybe I’ve discovered mine.
To write a post, refine it, and be satisfied with it, makes me feel like I really did accomplish something. it makes me whole. I guess it helps heal some of those scars I’m mending. It certainly seems like one of the things the camino is supposed to be teaching me.
I got into Ponferrada, a decent sized town, and checked into the municipal auberges which is where everyone was staying (that is if your a pilgrim and only have 5 bucks to spare). It started to sprinkle, the first rain I had seen since the Pyrenees. After showering, I sat down to write at a cafe and thought about calling Amanda but decided against it.
I thought back around the time the “chemistry had faded” between her and I. It so happened, that at about that time, something i did changed everything. We were sitting in Amanda’s backyard, a blanket wrapped around us as the night had grown cool.
An then, in the blink of an eye, all the bullshit, all the insecurities, all the hurt and anger from my past came rushing in causing me to say something that could never be taken back. I don’t know where it came from.
To this day I can’t figure out how it happened. i just know that it cut into the very fabric of our relationship, and the heart and soul of the woman I loved. After it happened there was no going back to the way things were before.
But I still thought there was hope. I thought we were both dealing with those lingering emotional scars and wounds from our pasts, and helping each other become more mature adults and possibly have a mature relationship (neither of us really had had one before) and to understand better our past relationships and how they had fucked us up.
I thought that in the end we would help each other figure things out, and, who knows? Amanda always said that hope was the one thing that got her through. And I believe her. Didn’t I say she’s always right?
I got back to the auberge and ran into Katia and we chatted for a few minutes. Clive and Jerique were in town but I found out the next day that they had found a private auberge that was new and…well not the standard municipal joint. But hey, this was part of the pilgrim experience. I climbed up into my bunk and felt the wind from the window next to me, reminding me of that cool night not that long ago…
In my dream, our love was lost
I lived by luck and fate.
i carried you inside of me
prayed it wouldn’t be too late.
Now Im standing here on this empty road
Where nothing moves but the wind.
And honey I just want to be
Back in your arms again.
Once I was your treasure
And I saw your face in every star
But these promises we make at night
Thats all they are
Unless we fill them with faith and love
There as empty as a howling wind
and honey all I want to be
Is back in your arms again…
-B.Springsteen
by Santiago | Dec 8, 2016 | Blog
Today was to be one of the most beautiful walks out of a town up to now on this, my personal chautauqua. The previous night, I had ended up at the municipal auberge in Ponferrada. Every town has one and it is the standard- bunks, showers, a place to hand wash, a kitchen to prepare your own food, some dude in the bunk above you snoring.
I stepped out in the dark and walked across the parking lot adjacent to the auberge and got fueled (my usual cafe con leche) and headed over to the camino- many of the auberges where smack dab on the camino, this one was more camino adjacent (like the places that are in Hawthorne but say they’re Manhattan Beach adjacent).
As I walked towards the camino I passed a new auberge with some pictures of the place in the window. For a few euro more I could have had relative luxury. My guess is the place even had paper towels in the paper towel dispensers. When I ran into Clive and Jerique later, they confirmed it’s pleasures, since they had happened upon it and stayed there.
I snaked through a few streets then came upon a castle that looked like it was straight out of Disneyland, or that crazy knights in shining armor restaurant in Buena Park with the Lipizzaner Stallions. I’ve never been, I just remember the TV ads screaming about the Lipizzaner Stallions, and I could never figure out why I was supposed to get excited about Lipizzaner Stallions. 
The castle actually dated back to the Knights Templar- a real thing, not just something Dan Brown made up for the Da Vinci Code (I’m one of the 14 people on earth who hasn’t read the book). Apparently they were the original wall street guys, and came up with financial techniques that were an early form of banking, amongst other things, so should be revered by us out in the west.
I walked by it the castle half expecting to see a guy trying to pull sword out of a stone or at least a dude with some white breeches and a codpiece playing a flute and dancing around like a madman. Or maybe I was just flashing back to the last Jethro Tull concert I went to decades ago.
Just after the castle, the camino snaked through old Ponferrada- several beautiful little plazas that looked like sets from movies, they were so picturesque and perfect, not to mention well lit. There was a sign for a hostel which means I may have been able to stay at a place right in the heart of this beautiful little city. I cursed Brierley who I had been using to inform my choices on places to stay up to this point.
Over the past few days I had began to notice that his information regarding the auberges sucked. I’m pretty much going to rescind my application with the pope for his sainthood. There were often considerable more auberges than he mentioned. From what I understand, since the camino has become more and more popular over the past few years, things have evolved considerably. But hey, I had bought Brierley’s 2016 guide and I expected it to be relatively up to date.
He also seems to favor the traditional (usually the municipal) over the private auberges, which incidentally have probably been popping up due to supply and demand, again relatively recently. I decided that from now on I would do more research and be better at choosing where I would stay. Hell, the municipal auberges were for the kids, I could afford a few more Euros and sleep at a private place. They both offered the same amenities, just a little nicer. It’s like the difference between Motel 6 and Best Western.
I walked through old Ponferrada in the coolness of the morning, it was still dark, and the sun was behind the mountains to the east. About 15 other pilgrims were in front of and behind me- they were stacking up like 767’s at Kennedy in the afternoon, as more and more people joined the camino. Like me, some started at St Jean Pied de Port, the jumping off point for the traditional “Camino Francis”. But others do shorter versions, or walk the camino segment by segment, coming back year after year.
In addition, there are several other Caminos, and most merge with the one I was on. If people do shorter segments, they often start at one of the larger cities (Leon, Astorga, Logrono). Many walk only the final 100 k, since walking the last 100 kilometers of the Camino de Santiago means that you can request your Compostela, or certificate of completion of the pilgrimage. All in all, this means that as you move along the camino, more people join in.
The route I was on- the one that started in St Jean Pied de Port in France and ended in Santiago was the old, traditional route. Many of my new fellow pilgrims looked like they were out for a day hike/jaunt. Hell, they didn’t have any of the the determined look, the blisters, or the stench of us “real” pilgrims.
After walking through this beautiful, old part of Ponferrada, the path traveled alongside a river lined with trees. It was idyllic and ancient and unyielding, and reminded me of an old Dylan song;
People disagreeing on all just about everything, yeah
Makes you stop and all wonder why
Why only yesterday I saw somebody on the street
Who just couldn’t help but cry
Oh, this ol’ river keeps on rollin’, though
No matter what gets in the way and which way the wind does blow
And as long as it does I’ll just sit here
And watch the river flow
Apparently Dylan had more time on his hands than I did. After the castle, the beautiful little ancient city, and the idyllic river I walked by, I wondered if the morning could get any better. Maybe if there was another spigot with free wine flowing…
After leaving the river, I climbed up out of this beautiful little valley where the city lies and hit daylight. The path paralleled one of the arteries feeding into the city, but not too many cars interrupted the morning, as it was still early. Soon the sound of the river would be replaced by that of noisy cars.
What do blisters have to do with epiphanies you might ask. Well, I think its only after the blisters have healed, when you’re calloused, you’re lean, your kind of floating that you can even be open to epiphanies. Before that, you’re fighting everything, mainly yourself. Kind of like what we do in life, in general.
But at some point, you finally have to give in, give yourself to the camino. Then your blisters will heal, your mind will calm, and you can look at yourself knowing that your existence on this mortal coil means something, and that you are loved. My blisters hadn’t quite healed but were well on their way…
After about 5 kilometers I met up with Clive and Jerique again as we entered
Fuentes Nueves. We didn’t stop, and soon we were walking through small farms, talking about the mountains in the distance we knew we would be climbing soon
, the highest point on the camino.
The part time pilgrims (as I was now referring to my clean and perfumed co-walkers) were falling behind. I watched an old, stooped farmer drive up on a little tractor, stop and unlock a chain, and drive the tractor into a field to go to work. It struck me as something he had probably been doing all his life. His father probably did the same.
In the end, how do we value our lives, the lives we’ve lived? What about that little farmer, perhaps working those fields every day of his life, compared to us and our hyper-speed, stressed out lives of great import? I’m probably romanticizing the life of the farmer, and perhaps stereotyping the lives of us modern folks. I guess it’s up not up to me (or anyone) to judge.
I guess most of us don’t look at the big picture, look at things this way. We are brought into our lives, we learn the ways of our world, we deal with shit, hopefully we enjoy some shit, get to live and love a little. I guess it is what it is. Both lives are just different, one no better than the other, one getting no more out of their life than the other. Hopefully we’re each souls passing through a body during a lifetime and picking up a few pointers about life along the way.
I left Clive and Jerique behind, walking ahead. After another kilometer or two, I stopped in a small town named Cacabelos. I was by myself and I stopped to get a snack. It was after breakfast so there was no one around. I set my pack down under a window and, well… on the window sill was a scallop shell.
There was no string (traditionally they have two hills drilled through them and a sting placed through to hang from your pack.) which made it seem even less like it had fallen off a pack or someone had left it. No one was around so I decided this was the camino presenting me my shell. I grabbed it and threw it in my pack. It’s funny, I had thought a lot about the changes I had started to make, the things the camino had taught me. So I guess it was time for me to receive my scallop shell (I wrote of the significance of the scallop shell in a previous post).
After leaving with my shell in tow and getting out of the village, I started walking through rolling hills which became more and more planted with grapes. I realized I was walking through the heart of Bierzo, probably the 2nd most known wine region in Spain, behind Rioja. At one point the camino went through the middle of a vineyard, where I caught up with some jolly Italian dudes who were laughing and carrying on. We had sort of a conversation (one of the guys spoke some english) but it didn’t matter, their laughter was infectious and made me smile and laugh. Music and laughter are two universal languages…
I happened to catch up with Clive and Jerique again just outside of Villafranca de Bierzo (they must have passed me somewhere along the way). We scoped out auberges together and settled on a place called auberges Leo. Besides the fact that it was a lovingly restored place 5 minutes from the river and 5 from the major plaza, the fact that I had an upper bunk next to a window overlooking the street that provided a cool breeze, and the fact that it had a bar as you entered made it the best place I had stayed at up to this point. What put it over the top was the fact that it had a paper towel dispenser. Not only did it have a paper towel dispenser, there were paper towels in it.
Pretty much every auberge I had been to, if they had a dispenser, did not have paper towels in it. It’s as if the auberges consultant told the owner it was a good idea to have a paper towel dispenser, but forgot to inform then they had to refill it once it ran out of towels. It’s a nice perk if you forgot to bring your towel to wash your hands or face (a necessity with 20 days of growth). Yes, packing your own towel on the camino is a necessity.
After a short nap, since the afternoon was hot, I put on my trunks/shorts (I have a pair that doubles as both – Costco/$14.99) and went to the river. the locals had damned it up and made there own swimmin’ hole. It was…glorious. I’m not really sure why Spain seems to have so many rivers and water flowing all over the place. The parts I had walked seemed relatively dry.
The owners of Auberges Leo were over the top nice. Maria was Spanish, and her husband was an Irish guy who stopped in and never left. He was effusive in giving out advice about tomorrows walk to Clive and I at the end of the night at the bar (he served as bartender too) as I sipped an awesome red from Bierzo. We found there were 3 options, two of them mountainous and they needed careful consideration.
I went back to my bunk, was looking forward to sleeping in a little as tomorrows mountain route prescribed a shorter (and cooler) walking day than usual, and I had decided to write in the bar before leaving in the morning. Sleep came easy, as I laid my head back and closed my eyes, giving thanks, imagining I was sitting next to Dylan, watching the river flow.
Amanda and I had discussed and compared each of our past relationships, and the effects on they had one us. I can’t speak for her, but it seemed to me there were similarities between the two. I know that my relationship caused me to devalue, doubt myself, and made it easier for me to be hurt and controlled.
And I truly think that, just as I didn’t understand what was happening to me, Janice may not have realized how she was affecting me. I really don’t know (only Janice does) if the purveying wisdom, which indicates that she may have been “…projecting their words, attitudes or actions onto an unsuspecting victim usually because they themselves have not dealt with childhood wounds that are now causing them to harm others…” was a factor in our relationship. I can only relate my experiences.
As I’ve mentioned, my healing accelerated when I met Amanda. I was already seeing things more clearly due to therapy. But I think that getting into a new relationship bolstered some insecurity and esteem issues I was dealing with, and moved me to a different, better place, perhaps simply because I was seeing life from a whole new perspective. I was with someone who valued me, who cared for me.
But I think due to my past (and Amanda’s) we became a little too dependent on each other. Maybe codependent. We both overlooked what was probably best for ourselves, individually, in deference to what was best for the other. Not that some give and take is important in a relationship. But we were both more than willing to give too much.
There seems to be a fine line between “dependance”, and “codependence”. Codependence “… is characterized by dependence on outer or external sources for self-worth and self-definition. This outer or external dependence, combined with unhealed childhood emotional wounds which get reactivated whenever an emotional “button” is pushed, cause the Codependent to live life in reaction to, give power over self-esteem to, outside sources.” – Codependence Defined.
At some point we both realized that something was wrong. The fact that we had both ran head on into each others arms and didn’t look back was somewhat due to each of our emotional makeup at the time. Both of us were recovering from our past relationships, so for me to find someone who was emotionally open, someone who cared, someone who wanted me (forget about the fact that she was beautiful) was, well, I can’t really put it into words.
But when you’ve been hurt in the past, you probably jump in too fast, throw a little too much caution to the wind, don’t use you’re best judgement. But it’s because suddenly you’re feeling something you’ve been missing, something you’ve ignored, something that just feels so damn good, so you just go with it.
And at first we clung to each other. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Just sitting around a fireplace we had to be touching, holding hands. Not that that’s not a good thing. But I think some of that may have been a manifestation of the beginning of our codependence.
Finally we stood back and realized what we had done. And how we had been too dependent on each other. But it’s also probably something we both needed to learn about ourselves, and each other. I still have to believe that we were put here to learn these lessons, and that they are good and necessary, if you choose to look at them that way.
Where am I going with this dear reader? Well, hopefully I will be able to tie up some loose ends and make sense of these three journeys as I originally intended, but got off track due to partly, finding out how fucking hard it is to write well (or at least mediocrely-yes it’s a word) after walking 25 kilometers day in and day out.
Thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you will finish this journey with me.
by Santiago | Dec 7, 2016 | Blog
I got up at 6, which was a little late for me, and had breakfast at the welcoming bar at Auberges Leo in Villafranca. Since it was so cozy, I decided to whip out the laptop and write. I hadn’t seen Clive and Patrique since just before my swim the previous day, but they happened to be leaving just as I was finishing up so I joined them.
There were three routes to consider, each of varying degrees of difficulty, the easiest was along the highway. I had considered attempting the hardest route called Dragonte, since Bill, my sort of camino mentor had taken this route. I may have mentioned him as the guy who I had discussed the camino with a few years prior and who was nice enough to meet me for a few beers a week before I left to field any questions I had.
But Clive and Jerique were taking the other mountain route, the “Ruta Pradela” so I decided to follow suit. A fortuitous choice, considering the outcome (yeah that’s a little foreshadowing). The cutoff from the main camino to the mountain route we had decided to take was just down the street from the auberge and started out at a steep incline. We found a cafe near by and had breakfast to the sound of young Spanish girls getting caffeinated and ready for their day, and church bells clanging close by.
The first kilometer out of town was at about a consistent 30 degree grade, so we got up over the town and and out of the valley it sat in rather quickly. Sometimes the view was wide open and we could see the highway and the cars racing by below, the town behind us. At other times we walked through pine and juniper.
At one point Jerique opted to shamble up a small peak while Clive and I waited a few minutes at the bottom, discussing matters of great import. It was then that he pulled out a small, laminated copy of a Longfellow poem that he kept with him, words to live by.
Not an hour earlier (as mentioned, back at Auberges Leo), I had all but finished a post from a few days prior (I was a few days behind on posts at this point), in fact it was concerning the day I met Clive and Jerry. But I needed a dénouement for the post, and here was Clive handing it to me on a silver platter. Sometimes you can only laugh at the serendipity of life, and again perhaps at another case of the camino providing.
As we moved on through the rolling hills, jerique mentioned the stacks of rocks we had been seeing along the side of the trail. In America I’ve heard them referred to as “ducks”. They’re essentially way markers, often used when the trail becomes obfuscated or lost. Up here though, pilgrims stack the rocks as a sort of totem, a wish or prayer. On second thought, maybe they are helping show someone the way…
I stopped and let my two fellow voyagers move ahead. I listened to their boot stomps trail off, and then listened to the silence. I thought about everything that had brought me here, the rough hewn soul who first set his boot-mark on the camino back in St. Jean. The one who had come this far, smoothing off the rough edges of discontent along the way. The past came rushing by on the wind and scattered a million sins, lies, hopes and dreams over the hillside.
A few tears wandered down my cheek. I picked up some stones and as I stacked one on top of the other, I imbued each one with a wish, or a hope for the things I had come here to try and make sense of. To fix things. To heal. My “prayers” went out to Janice, Hannah, Amanda. I thanked the universe for all those who had been brought into my life at one time or another, to teach me. As I stood there, a small painted lady butterfly landed on my shoulder. After a moment, as he flew off and drifted away, so did I down the path.
A funny thing about painted ladies. When Hannah was small, we got one of those butterfly kits- the ones where you get caterpillars in a terrarium and you watch their transformation into a butterfly, and then release them into the “wild” (well, the relative wild of the South Bay anyway). We released ours in the park behind our house.
Sometime later (maybe the next spring) Hannah and I were kicking a soccer ball around in the park and we stopped when we saw a few butterflies flying around. As soon as we stopped, several of them flew over toward us. I had Hannah hold her arm out and no less than 5 or 6 alighted on her arm, shoulder, and head. I don’t know if butterflies are instinctual, or if those ones even had any connection to the ones we had raised. I do know that I’ve never even had one butterfly just fly over and land on me.
After I caught back up with Clive and Jerique, we had a conversation about art- what it is, what makes art, etc. It was one of those conversations you have with great friends (we had know each other all of a few days), volleying opinions and ideas back and forth. Clive mentioned that this kind of thing is what’s great about the camino…3 people from 3 different parts of the world can talk about anything and everything, and no one gives a damn. Everyone respects everyone else and what they have to say.
Somewhere along the line Jerique piped in with a joke, which was apropos. He said that the packs on our backs are like the women in our lives- they are made up of a lot of baggage, but for the most part are indispensable.
And then Clive told a story about a time when he and a few friends were out on holiday. It was a Sunday and they had two beers and a bottle of wine between the four of them. They had passed a market and discussed getting more supplies, but thought there would be someplace else closer to where they were headed, so they continued on.
They arrived at their destination to find everything closed. They wandered around the town and heard some sounds floating down a dimly lit street. They walked down and discovered that the noise was coming from a closed pizza parlor, so they knocked on the door to see if they could buy a few beers. They were let in and proceeded to join the party- one of the guys owned the joint and it was simply a convenient place to meet, not to mention that it probably had a beer tap.
The moral of the story, according to one of Clive’s’ friends, was that “if you see a stick, cut it”. Sort of like a bird in the hand, better safe than sorry. The stick would be the store that was open. They should have stopped, and been prescient. Instead they hurriedly moved on to their destination to find nothing open.
But on the other hand, if they had stopped, they never would have went to the pizza parlor and experienced a new place, met new friends. I think if I would have had Clive’s friend’s attitude, I wouldn’t be out here on the camino.
We came to a fork, opting to walk an additional .8 k to a seldom visited town named Pradela to get a beer…er coffee. The sign for the place mentioned coffee, but as Clive reminded us when we got there, it was 5 o’clock somewhere.
Stuck back in the mountains, Pradela had somewhat escaped the double edged scythe of time. When we walked into town, a few of the towns people were tending to their teeming, robust gardens, starting out on their days work. I thought about how, with them, their very existence was directly tied to what they were doing that morning. It seems we, in our hurried lives of import, have a more abstract attachment to the work we do. If we knew that the very thing we were tending to was going to feed us, give us sustenance, we would treat it with as much love and caring as we could. Working at a crappy job all day doesn’t provide us with that.
After reaching the bar/cafe/auberge (the proprietress told us she had only 10 pilgrims stay so far this year) we drank our beer, sitting in the sun, basking in the rewards of taking the camino less traveled.
The roosters crowed, the dogs in attendance didn’t give us the time of day. A cat that was laying in the doorway of the auberges did not budge the whole time we were there as we stepped over him. We got a stamp for our pilgrim passport, each one hand drawn by the proprietress. We had to wait a few minutes to leave as a farmer was herding 20 head of cattle up the winding street. More cowbell!
In life, I guess we too often make the expected choice, go with the flow. Maybe we’re scared, maybe we’ve just been trained that way. Our choice to go to Pradela reminded me of the Robert Frost poem “The Road Not Taken”:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
We left and proceeded to walk down out of the mountains toward Trabadello, which rested at the bottom of the valley along the highway. After walking along the highway, we crossed it and joined with the “easy” camino, the one that paralleled the highway, and we ran into a few more pilgrims, the first ones we had seen since that morning, when we had chosen the mountain path.
There was a two lane highway running along my right side that followed the river that ran to my left, which also provided water for tall trees, and offered us shade. I’m sure this is the “old road” the one that, at one time, got people through the valley on a gently winding path and eventually to their destination at the other end of the valley.
Above us was a new highway cut into the cliffs, being held up by massive pillars. I guess it enables busy people to get somewhere 10 minutes sooner than they had been able to before. I walked along looking at the new highway above, and listened to the river murmuring beside me.
A few more kilometers down the road we stopped at an auberge in Ruetelin but Jerique didn’t like it so we moved on. The owner did seem a little surely. We had to walk another 1.4 k to Herrerias, but I was glad we did. A quaint little town with a few auberges and at least 5 or 6 bar/restaurants. As we walked into town, my left leg began to hurt- my first taste of any real pain besides blisters. I had heard of shin splints, and so I diagnosed myself as having such. I was pretty sure they weren’t fatal so I was determined to continue on with them. I’m pretty sure it was the downhill from the day that caused it.
After taking a shower and washing my clothes, I hobbled down to the river to soak my leg. The river was cool and my leg felt a little better. After a half hour, I went back to the auberge to collect my clothes from the line and there sat Michael and Miciaj. We smiled, and picked up where we had left off a few days before.
We talked for awhile and then Michael and I both needed to write. I excused myself to find a bar to do some writing, have a beer and call Amanda about a project we were working on. We talked about the project, but then did what we usually do- talked about anything and everything.
I think I’ve mentioned it before, but it’s as if she and I have known each other most of our lifetimes (or maybe a past lifetime or two), and our conversations usually go on and on. Which is a good thing. It was comforting to hear her voice while I was out here by myself in the middle of Spain.
I was planning on having the pilgrims dinner with Clive and Jerique at the auberge but it was too late by the time Amanda and I were done talking, although it wouldn’t have mattered since I had forgot to let them know before hand that I would be attending. But as I was walking back to the auberges, Aviva was sitting outside at the restaurant/bar by the auberge. Like Michael and Miciaj, I didn’t think I was going to see her again.
So I sat down and had a beer and a bocadillo with her and we discussed where we had been, what we had seen since the last time we had met. Another case of one decision made (to talk to Amanda past dinner call) that resulted in an unexpected, pleasant surprise.
After we finished, Aviva left and I joined Patrique and Clive who were finishing up beers at another table for a few minutes, soaking in the heat of the evening. My ankle was throbbing, but I hoped some sleep would help. I then headed back to the auberge and grabbed my remaining clothes that were still drying from the line and packed.
I needed to make up some time since I hadn’t really sat down and got specific with my schedule until now. I always knew I was on schedule more or less but upon closer analysis, the writing was on the wall. So I would be getting up early to make my push towards Compostella, the end of the trail, while Jerique and Clive would be sleeping in and taking their time, as they were meeting their partners 2 days after I had catch a train back to Madrid.
I was lying in my bunk and reviewing how far I would have to walk the next few days (with a messed up leg!) and realized that I would probably be leaving any and all of these last friends I had been walking with behind. I whispered “goodbye” and drifted off to sleep, ready to set off the next morning in the dark, an end of sorts, but also another new beginning.
Recent Comments