I kept up my pace to assure myself of the privacy I wanted to maintain. And before I knew it, I happened upon a makeshift oasis alongside the road, filled with other pilgrims drinking coffee, eating snacks, and sitting in the sun.
I blinked as I got closer to this spot. How on earth did these people get here? Where did they come from? Other than the Germans who were behind me, I hadn’t seen a single soul all day long, and yet sitting here were at least 15 pilgrims.
I shook my head in wonderment as I cruised up to a little table and put my poles and Pilgrim down. My blood sugar was so low and my fever so high by now it was time for a cold Coke. As soon as I sat down to enjoy it, I noticed the tour bus just ahead on the road. Within minutes the Germans started walking by and boarding the bus. They probably walked about 5 kilometers from start to finish. Shaking my head at the different ways we human beings did things, I downed my Coke and ate another PowerBar. It was good to be me.
Day 18
(22 km; 14 mi)
Calzadilla de la Cueza to Sahagún
I made it to Calzadilla by 2:30 in the afternoon, which was record time for me. I was so hungry and drained by the time I arrived all I wanted to do was eat lunch and go to sleep. I was sure I had a fairly high fever, as my head was pounding and I had a bad case of the chills. Thankfully, the sun was out, and since the town was nonexistent, finding my way to the hostel was easy.
When I arrived I saw Cheater sitting right in front of the receptionist’s desk waiting for me. I was so happy to see him, as I could hardly wait to settle into my room, get out my pillow and sleeping bag, take an ibuprofen, and go to sleep. The only saving grace about my fever was that it took my attention off my aching feet for almost the entire day, which was a welcome relief.
The receptionist was a warm and welcoming Spaniard who liked to touch a lot. He held my hand when he handed me my room key and rubbed my back when I reached down to pick up my day pack, which I had set down when I walked in the door. He was extremely gracious and offered to escort me to my room and carried Cheater for me. The elevator to the third floor, where my room was located, was very small. The two of us along with Cheater made for a tight squeeze, and for this he seemed particularly happy. We were nearly cheek-to-cheek as we lurched upward in the shaky lift, and several times he lunged into me when I knew he didn’t have to.
Although it was weird and uncomfortable to be caged in with him like this, I was too tired to care. If anything, I had to smile at the way in which he managed to be in such close contact with me when it was entirely unnecessary. Given how dreary the town was, with obviously nothing to do but welcome pilgrims as far as I could tell, I had to admire how he used this overly gracious welcome tactic to break up the monotony. Once we arrived on the third floor, he guided me to the back of the hostel, away from the noise in the lobby and restaurant downstairs. He then gave me a big chest-to-chest uncomfortably long hug, which I had to peel myself away from by saying, “Muchas gracias, señor.” Turning my back to him, I walked toward the door. He stepped back and watched me for a moment and once he saw I was in my room, he turned and left (thank God).
Once in my room I plopped onto the bed and closed my eyes. “Please don’t let me get any sicker than this,” I said out loud to the Universe. “I don’t feel good,” I groaned and allowed myself to relax, too tired to even take my jacket off, hoping I could just fall asleep.
But instead of dozing off, I immediately heard a fairly loud ruckus coming from downstairs. I kept my eyes closed as I listened, but couldn’t quite make out what was happening. I didn’t want to either, so I just lay on my bed trying to tune it all out.
I had no such luck. It was getting louder. I could hear all sorts of languages flying around and waves of laughter and singing. It seemed as though my little hostel had become the local pilgrims’ landing, and with more and more pilgrims arriving by the moment came more talking, more laughter, and more singing. Giving up on all thoughts of an afternoon nap, I remembered that I was hungry, so decided to get cleaned up and go down and join the jamboree.
The minute I peeled off my boots, my feet started screaming at me again. I had been walking in my boots every day now because, as much as they still hurt my sensitive toes, it helped with the electric shock waves of pain I was now getting across my arches. I was able to use my limited amount of medical tape to wrap my feet tight for two days at a time if I was careful not to get my feet wet in the shower. The way I got around this was to wrap them in plastic bags and tie them around the ankle with hair ties, a rather ingenious solution if I say so myself. This had worked for the past seven days now, but I knew I would have to find more medical tape soon because I was running out.
After my shower I took three ibuprofen and wished I had some cough syrup because a chest cold was now moving in with a vengeance. Since I didn’t, I decided to go downstairs and drown my misery in red wine.
Once there I saw just about every pilgrim I had passed on the Camino since the day I began in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port with the exception of Camino Patrick. I saw the Italians, and Colum and Alex, as well as the two Germans and one Austrian I shared a table with in the café days ago. I saw the pilgrim who had asthma way back at the beginning, and even the French people who walked with their wagon, which was now parked outside in front of the hostel. It was like a huge unexpected reunion. Everyone acknowledged everyone, celebrating that we had all made it this far.
As I am normally quiet, I sat down at a table and just smiled at first, but soon it felt as though I were with a group of my best friends. The ruckus was mostly coming from the Irish pilgrims who were drinking large quantities of beer and singing, but there were also two rambunctious Dutchmen and two guys from England who matched them, beer for beer and song for song.
There were so many bottles of wine on the tables that someone thrust a glass in my hand and filled it to the brim, saying “Buen Camino” before I could object, so I clinked glasses with everyone and joined in the festivities.
After two large glasses of wine I felt tipsy and knew if I didn’t add at least some bread to the mix, I might pass out, as I was already feeling light-headed when I first sat down. I got up and went to the bar and asked for an egg bocadillo, which was promptly served up as I watched the waitress cook it in front of my eyes. It was huge and I didn’t think I could eat it all. But I surprised myself, and inhaled it in a matter of minutes, licking my fingers and marveling that it had all disappeared.
The party had now grown to at least 30 pilgrims, and as fun as it was to be there, I had to throw in the party towel and go back to my room. Between the wine, my now sore throat, and my full stomach, I had no more “oomph” in me to carry on.
As I headed to the elevator, I passed by the receptionist’s desk once again, only to notice that Lover Boy was now signing in another guest, this time a middle-aged man from Canada. He slapped his room key down on the counter without so much as looking up at him and nodded in the direction of the elevator with a smirk. It was such a departure from the royal welcome I had just received that I was surprised. Shaking my head as I proceeded to the elevator, where the Canadian was also now getting in, I overhead him saying to himself, “Geez. What a jerk that guy was!”
He pushed the button for the third floor, and we both headed up. When he got off he looked at his key and saw that his room was right off the elevator overlooking the very loud lobby. He groaned again, as the noise was almost out of control. I looked at him and said, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”
“Guess so,” he answered. Then we both said “Buen Camino” at the same time and went our separate ways.
I slept until the next morning, almost 14 straight hours. It was fitful sleep, and I was freezing cold and coughed most of the night, so I didn’t exactly feel rested when I woke up. Still, I got up and decided to take a hot shower and get going. I just wanted to push through and be done with this Camino experience. It seemed long.
After my shower, I packed up Cheater and stuffed Gumby
into my pocket. All was quiet downstairs as I entered the elevator and pushed the ground-floor button.
A different receptionist greeted me this time, a quiet young man whom I assumed to be the son of the man who checked me in yesterday.
He asked if I slept well and said I could find breakfast in the dining room adjacent to the lobby. He was the opposite of his overbearing, touchy-feely father and I wondered if he ever thought about walking the Camino himself just to get away.
Soon my thoughts drifted away from him and on to the buffet. There was cereal, yogurt, large slices of bread with butter and jam, fresh orange juice, and thermoses of coffee. As good as it looked, I stuck with yogurt and juice, as I had woken up with a severe sore throat.
I looked around and noticed the room was filled with pilgrims this morning, but they were very quiet. Honestly, most of them looked hungover. Well, it’s nothing they can’t walk off today, I thought, hoping the same would be true for my sore throat.
The coffee was bad, so I finished my yogurt and went out to the lobby bar, where I noticed an espresso machine. I ordered a large café con leche and sat on a stool while the barista made it. Then I remembered to get my pilgrim’s passport stamped, so I took it out of my small shoulder purse and gave it to her for the prized acknowledgment that said, yes, I made it this far.
The sun was out, but the wind was kicking up debris and I just knew it would be another cold day. I decided I was not dressed warmly enough to brave the cold, so I walked over to Cheater, opened him up, and pulled out a second long-sleeve wool shirt to put over my first long-sleeve wool shirt. This feels better, I thought, attempting to fight off the chills that had taken over my body.
I sipped my last delicious drops of coffee, put my day pack on, slung my little purse over that, stuck Gumby in the front looking out, and headed for the door. I had overheard that there were few places to stop along the way for a snack or coffee, so I made sure my water bottle was filled to the brim and that I had at least two PowerBars to keep me going.
I stepped outside and was hit with freezing-cold air but a bright sun. I then put on my hiking gloves, donned my Foreign Legion/burka sun hat, extended my walking poles, and was off. My feet took a few minutes to cooperate, testing my resolve to keep moving by sending extra-strong electric shocks along the sides of each foot, but I was not to be slowed down or dissuaded from the adventure ahead.
“Ultreya!” I said aloud, which means “Onward” in Spanish. In spite of my sore feet, and increasingly sore throat, I was a pilgrim and had to keep moving.
Holy Mother-Father God,
Please give me strength today because I don’t feel that well.
Thank you, and amen.
Thankfully, the path was flat today, and the wind died down a bit after about an hour. I got lost in my reverie, realizing that as I walked, I entered an almost dreamlike state of consciousness, drifting from the moment and the beauty and strangeness all around me to my life back home and the discomfort of what I had to face when I returned, to past lives and unlived dreams, and back again.
The rhythm of my footsteps took me into a deep state of meditation and for hours my mind became silent as I slipped into a resting place with God. I could tell that as I walked I was peeling off lifetimes of pain and sorrow and sin, and that I was purging myself of darkness and wounding, both self-inflicted as well as at the hands of others. The feelings of anger and grief I had started out with had all started to lift, and in their place I was feeling an interesting blend of confusion and curiosity, wondering, like the Talking Heads song so poignantly asks, “How did I get here?”
There was not much to look at as I walked, beyond the occasional Camino shell, yellow arrow, some stone configurations, and a sign explaining that the path I was walking was once walked in the 9th century. That amazed me. The 9th century! That was 12 centuries ago. That is how long this route under the Milky Way has been traveled.
As time passed I felt, once again, as though I had entered an alternate universe. Maybe my physical body was in the here-and-now dimension, but the rest of me had stepped into another dimension, another time and place. My ego identity faded away, and I began to witness my life from a more detached state than ever before.
I knew the journey to Santiago was a metaphor for the inner journey back to the heart and soul of my spirit. I knew that I was walking off old karma, letting go of my attachment to my old stories, releasing my wounds back to the earth, while being restored by nature as I walked back into my pure and sweet essence.
And yet, I also understood the need for this journey. To simply say to myself or anyone else, “I am forgiven” or “I forgive” could not shift my past karmic energy as well as walking the Camino. I was walking myself out of trauma and grief and anger and shame and righteous indignation and feelings of worthlessness and over-thinking and every other faulty human perception that blocked the truth of my being from shining through.
I loved the journey even though it was hard, painful, extremely uncomfortable and challenging, and at times seemed endless and to make no sense. The Camino was about coming back to myself, to blessings, to forgiveness, to trust, to discipline and prayer and faith.
I breathed and sat down. It was time for a PowerBar. My energy had just dropped and I felt like passing out. As I swallowed hard I was now in a full sweat, with a sore throat that felt as though it were on fire. I knew something more than a chest cold was happening. I peeled off my second wool shirt and wrapped it around my waist. I also wrapped my jacket around my waist and pulled off my walking gloves, as even these were too hot to keep on. I lay down on the ground and rested. All I could think of was that at least I didn’t have any blisters on my feet. Not one. I had enough blister treatment in Pilgrim and Cheater to open a foot clinic and yet had only suffered the slightest blisters way back when I wore my clown shoes. Closing my eyes I thought I must be delirious to be thinking about this as I lay on the ground.
I didn’t care. The ground felt cool and I was so hot. I stayed there until I, too, cooled off. Once again up, I looked around and saw nothing for as far as I could see. The sun danced across the plains, and I could see wavy lines that revealed the energy of the sun reflecting off of the earth. I wondered how much farther I had to go before I came to a town.
It didn’t matter. I would get there when I got there, so I kept on going. Walking the path today I could really sense the Templars’ protective, yet warrior-like, presence. The villages that did remain were mostly left in ruins, but this area had once been a Templar stronghold and their energy still hung in the air. I wondered what their lives were really like.
I heard my spirit answer, “Certainly not much fun.”
That made me laugh. “Certainly not.”
The more I walked, the more my fever burned me up.
Slowly pushing ahead, I suddenly screamed out, “Help! I am burning up.”
Just then, a whoosh of energy flooded through me, and I saw myself being burned at the stake during the Inquisition.
This vision left me speechless, and a little freaked out. It wasn’t a thought. It was a flashback!
The sweat was pouring down my face as I whipped my sun hat off. I was so hot that I actually thought for a moment of taking my pants off, as well.
I started to pray, and what came out of my mouth was, “I forgive me. I forgive them. I forgive everybody. I forgive everything. I forgive all of us.”
I was crying and probably a little delirious with fever under the burning sun, but after only a few moments, the wind kicked back up and everything started to cool down again. I was back to the Camino. I was even getting a little cold. I noticed a sign that said Sahagún was just ahead. I just kept walking.
In what seemed like time travel forward, I found myself suddenly on the edge of Sahagún, walking along a train track leading into the center of the town. It felt like I was entering a town in the old Wild West. Once I crossed the tracks, the feeling of the place charmed me. It was a Sunday and the local people wer
e all dressed up, strolling around, eating ice cream, and walking arm in arm. Farther on, I happened upon the town square, lined with restaurants and cafés, where it seemed the entire town was enjoying Sunday lunch together. Kids in their Sunday best were dancing and running around in the square, and in one corner was a shrine to Mother Mary. On it was a nearly life-size doll dressed in a purple cape, complete with makeup and wig, on top of a table filled to the brim with flowers. It was a bit surreal, but I enjoyed the sense of theater. I kept on walking, looking for my hostel, when I noticed a sign for the local emergency room. Without thinking I headed straight to it. When I rang the doorbell, a young woman answered and I pointed to my throat.
She motioned for me to sit down and said the doctor would arrive in a minute. To my surprise, she did arrive in a minute, and even better, she spoke a little English.
I told her I had a very bad sore throat and maybe a fever. She took my temperature and said I had a 103-degree fever. Then she took a look at my throat and immediately said, “You have a throat infection, maybe strep. It looks very bad. You need medicine.”
I agreed. I felt very bad, and I did need medicine.
She wrote me a prescription and then gave me the address of the pharmacy.
“Open today?” I asked, knowing it was Sunday.
“Sí, until 2 P.M.,” she answered.
I thanked her for the help and asked her what I owed her, hoping it wouldn’t be too much as I had very few euros on me.
“No charge. You are a peregrina. Go with God,” she answered.
“Thank you,” I said, so grateful for her help and her kindness.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 23