I didn’t see anywhere to lock them and reply, “So no one takes them.”
She laughs and orders us to march back upstairs and leave the bags. “No one will steal your packs peregrinos! You have a long way to walk, you shouldn’t be taking your backpacks with you to dinner. They don’t need the calories as much as you do!”
We grab a baguette and a gateaux for dessert from a small shop as the sun starts to go down. Taking a seat outside near the small bridge in the city center, I am finally relaxed enough to take in the scene. The gateaux, a tart from the Basque region of France, is filled with pastry cream and brandied cherries. A light buttery crust envelopes a perfectly sweet, tart, and creamy center. It is absolutely delicious. The golden rays of the setting sun cast long shadows over the cobble-stone streets, and as we eat, we listen to the river below. A beautiful midsummer European scene.
“Why is French bread so good? Seriously, what do they put in this stuff?” Amy asks with her mouth full of baguette.
A man walks by with wife and small daughter in tow and offers a friendly, “Bon appetit!”
“¡Gracias!” I reply as Amy slaps me on the shoulder.
“We are in France, not Spain, you idiot! Wrong language,” she jokes.
I am giddy with excitement, fear, and butterflies as Amy and I start to strategize our plan of attack for tomorrow. We decide getting a good night’s sleep is definitely the best way to begin this adventure and head back to the albergue early.
The room had filled to capacity with pilgrims while we were gone. I have never experienced such a somber and quiet mood in a hostel before. After the polite “holas” and “hi how are you’s” everyone is completely silent as we all become lost in our heads contemplating the long road ahead. A thousand thoughts swirl around the room like a silent swarm of bees. Some feverishly write in journals and others simply stare at the ceiling while lying on their beds. Many are lost in prayer, their lips moving silently with their thoughts.
We have given ourselves 30 days, a slightly quicker pace than most, to walk from St. Jean Pied-de-Port to Santiago de Compostela. A journey that will take us approximately 490 miles through the northern part of Spain. My head fires off questions as I lie down, trying to get some sleep. What will it be like? Will I find the answers to my questions? Who will I meet? Will Amy and I fight? Will I be physically able to make it?
Tomorrow we cross the Pyrenees Mountains and the French-Spanish border. As the sun sets and the lights go out, I cannot sleep. I feel a large pit form in my stomach as I wrestle with nerves. Rest never comes as I am lost in my thoughts. Tomorrow we begin.
Euphoria
Trail Day 1
Before the sun is up, our room is bustling with life. I glance out the window, and through the morning fog I spot two pilgrims silently gliding past below. A shock of electricity hits me. This is actually happening! No one speaks as we pack our backpacks and head downstairs to start the day with what is arguably the worst breakfast ever. Black burnt toast and coffee with the flavor of funk. We drink our coffee from a cereal bowl as our cheery French hospitalera, the famous Amandine, tells us the custom of this region. “We use bowls because it is easier to dip your croissant in your coffee,” she explains.
We gulp down the funk, strap on our 7-kilo packs (15.4 pounds) and after three years of planning we are finally walking! I am filled with adrenaline and our beginning pace, despite everyone warning us to take it easy, is quick. We start a beautiful climb through forests, fields, and increasingly spectacular views of the lush green Pyrenees Mountains.
We walk relatively alone during the morning hours, and I immediately notice the peaceful feeling of just walking. The hikers are all still mostly quiet and contemplative as they walk. Amy shares her mantra for the day, which I adopt, “I am light and I am strong. I have all of the answers I need inside of me.” I am apparently married to Buddha or at the very least a much wiser soul than I. My focus is on this thought off and on for the next few hours.
I already find myself deep in thought, hoping to be hit on the head with a bright flashing light offering me the clarity I am seeking on this trip. What is my next move? I spent my 20s as a radio disc jockey, Travel Channel host, videographer, webmaster, and recruiter for a study abroad program. Those sound like great gigs—and they were—but nothing panned out.
I loved hosting a radio show, and landing the night show at a big top 40 station in town was the best job any junior in college could ask for. I remember the first time someone asked me for my autograph. It was thrilling and an immediate drug-like injection straight to my ego. I wanted more. I graduated from Colorado State University and landed a job as a Travel Journalist on the Travel Channel. I got to travel the world, be on TV, and get paid for it. Photo shoots in Los Angeles, press conferences in Hong Kong, and when I got back home, even more people stopped me for a photo and an autograph. Life was good. But alas, the show was temporary, and I had to figure out what I wanted to do next. I tried radio again, but it felt different. Somehow stale. I wasn’t fulfilled, so I quit and felt crazy for doing so.
I moved to Denver to move in with Amy as things were getting the way they do when you fall in love. I got a job for CBS updating their websites with content, and after four long months, I told Amy that it was a job that “crushed my soul.” So again, I quit.
The insanity escalated. I begged for my previous radio job back. I remember being so lost in a constant state of anxiety not knowing which direction to turn. I met with my old boss and tried to explain why after having quit my hosting gig on his radio station’s morning show only four months ago it was a good idea to take me back. I explained how CBS crushed my soul, how things would be different, how I had found my passion for radio again and why I deserved a second chance. He told me he would have to convince a lot of people that it was a good idea to take me back. After a week, I was offered that second chance, and in an epic move of career suicide, I turned down the job. I told him I had changed my mind, again.
I buried myself in self-help books. What Color Is Your Parachute? I had no idea. I took career tests, made endless lists of possible jobs including ridiculous options like helicopter pilot and career coach. Amy helped me realize that being a career coach was probably not a great idea for someone in my situation. She suggested maybe I go see a career coach for some advice instead. More than once I wondered if I should ask for a third chance with my old boss. Thankfully, I thought better of that idea.
Leveraging my video skills and radio background, I eventually landed a job creating video content for a cluster of Denver radio stations, and it was fun. I got to interview big name bands, host a weekend show, and produce entertaining video content for the station’s listeners. But instead of the rush I used to get from being in this exciting world, I felt like a fish out of water. For me it lacked purpose, and the agony of feeling like you are not on your true path is hard to handle. I became frustrated with the advice that I should follow my passion. “Don’t worry, just go for it,” my well meaning friends would say. But I didn’t know what it was. If I did, I would have been going for it!
As we trek up a steep trail, questions about life bounce around in my head: Do I start a business like I have always wanted? What about the risk? What business would I even start? The true question underneath them all continues to surface: What is my purpose in this life? I am now 32 and desperately in need of direction. We stop for a break to take it all in, and I try to focus on keeping my head clear. I grab the small journal from my pack and decide to write. For me this is a calming exercise. Writing is a sort of meditation.
Amy and I sit for a while, listening to the birds singing, the rustle of the trees swaying in the wind, and the soft call of the mountain sheep that are hidden in the clover-covered hills. Watching the clouds roll around themselves below us, stress melts away. Even the blades of grass and honey-bees buzzing from flower to flower seem to add to the perfect symphony of sound.
“What if we want to do this again?” Amy breaks the silence.
“Let’s make it through one day before we start to plan our next trip,” I say and smile in return. And then doze off into an unplanned nap. I wake up, surprised to see Amy in downward dog.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like?” she replies. “Yoga! Stretching feels so good!”
I shake my head and sit up to take a look around. There are a handful of pilgrims pointing and giggling as they pass. Amy was going to bring her yoga mat with her, a point of contention in our planning process. I ultimately won, convincing her that the weight would be worse for her joints than the benefit of actually doing yoga. She has apparently decided to use the soft grass as her yoga mat.
“Well get it in now. I don’t think we will be able to move with so much ease in a few days,” I say. She has made her way to tree pose.
“Nonsense! This is precisely why I will be able to move with ease in a few days, you’ll see!” she argues while twisting into a pretzel.
This stage has an elevation climb of 1,390 meters (4,560 feet), and we make it to our high point of 1,450 meters (4,757 feet) after six hours of trekking, snapping pics, and setting our quick pace. Near the summit, I spot a fellow pilgrim with a bright white beard and notice something peculiar. He is walking barefoot! I notice the look of happiness on his face. His pace is similar to ours so we walk “with” him for about an hour.
He takes time to dip his feet in a mountain stream, feel the grass between his toes, and every once in a while pauses to take a deep breath of fresh mountain air. He looks euphoric and completely at peace surveying the incredible mountain scenery. The weather could not be better and the panoramic views of the mountains all around us are breathtaking. He sits near us as we take in a particularly spectacular view and decide to have a snack. “Beeeuuteefull yaw!” he yells to us in broken English. I nod back with a giant smile in agreement.
Here is a man who has a simple pack and no shoes, while I spent months debating between hiking shoes or trail running shoes. Agonizing over what backpack would be most comfortable and purchasing specialized socks that allow your feet to breathe yet stay insulated. I laugh at myself and mentally thank him for teaching me to not take things so seriously.
After our break, I yell, “Buen Camino” to our nameless friend and continue on. I can already feel the effects of walking with a pack, so we decide to take it slow on the steep decent into Roncesvalles, which proves to be more challenging than the ascent. Most injuries happen here as still excited pilgrims descend too quickly with their heavy packs. Small tears in your tendons begin and develop into more serious problems with every step you take.
We arrive in Roncesvalles after roughly 11 hours of walking and my feet are absolutely on fire. I collapse at the first bar and grab two beers as we survey the damage. One blister on Amy’s left foot and both of my feet are aching. Despite the pain, I am loving this adventure! We sit outside enjoying two pinxos, or small plates, and chatting with fellow pilgrims who all have the same look on their faces as we do: tired bliss.
I notice my left knee is really hurting. I have never experienced this type of pain in my left knee, and the feeling of regret slowly creeps into my mind. I wish we would have taken today more slowly. Amy shares with me her lesson of the day, “I am not invincible, even though I try to be. Humility is key.”
“My knee really hurts,” I say, trying to dismiss my worry.
“I am sure it will be better tomorrow,” Amy replies.
As a Colorado native who grew up hiking in the Rocky Mountains I assumed that this trek would be completely possible with no training at all. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have trained. This might be harder than we both thought.
“Ouch!” Amy painfully winces as she takes off her shoes and socks, tending to her blister.
“Need the blister kit?” I ask.
“I guess,” she replies in frustration. “Seriously! I can’t believe I have to use the kit already.” She quickly gets to work on her new little friend.
The albergue for the night is an enormous stone building with 183 beds divided into four rooms. We pay our 10 euros apiece and hand over our pilgrim passports to receive our first stamp. We start to head upstairs to find our beds when one of the workers yells at us.
“Shoes off!” he scolds us.
“Oh. Sorry I didn’t know,” I reply. “Where do we put them?”
We are shown a large room full of hundreds of pairs of shoes. “Just don’t forget where you put them!” the man jokes.
Upstairs the bunks are separated into cubicles of four and as we set down our packs, we meet our cube mates. John from New Orleans and a kind older German man who does not speak any English or Spanish, so we communicate through gestures and smiles. He speaks to us a lot in German over the course of the evening even though we have no idea what he is saying. It always amazes me that you really can have a conversation without having a clue what exactly the other person is saying.
“We have a problem,” Amy says returning from the greeting area downstairs. “Remember how our shampoo got tossed by TSA at the airport? Well, the people downstairs say that the closest place to buy shampoo is about a day’s walk away. Since we planned to use the shampoo for soap as well, we don’t have anything to clean off today’s yuck.”
“There is hand soap in the bathrooms. I guess we can use that,” I joke. “We are roughing it now!”
After a hand soap shower, we head out to dine on our first menú del peregrino, or pilgrim menu, at one of the two restaurants in town. For 9 euros, we eat a simple but delicious meal. A pilgrim menu is basically a special meal for pilgrims that most restaurants offer along the Way. It is similar to the normal menú del dia, or menu of the day, you find all over Spain but usually is a little cheaper. It typically consists of a first course, second course, bread and dessert, and usually includes a bottle of wine. The cost is typically only 7 to 10 euros so the price for the much needed high calorie meals is quite good.
The dinner is communal style and starts with simple pasta and chorizo, followed by fresh river trout, dessert, bread and a bottle of red wine. We sit with a group from Italy and France who have all done the Camino de Santiago before and assured us, “This will change your life!” I tell them our plan of walking further than the recommended stage tomorrow, and they beg us to reconsider.
“I am serious, Gabe,” a concerned Italian man tells me as everyone nods in agreement. “Don’t walk too far tomorrow. Why are you walking the Camino anyway?”
“It’s stupid I guess,” I reply, feeling a bit sheepish sharing something so personal with people I have known for less than an hour. “I need focus. I need to know what my purpose is. I need to know what career I should pursue. I need to know why I am here. Here on Earth, that is.”
“This is not stupid,” the Italian man replies with a slight smile. “We are all here for different reasons. Be open to the lessons you will discover on your way to Santiago. Don’t force the answers, and don’t forget this is not a race so take it slow.” I nod in agreement.
Church bells ring loudly from somewhere outside and another woman from Italy asks, “Time for Mass. Would you like to come?”
“No thanks, not today,” I politely decline.
We say our goodbyes as the entire table heads outside, leaving Amy and me alone. The concern on their faces has planted a seed of doubt and fear in my mind. I have only pretended to consider their requests to walk less tomorrow. I would soon learn that we should have listened to their advice.
The Barista
Trail Days 2—3
It has been a while since I have slept on the top bunk of a bunk bed, and I am beginning to see that sleep deprivation may lead to possible hallucinations on this trek. My un-needed alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m., and I look around to see many pilgrims already heading out the door. Amy and I stuff our sleeping bags quietly into our packs and slip outside before dawn. We are greeted by a dark, damp sky and a wet path as it has rained all night. I spot a sign on the
way out of town, Santiago de Compostela - 765 km. I glance at Amy and point to the sign. She is not amused. We both clearly need coffee. We sleep walk for hours through a thick forest as the day slowly turns from dark to light. Finally we see a bar and grab our first café con leche of the day, coffee with steamed milk.
The caffeine starts to wake me and I start to become aware of my body. My left knee is still killing me. I try to squash a bit of panic as I think about how far we still have left to go. This is only day two of 30!
After breakfast, we stumble onward and keep seeing a group of four guys we briefly met the first day in St. Jean. They were staying at our first albergue, and we recognize each other. They are from Hungary and decided a few weeks ago to walk the Camino de Santiago. We say “Buen Camino” and end up talking to them as we walk for a few hours. I immediately connect with one in particular as I am quickly realizing that the people you meet on the Way are a huge part of this international experience. So many people from so many walks of life walk the Camino for a myriad of reasons.
His friends jokingly call him The Barista, and I find out why as we end up talking about coffee for about an hour. He is passionate about the topic and is also a youth pastor in a church back home. He just had his first child (we are the same age) and is clearly a proud new father.
“So, why are you here walking the Camino de Santiago?” I ask as we walk.
“I have a big decision in life,” he explains slowly in English, his second language. “I am a youth pastor in Hungary. I also love coffee. My dream is to have a coffee shop with books and to speak with people from all over the world as they drink my delicious brews.”
“That sounds amazing,” I reply as we continue on a wide dirt trail through a thick oak forest. Amy is a ways back chatting with the rest of the group.
“Yes, but I am a pastor and I don’t know if I can do both,” he explains.
Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago Page 2