Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago

by Gabriel Schirm

  “So you are looking for your answer out here in the woods?” I ask.

  “I want God to tell me what to do,” he replies with a big smile.

  “Maybe you can do both?” I suggest. “Be a pastor and have a coffee shop.”

  “Maybe. Maybe. I don’t know,” he replies as we enter a clearing and take in a big blue sky. There is not a cloud in sight. The June summer sun beats down on us all, and both The Barista and I take a second to wipe the sweat from underneath our large straw hats. I can tell that he is really struggling with this decision, somehow stuck between what he wants to do and what he is supposed to do.

  “What do you do?” he asks.

  “Nothing important,” I reply. “I am trying to figure things out.” We pause for a sip of water. The Barista kneels down and stirs the dirt on the trail with a stick as if digging for an answer.

  “Nothing important huh. You know the human ego is a funny thing,” he says. “Everyone has a purpose. If you ask me, Americans are too focused on becoming better than their friends. It is human nature of course. In Hungary we do the same. But be careful with thinking like this.”

  “Why do you want a coffee shop?” I ask.

  “Because I know I will enjoy it, and I am in love with coffee. The smell of the dark brown beans roasting, brewing and dripping into a perfect cup. The white steam rising from a mug on a cold morning. Holding the hot cup in your hands, letting it warm up your soul. It is not easy to make a good cup of coffee you know. It is an art form. You Americans have bad coffee!”

  “Hey now!” I protest.

  “I especially love good, um, what is the word in English? Fim. No. Fime. Foam! Milk foam! Good milk foam on the coffee, steamed to perfection. I love that. I want this not because it will make me a success in the eyes of others you see, but because it brings me joy. To remain a pastor also gives me a sense of helping and joy. But you must be careful. I am no better than those who ask me for spiritual advice,” he explains. “What do your parents do for work?”

  “My mom cleans houses, and my dad was a carpenter. He also had a restaurant at one time. He named it after me,” I reply. “But he has been struggling lately. He was sober for 20 years and well, not anymore. He has been homeless for the last few years. He lives in his truck.” I search The Barista’s face and am surprised by his response.

  “Your dad is a, what is the word in English? A renegade. Yes, a renegade, no?” he replies with a smile. “You clearly love them both. I can see pain, though, in your eyes.”

  “Yeah I guess. It is an odd thing to watch your parents struggle. I just want them to be happy, you know,” I reply. “They are both good people. They both sort of shun society. Hippies, I guess, but I appreciate that a lot now. It is funny. Growing up my dad looked like ZZ Top. He had a huge beard, and sometimes it would embarrass me. I guess all kids are embarrassed by their parents growing up. For me, it was just because other dads were clean-shaven and more by the book. Now that I am older, I hate cookie cutter. I love people who are different and have interesting stories to tell. People who have failed, overcome or gone through challenging experiences.”

  “It sounds like they taught you a great lesson about life,” he replies. “Different is good. It is so funny how people always want to be superior though you know. I read a book about this recently. It simply teaches you a simple lesson about wanting to be better than others. You know, employees and their bosses, politicians and average citizens, bus drivers and passengers, or even the person bagging your groceries. People who have homes and people who don’t,” he jokes.

  “So what was the lesson of the book?” I ask.

  The Barista pauses in some shade for effect and says, “Make sure you always have something to learn from people or else they become your enemy. Everyone has something to teach you. Once you master that line of thinking you will be both happier, and you will also not answer my question in the way you did before.”

  “What do you mean?” I reply confused.

  “I asked what do you do, and you said nothing important,” he explains. “You have something to teach people. I am learning from you right now. Don’t sell yourself so short. Have you ever met anyone important?” I look at him and nod in acknowledgment as we wind our way through the woods.

  “I have. I used to interview a lot of famous people. I guess they are important,” the words sound wrong as I say them.

  “What did you think of the important people?” He asks. I think about this for a few minutes before replying.

  “I didn’t like most of them to be honest. They also thought they were important. It doesn’t make someone fun to be around when they believe they are more important than you,” I say. The Barista smiles.

  “You see! You know the answers to your own questions. You just don’t know it yet,” he pats me on the shoulder.

  The Barista is a foodie and a philosopher. This Hungarian is my kind of guy. I am trying to soak up all of my conversations on this trip, and I love what he has shared about his approach to life.

  Because of my slower pace and knee pain that seems to be getting worse, we finally separate and wish them a buen Camino. Who knows if we will see them again. We just spent about an hour talking and walking. The Barista looks back with a concerned look on his face.

  “Will we see you again?” he yells back. “I want to share a good cup of coffee!”

  “I hope so!” I yell back. “We will see you again on the trail!” We continue on, limping past the recommended stopping point in Larrasoaña.

  As I put one foot in front of the other, I can’t help but think about the millions of people over thousands of years who have walked this very trail. The ghosts of pilgrims past seem to walk with you and encourage you on. Centuries of hopes, dreams, and questions have made this trek. If only these trees could talk.

  After another hour or so, I literally cannot walk any more. My left knee is throbbing, and we stop on the edge of a waterfall to soak our feet. The cool water feels like morphine rolling over my aching bones.

  As we rest, a man who is the spitting image of Santa Claus rounds the corner. A giant of a man who must be at least 6 feet, 5 inches tall with a big white beard and a Robin Hood hat complete with a feather sticking out the top. He says hello with a thick British accent.

  A very peaceful soul, he is from Austria, and as we talk, his voice soothes me just like the cool water running over my feet. He has already been walking for four weeks and started somewhere in the middle of France. “Too many people on this part of the Camino,” he says with a frown. Just like that, he says buen Camino and is gone.

  Gingerly putting my shoes back on and hobbling back to the trail, we start again. I feel like a 90-year-old man struggling to move forward. A metal walker sounds like an enticing idea. After only five minutes, a pleasant surprise awaits us around the corner. A brand new albergue that is not in the guidebook! We check in and after a full day—10 hours or so—of walking we pay for two beds and slump into chairs. John from New Orleans, our cube mate from last night’s albergue, surprises me with a slap on the back! “How ya doin?”

  “Hey!” I say, surprised to see him again staying at this random albergue. “My knee is killing me, to be honest.”

  He examines the swelling of my left knee with a grimace on his face. “That doesn’t look too good. It’s settled then.” Not allowing me to argue, he kindly trades us our bunk beds in the communal room for his private room he had booked for himself. A small, wonderful act of kindness.

  After showers and laundry, which is done in a sink, we go downstairs to enjoy a well deserved communal style dinner with new friends. Working around the large rectangle table, we meet the dinner guests, which include a father and son from Spain. They are walking a section of the Camino together to bond before the son heads off to university. Seated next to them is a man from France who introduces himself in English, “I am Adrien. Nice to meet you.” Adrien is middle-aged, has salt and pepper hair, is tall, and is in very good shape.


  John joins us and finally we meet the albergue owner and his wife, who have carefully prepared our Spanish feast. Tonight’s conversation is in Spanish and broken English. Adrien does not speak either well, so we speak slowly. The conversation is rich as we stuff our faces full of chicken simmered in tomatoes and olives. There are enough bottles of wine on the table to satisfy a small army, and I can start to feel the physical pain of the day melt away with each sip. It feels good. “So, Adrien, why are you here?” I ask.

  “Ummm I, a girl. Mmm a,” he struggles to find the words in English.

  “Girl problems!” John proclaims, laughing as he refills everyone’s glasses to the brim with wine. “Amen, bother!” His glass clings against Adrien’s as a way to say, Welcome to the club. Adrien continues with a grin on his face.

  “My wife, yes?” he asks making sure he has found the right word.

  “Wife, yes. You are married?” Amy encourages him to continue. He has the full attention of the table.

  “My wife. I am here to. How do you say?” He pauses to retrieve the word from somewhere in his brain. “I am here to get away from her.”

  Silence. “To get away from her?” I ask emphasizing the word away.

  “Yes, away? Not with her,” he repeats. “She is. Umm. What is the word? Yes. Evil.”

  Suddenly the room bursts into riotous laughter. I have not laughed this hard in quite some time. Poor Adrien looks very confused as he has just shared something personal and can’t quite understand why we are all laughing so hard. This of course makes me laugh harder.

  “Well, here’s to that evil woman!” John stands up and toasts to the room. I stand up to join him in the toast and when I stand up an unexpected sharp line of electric pain shoots from my knee, through my hip and directly to my vocal cords. I let out an uncontrolled, raw groan that is far too loud to hide. “Eeeeehhhhhhhhhhaaww!” I am stunned by the sound that has just come out of my own mouth. Embarrassed, I look around the room. The laughter erupts again, even louder than before.

  “¡Es la hora de acostarte hombre viejo!” The owner of the albergue says as he grins. It is time for bed, old man.

  In the morning, my abs hurt from laughter. Evidence that we had an amazing night with new friends. Amy is seated trailside in the shade of a large tree. “Still damp,” she says as she repositions her clothes, which we washed last night. They are now secured with wooden clothespins to the outside of her pack. A walking dryer. “How ya feelin, old man?” she asks.

  “Ha ha very funny. I can feel my heartbeat in my knee. I am getting worried,” I say. The pain in my knee is almost unbearable today. “I looked on Google last night, and I have come to the conclusion that I am completely screwed. The internet said that people seriously injure themselves on the Camino.”

  “We get to choose our attitude. Worrying is praying for what you don’t want,” she says as I fuss over my injuries.

  “Ok, ok,” I reply. “You have a point.” I am angry this morning and feeling sorry for myself.

  Amy’s body is in pain too, and she explains that the outside tendon of her right knee just feels wrong. The euphoria of day one is gone as the expectations start to fade into reality.

  Hours pass as we make our way west, and by noon we make it to Pamplona. Due to its ease of access, many pilgrims choose Pamplona as their starting point for the Camino de Santiago, instead of St. Jean. Made famous by Ernest Hemingway’s 1926 novel The Sun Also Rises, today this city enjoys worldwide fame for the running of the bulls during the San Fermín festival, held annually from July 6th to the 14th. Pamplona also shares deep ties to the Camino de Santiago and has served as a stopping point for pilgrims over the centuries.1 Many people we have met along the Way plan to stay in Pamplona for a rest day to enjoy the sites. We don’t have the luxury of time, unfortunately, so we’ll be enjoying Pamplona briefly as we pass through.

  We admire the gates of the city when my knee again begins to scream. Every time I put weight on my left knee, a fire ignites directly under my kneecap. “I cannot walk anymore!” I tell Amy. “Let’s take a break.”

  Full of fear, for the first time I begin to seriously think to myself, I might not be able to finish this. I start to feel sorry for myself. This is only day three! I try to describe the symptoms to Amy. I see fear in her eyes, too, as she looks at my knee, which is beginning to swell. She is normally the calm one, and the look on her face scares me even more. Could three years of planning end this quickly?

  Just at this low point of the day, sitting on a sad bench at the gates of Pamplona, we see our Hungarian crew round the corner. I am glad to see them.

  “I told you I would see you again,” I joke to my foodie friend The Barista.

  “You will be glad you did,” he answers as he starts to pull out some seriously amazing stuff from his pack. “Eat,” he says. I am starting to think I need to visit Hungary.

  He pulls out a little jar and sprinkles the contents into my outstretched palm.

  “Bee pollen,” he explains. “It is good for the immune system.”

  He follows this with some homemade sausage and peach seeds. I didn’t even know you could eat peach seeds. I devour the small brown nuts, which are a bit smaller than an almond and delicious! The sausage is good, too, and I ask with my mouth full, “What kind of meat is this? It is so good!”

  One of The Barista’s friends replies with a straight face, “Horse meat.” My chewing slows, and I shoot Amy a look of barely concealed panic. They all bust into laughter as I realize the joke is on me.

  “So,” The Barista says. “Your knee doesn’t look too good.”

  The Barista’s pack is full of supplies, and he and his friends quickly get to work. He pulls out an extra knee brace, ibuprofen cream, and a magnesium drink tablet. His friend starts to crack me up as he tells Amy, “Don’t worry, we are Hungarian doctors,” which we already know they clearly are not. It is amazing how the Camino provides exactly what you need right when you need it. This was the first of many serendipitous moments that I won’t soon forget.

  “Things are about to get weird,” one says to the group and grabs my leg. He elevates it and rubs the pain cream into my knee.

  “Did you train for the Camino de Santiago?” I ask with a bit of regret since I did not.

  They continue to keep me laughing as one replies, “Yes of course, I started taking the stairs at work!”

  After 10 minutes, they say goodbye and leave me reeling. The kindness of new friends. My spirits are lifted, and we begin to gingerly hobble on again. One step at a time. The knee brace and pain cream combination helps tremendously as we continue through Pamplona. The lesson of the day is clear. It is OK to let people help you. The Camino will provide.

  Pamplona is a beautiful bustling city of 200,000 people.2 We take our time winding through the narrow streets, weaving through locals busily going about their day, and eventually we make our way out of town. As the afternoon sun bears down, sweat starts to drip down my sunglasses. It is incredibly hot. We enter brown fields of wheat with no shade in sight and trudge on and on over the dry dirt path.

  As we walk, I immediately notice the bugs. Tiny black shiny squiggling bugs keep sticking to the sweat on our arms as we walk. No matter how much we try to brush them off they just kept coming, hour after hour as we forge ahead. It is safe to say that I am pissed off again. Hot, tired, and covered in disgusting gnats from the fields, which seem to be getting worse as we go. I give up trying to get them off and just let them multiply.

  “Well, this is a romantic walk today, isn’t it?” I yell to Amy who is far ahead on the trail.

  We pass by some ancient ruins and make our way up the final ascent of the day to our new destination. We had planned to walk much further but it is clear I cannot. We spot our Hungarian friends for the second time today resting next to a water fountain up ahead. One makes his way back from the village to offer to carry my pack. I am again caught off guard by this kindness and feel like a weakling. Backtracking
on the Camino is a big deal. We check into our albergue for the night, and I am looking forward to washing off the bugs in a nice hot shower.

  We walk upstairs and quickly realize the fun continues. All over the sheets, pillows, and walls are the same tiny black bugs we became so close with throughout the day. I curse. A lot. We do our best to get the bugs off and close the window opting for heat rather than insects. I am not sure which was worse.

  We stomp downstairs and a familiar voice says hello. It is John from New Orleans! His third night staying in the same town as we are and bumping into us randomly.

  “How’d ya sleep last night?” he asks, inquiring about the private room he gave us.

  “Amazing! Thank you again. You didn’t have to do that,” I reply. “How bout you?”

  “I didn’t sleep a wink. Had a couple talented snorers in the room,” he laughs. “I am not staying here, though. I got a private room tonight at another place in town. I am here for the food.”

  We make dinner plans and enjoy a fantastic pilgrim menu with John and some teachers from the United States. I am not as awake as I was last night and find myself remaining quiet and letting others do most of the talking. What a day.

  The teachers are on summer break and are approaching the Camino de Santiago as a sort of hop-on, hop-off tour; they hike until they are tired and take a taxi to the next town. Taxis along the Camino are readily available and circle the pilgrims like hungry vultures looking for their next meal. Waiting for a pilgrim to cave to exhaustion before they swoop in and offer a timely ride. A constant temptation for weary pilgrims. I tell myself not to, but I find myself judging the teachers. How can you grow if you are not challenging yourself physically? That is not the true Camino, I think to myself, immediately mentally scolding my ego and attempting to change my internal dialogue.

  As I am noticeably absent from much of the dinner conversation, my mind drifts back once again to the south of Spain two years earlier. Our Spanish friend Pablo had just given us an incredible gift. Two cream-colored scallop shells painted with a small crimson red cross. I was touched as he explained, “Today all pilgrims carry a scallop shell with them. This is the official mark and symbol of the pilgrim. Carry these on your backpacks during your journey.”