There is no official start date for the Camino de Santiago. You can begin on any day, at any time, 365 days a year. I chose the month of June because of crowds and weather. The most popular time, aka the most crowded trails, is during August.1 August is also one of the hottest months in this area of Spain, and today’s heat makes me glad I didn’t choose August.
As we continue to trudge along beneath the midday summer sun, many pilgrims pass and say buen Camino before speeding on. Then a man whom I would only see once says something to me that will stick with me all the way to Santiago de Compostela. He catches up to me on the trail and surveys my slow pace, my sweaty face, my increasingly shaggy beard. He mutters, “Hola, que tal?” Hi, how’s it goin?
“Bien y tu?” I respond. Fine and you?
We agree it is too hot today. He glances ahead and sees a giant patch of shade. “Hay sombra,” he says as he looks me in the eyes. There is shade.
He glances down at my knee and says, “Siempre hay que ver el positivo.” You always have to see the positive. He then walks ahead without saying another word. I stop and smile again. The Camino is full of small lessons today.
The end of the day proves to be brutal. My body is incredibly weak, and Estella, our destination, seems like a mirage that will never come. With every step, I feel like the tendon in my right knee will snap, and the heat has swollen my left knee to a disturbing size and shape. The trail is full of small hills, followed by painful descents. Up down, up down, up down. My knee brace keeps slipping to my shin because of the sweat coming out of my pores. The blisters forming on my hands, from leaning on Dolores, are raw and swelling with the heat pulsing through my body. I drag my carcass forward, willing it to carry on. Amy and I don’t speak for hours. We simply take a break after every bend in the trail, when our disappointment at not seeing Estella forces us to sit and rest. I feel like our water bottles: empty.
When we finally make it to Estella, I collapse in a chair of the first albergue we see. Absorbed in my own misery, I don’t notice the concerned look on the hospitalera’s face. Amy does the talking, in Spanish, while I stare at the floor. “She thinks you might die,” Amy jokes when the hospitalera leaves to retrieve keys.
“Haha,” I sarcastically reply.
“Keep it up, she feels sorry for us so she is giving us a private room for the same price as the bunks in the main room!” she says. “She told me there is no way you could climb into a top bunk!”
“Sadly that is probably true,” I reply.
Our private room is more like a cubicle with tall walls which don’t quite reach the ceiling. We do have a door which provides some privacy as we are situated in the middle of a giant room full of beds. I am not complaining. The cost is only 5 euros per person, one of our cheapest nights thus far.
After getting settled, we go to the closest restaurant to eat because it is, well, closest. I am surprised by an amazing bowl of gazpacho, a cold Spanish tomato soup blended with garlic and vinegar. This followed by a Spanish feast fit for a king. Food always lightens my mood.
“I miss Spain,” Amy says between slurps of refreshing soup.
“What do you mean?” I reply. “We are here right now.”
“Should we move back? It is so simple here. Good food, good people and a more laid back way of life,” she explains, fully aware this will not happen anytime soon for us. “I just miss so much about Spain. Waiters ignore you, you can eat a meal for hours, chain restaurants don’t really exist, you don’t need a car, siesta, the numerous holidays, Flamenco shows, the cheap wine, Europe being our playground and sunsets overlooking the Alhambra in Granada listening to hippies play the guitar.”
“We did that for two years, and it was awesome. Remember how much we missed the States though? The grass is always greener,” I slop up the gazpacho with a thick slice of fresh bread. “When you were ahead of me on the trail today, a man told me that you always have to look at the positive. Don’t forget how much you love Denver.”
“But working 50 and 60 hour weeks is stupid!” Amy continues.
“Don’t forget traffic! Oh, how I hate traffic. At least we have jobs,” I say, not quite believing myself. “And hey, don’t forget how awesome it is that you have the entire summer off!”
Back in the albergue, I rub pain cream on both knees and take more pills. Maybe tonight we will sleep. What an incredible day full of life lessons. This, I think, this is what I came here for. I certainly need to focus less on the hot sun and more on the shade. I can’t wait to see what adventures tomorrow brings.
La Rioja
Trail Days 6—8
“Here it is!” I yell back to Amy. We both set down our packs to read the sign mounted on a large stone wall.
“¡PEREGRINO! Si quieres llegar a Santiago con fuerza y vitalidad, de este gran vino echa un trago y brinda por la Felicidad.” PILGRIM! If you want to arrive in Santiago with strength and vitality, take a swig of this great wine and toast to happiness.
“Sounds good to me,” Amy walks up to the large fountain. We have arrived at the Fuente del Vino. A fountain of wine! Set up by winery Bodegas Irache, pulling the handle on La Fuente dispenses wine instead of water! As the sign says, pilgrims who drink from the fountain will gain strength that will help them on the Way. We grab a drink. Who cares if it is ten in the morning! I use my small Camino shell as a tiny make shift cup and take a sip of wine.
A sense of hope grows within me today with each step. I feel lucky to not have any new physical issues. Yes, the knees still hurt, but at least they’re not getting worse. We continue to meet fascinating people from all walks of life. A couple from Texas who walks parts of the Camino every summer, two Australian guys on their annual worldly adventure, and again we see the burly Austrian Santa Claus. I try to glean small daily life lessons from them all, remembering what The Barista told me a few days ago. Everyone has something to teach you. Many a conversation turn to physical ailments as most pilgrims have something wrong with their bodies.
I have noticed that most are struggling with blisters. Some with over a dozen blisters between their two feet. I sit and watch a pilgrim poke a particularly bulbous blister with a needle and gingerly pull a line of thread through. “So it can drain,” she says. I wince with her in pain as she continues her treatment.
I think of the man we saw on our first day, walking barefoot and wonder how his feet are doing. This pilgrim is wearing sturdy hiking boots, and I have started to notice a trend. Hiking boots equal blisters. I elected trail running shoes over the less flexible hiking boots and am beginning to think I made the right decision. So far my blister count is zero, and I have soft city boy feet. Apart from Amy’s blister on the first day, she has had no new blisters thus far.
Back on the trail we meet an incredibly nice man from Spain named Pepe. Walking with us for a while, he explains the customs and food of his region of Spain. He is from Tarragona and is in his mid 40s. When asked why he is here, he tells us, “To find peace.”
He is single and feels it may be too late to meet “the one.” His voice saddened by this thought. This is something that lately has been filling him with a lot of anxiety.
“You never know,” I say trying to cheer him up, “Today could be the day!” I tell him the story of how Amy and I met. It was nearly eight years ago in a coffee shop in Colorado. When I saw her, I told the friend who introduced us, “I will marry that girl someday,” and I meant it. A few minutes on a random day changed the course of both our lives.
“Today could be the day,” I repeat. We eventually separate as I am walking far too slowly for his pace, and we say our goodbyes.
We are alone again. The fields of wheat surround the trail in nearly every direction as far as the eye can see. Giant gusts of wind skim the tops of the fields, reminding me of sitting on a beach watching the ocean ebb and flow. The scene is spectacular as each individual plant bends in unison as if guided by an invisible hand.
We make our way to Los Arcos by late afternoon and decide
to splurge on a private room. I do feel a pang of guilt for electing a private room and feel like maybe we are missing out or cheating the experience in some way. I soon get over that notion as we enter our room. Oh, the luxury! Towels, a bed, a private shower, electric outlets, internet, and most importantly, total silence! I can leave the earplugs in the pack tonight. After a shower and an afternoon nap, we scan this tiny quaint town for a pilgrim menu and some much needed calories.
We dine in an old Spanish plaza surrounded by kids playing soccer and hungry pilgrims devouring fish, fried potatoes and lomo, a Spanish pork dish. We wash down the food with a fresh pitcher of sangria and sit to take in the scene.
A large group of pilgrims speaking Portuguese sits to our right enjoying giant steaming bowls of soup. A young pilgrim in his early 20s from Belgium sits at a table to our left with a few guys from Australia. They are stuffing their packs with bottles of Rioja wine, bread, Manchego cheese, and Spanish Jamón, or cured ham. They have decided to continue on and find a place to sleep in a field somewhere under the stars. The tired pilgrims contrast with well-dressed locals who stream into the cathedral in the square. They look so clean in their Sunday best. The scene is so European, so perfect, and so wonderfully unique.
“Have a good night, guys,” the young Belgian says as his group gets up to leave.
We wave goodbye as they walk out of town into the twilight, in search of the perfect campsite.
Chances are that if you drink wine, you have heard of the Rioja region of Spain. Here they produce world-renowned red wines aged in oak barrels that help them develop their trademark vanilla notes. They have been making wine here since medieval times, and I know many a pilgrim before me has indulged in the deep crimson liquid gold while passing through La Rioja.
“I wonder if those guys who were going to sleep in a field last night slept here,” I say to Amy pointing at a large open field. There is an empty bottle of Rioja wine and evidence of a makeshift fire pit. It is almost noon on our seventh day on the trail.
Today we cross from the region of Navarre into La Rioja, and after a 17-mile walk, I am looking forward to a foodie’s dinner fit for a Spanish king. We follow the yellow arrows of the Camino that are becoming a constant comfort guiding us through Spain. My mantra for the day is simply, “Enjoy yourself,” which I repeat as we walk through the fields.
We are behind schedule if we are going to make it to Santiago de Compostela in 30 days. But today I decide to try and stop acting like a crazed marathon athlete set on breaking a world record. I try to remember the point of this trip. It is about personal growth, not competing with the other people on the trail. I see a quote in our guidebook that resonates: We are speeding up our lives and working harder, in a futile attempt to slow down and enjoy it. —Paul Hawken
Taking Mr. Hawken’s advice, we decide to take a break at a small bar in the heart of a charming little Spanish village. We grab a seat outside to enjoy some sun, and at the table next to us is the first interesting person of the day. An artist from California who has been keeping a journal of her trek via paintings. She looks to be in her mid 50s, and she reveals herself to be an eccentric soul as she shows us her art. I am blown away by her talent.
We slowly savor an afternoon café con leche as she tells us that she is also keeping a blog about her Camino. In fact, the majority of the Americans we have met so far have told me the same. I am keeping a blog, too. Does this say something about our American culture? I am starting to feel like a blogging American cliché. We say our goodbyes as she is planning on taking a taxi today. She invites us to come along and I politely decline. I catch myself judging her despite my best efforts. Just like I did to the teachers a few days ago. A taxi. How could she? Again, I think of the shell strapped to my backpack. There are many ways to Santiago.
We near the border of Navarre and La Rioja and find ourselves in the middle of nowhere. There is not a building in site. We soon hit a sheep traffic jam, and I grab my iPhone to capture the scene. A shepherd guides his flock towards us, and as we make room for them to pass, I feel as if we are walking upstream through white puffy water. The bells on their necks call out constantly. I smile at the shepherd and wave hello. He does not wave or smile back. He has the frown of a man doing work he does not enjoy. I recognize it all too well.
The wind picks up, and the fields of wheat are gone. It is bone dry out here and tumbleweeds roll by, speeding through the dust to their own destinations. Up ahead I spot a small van, and a man starts to yell at us through a megaphone.
“Bienvenidos a La Rioja, peregrinos!” he screams kicking up dust with excitement. Welcome to La Rioja, pilgrims.
It’s a ridiculous scene. Two American pilgrims, in the middle of nowhere, looking on in bewilderment, maybe a bit of embarrassment, as a man stands in front of his van drowning out an invisible crowd with his megaphone. As we near, he continues to yell but I am too tired to translate from Spanish. He is selling snacks and water. We politely decline and continue on our way.
The afternoon is hot, and we are dead tired as we near Logroño. The scenery turns increasingly ugly. The smooth dirt path turns into cracked paved roads as we pass crumbling buildings covered in graffiti. This makes the last part of the day seem especially long as we just focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The black pavement seems to amplify the heat. By about 4 p.m., our feet drag us into town, and we check into an albergue.
The room is clean but packed with 15 rows of bunks. The door swings open and in walks a rowdy group of 15 bicycle pilgrims. I am feeling claustrophobic, so we quickly wash off the day’s muck and head out to eat. Logroño is the capital of La Rioja, and my expectations are high for a great meal with great wine.
We head to a place called Café Moderno and have a fantastic pilgrim menu for 9 euros. Our waiter is rude, which is a good sign. During my two years living in Spain, I have learned if your waiter is nice to you, then there is a good chance that you have fallen into a tourist trap.
The meal starts with some pickled asparagus drenched in olive oil and vinegar. Delicious! This is followed by bacalao, salted white fish, smothered in a delicious red pepper sauce, which we wash down with a bottle of red wine. For dessert, homemade flan. A creamy, gelatinous, sweet glob of goodness, flan is arguably the national dessert of Spain and found on almost every menu.
The café is filled with senior citizens playing some kind of card game at the tables. They make their moves in between sips of wine and seem to be right at home yelling at each other in protest when the cards don’t go their way. The waiters speed around the large café, yelling out orders with frowns on their faces. A wonderful scene.
The wine is delicious and is having the right amount of numbing effect on my tired feet. Not quite ready for bed, Amy and I decide to head to a wine bar to sample some Crianza. Crianza is basically a step up from the house reds or the basic cheap bottles you get everywhere. It spends a year in oak and at least a year in the bottle before being served.
Dear God, the glasses of wine are glorious. We get the bill, and my head spins. Only 1.20 euros a glass! By American standards, that is one cheap glass of wine. Another reason I love Spain.
Over our amazing glasses of wine, Amy and I start to recalculate the rest of our walk and new hope rises in us both. We scan our map and guidebook, crunching the numbers and relishing in the mathematical good news. If I can maintain our pace without new injuries and deal with the current knee pain, then we actually may be able to finish within our planned 30-day time frame. A couple of 30-kilometer days stand in our way but there is hope! Amy lifts her glass. “A toast,” she says with a glimmer in her eye. “To finding the joy in everything. To feeling inspired. To hope.”
“And to cheap wine that tastes expensive!” I reply.
With new optimism still fresh in my mind, I wake up at 5 a.m. and groggily look around. The cyclists are still snug in their beds snoring like a herd of dying sheep. We head outside and walk through the dark morning before sunrise. The
cobblestone streets of Logroño are empty, and the only sound is the constant tap tap tap of our walking sticks and the echo off the buildings in reply. The streets are wet from overnight rain, and the air smells earthy, full of life, clean, and delicious. I have noticed that on the Camino, your body can either wake up ready to go or just simply resist your every attempt at moving forward. Today, both Amy and I are dragging. Every step is a focused effort, and I am a little hungover from last night’s wine.
We barely speak as we make our way outside of the city. The sun slowly peeks its head above the horizon, and the morning cold starts to fade away. We climb hills filled with miles and miles of vineyards as far as the eye can see. The signature red clay of this region shines bright under the old vines, which produce the region’s wines. It is a spectacular view. A spectacular sunrise.
I decide on no mantra for the day. No phrase to focus on. I am just trying not to think as I am starting to drive myself a little crazy. I am again looking for a bright flashing sign with the lesson I am supposed to take away from this trip and trying to think about my purpose. I have never been focused on a life plan or had a steady career path, and it has always been a sour spot in life. Always that thorn in my side. I have a college degree, and I like the jobs that I have had—some I have even loved—but over time, that has faded into boredom. Either that, or I ruin everything by worrying about what might be next.
Maybe this is a side effect of the incessant travel bug I can never shake and my constant search for something new and exciting. Amy is lucky. She has been passionate about her job as a school psychologist up to this point and has always had that clear direction. On top of that, she has plans to get her yoga teacher certification when we return. Two passions for her, not even one for me.
Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago Page 5