by Kurt Koontz
I remember picking my dad up at Sea-Tac airport the day before my college graduation. He was very anxious to get to the hotel and encouraged me to break multiple traffic laws to accommodate his goal. The brief drive ended at the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Tacoma. We bypassed the check-in desk, left the bags in the car, and sprinted to the bar. He ordered two double shots of Wild Turkey. Before the toast, he gave me a nice card and stock certificate for 100 shares of Ohio Edison. He strongly suggested that I reinvest the dividends. With that, we clanked our overflowing shot glasses and imbibed. With a supersized smile, he informed me that I was officially “off the payroll.”
It was always fun to party with my dad. Throughout college and my early business career, he was the life of the party. Everyone liked his charisma. He felt like another good drinking buddy with the added benefit of a seemingly unlimited credit card. Throughout this entire period, Dad graduated from being a functional alcoholic to a very dysfunctional man. During his life, he tried and failed rehab at least five times. He married four times.
In late May of 2001, my brother called me with news that turned my world upside down. My father had been admitted to a local hospital. His liver was completely shot, and it was just a short period of time before the rest of his organs would cease to function. I remember one visit to the hospital in particular. My father looked very small in his bed. Seeing my hero slowly shrivel was tough, but the yellow tint of his skin made the entire experience a surreal one. He died a few days later on June 10, 2001.
At that moment, I decided that I would not depart the planet in a similar fashion and gave up all drinking and smoking. I developed a recovery ecosystem of healthy activities and exceptionally supportive friends. I was extremely fortunate and never lapsed or experienced any urge to continue with either habit.
It took about 12 months for the entrenched clouds to clear. I slept extra-long and hard for the first six months. Twelve hours of shut-eye became a common practice. Daily exercise also helped my recovery, I am certain. Even when I had been drinking and smoking way too much, I had spent an hour a day playing racquetball, taking aerobics classes, and doing lots of cardio exercise. I think my crafty mind decided to pursue fitness as another source of self-delusion. How could a successful young executive with a passion for fitness be an alcoholic? After quitting, I increased my daily exercise time to two hours per day and began bicycling.
Everyone has a different experience quitting, and I am truly thankful that mine did not come with a lingering desire to repeat any of my past behaviors. The thought that prevented any relapse was simple. What would be the positive benefit of having one drink or cigarette? It would not make me richer, smarter, better looking, or have any other tangible benefit. I assured myself that the immediate gratification would simply lead to a desire to have another and another followed by another. I closed the basement door and poured cement to prevent reentry.
When I stopped drinking, the reflections were quite astounding. I started thinking and feeling again. While stuck in the fog of alcohol, I had no ability to see that it completely permeated my life. I was like a person wrapped in a big wad of blankets who could not feel the chill of winter due to the insulation. Alcohol prevented feelings from penetrating my head, heart, and soul. Booze infiltrated 99% of social occasions and was usually a precursor to most activities. What else would one do at a tailgate party? Dinner without wine…are you kidding? Friday night…bring it on.
I think alcohol halted my emotional development in my early teenage years. At the end of the fog-clearing stage, I began to grow as a person. This personal journey—before, during, and after the Camino—is much more fulfilling than booze, and it has no end.
Since quitting alcohol in 2001, wine has touched my lips in miniscule quantities just three times. Each time was with Roberta when she was enjoying a very unique vintage. Fortunately, these wine tastings did not ignite a flame to exit sobriety.
I encountered wine often on the Camino. We walked alongside many vineyards. Spain is one of the world’s top producers of wine, which was served with every dinner. Although many of my companions enjoyed a glass or two each day, it was easy for me to drink water or fruit juice or coffee instead. However, on the day I breakfasted with Olivier, my sangría companion, wine was offered in a way I never expected.
I found myself at the Irache Wine Fountain on the Camino. Most villages have a public fountain where travelers can fill their water bottles. The Irache fountain is connected to a winery and offers both a tap for agua and one for vino. A sign on the wall, translated into English, states “Pilgrim, if you wish to arrive at Santiago full of strength and vitality, have a drink of this great wine and make a toast to happiness.”
I debated for a few minutes then decided to imbibe a few drops. I began the ritual by untying my scallop shell from the backpack and placing it under the tap. I made a healthy wish and pulled on the handle that allows for the free flow of wine.
To my complete astonishment, nothing rolled out of the silver faucet. No wine for me. Nada. The cosmos had sent a clear message! All alone and in front of the winery, I could not stop smiling and laughing.
Again, I was fortunate. Several of my traveling companions drank too much on some evenings and suffered hangovers the next day. Pilgrims walk with addictions of all kinds on the Camino. In The Way, the 2011 movie starring Martin Sheen, two of his pilgrim companions struggled unsuccessfully with smoking and over-eating.
Toward the end of day four, I ran into two beautiful women from Washington state. Joyce, with gray hair under her baseball cap, had a smile I can still see to this day. Two years before, at age 68, she decided to walk the Camino. One year before her departure to Spain, her 65-year-old friend, Ella decided to join her. Pretty adventurous on her part because she did not have a history of exercise and needed to shed some excess weight.
Joyce seemed to have a nice network of female friends, and she spoke about them as if they were family. She pointed out an odd ornament with many different colored ribbons on her pack, explaining that it was a traveling object shared with seven close friends. Whenever someone takes a grand adventure, the colorful item accompanies the lucky traveler. I tried to imagine the unbelievable things that this inanimate object had seen on these special trips.
Joyce and Ella planned to walk to Finisterre, a coastal community 87 kilometers past Santiago, for a special purpose. In her pack Joyce carried the cremains of a college friend, which they intended to pour into the Atlantic Ocean. Although this was also a scene in the movie, The Way, Joyce had made her plan well before the film released.
The village in Villamayor de Monjardín was tiny, with less than 150 residents. The small albergue offered just 24 beds to provide rest for me and my fellow walkers. Fortunately, I received one of the last three beds for the night. About 30 minutes later, Joyce and Ella arrived to fill the house. Our room had five beds and a private lanai with spectacular views of the town square, a twelfth-century church tower, and the surrounding agricultural lands. The other two roommates in our parish hostel were, of course, Joseph and Merry.
Unfortunately, while enjoying the view, I witnessed many pilgrims arriving at the front door with a look of relief for completing the day. Little did they know that the hostel had no additional beds. They were given an option to sleep outside or walk another eight kilometers to the next village. It was sad to see strangers turned away, but it was downright painful to see Olivier and Peter denied entrance. They both made lemonade from lemons and prepared to sleep under the stars. The people who ran the hostel did their best to provide the “under the stars” group with padding and blankets.
For a small fee, the albergue provided a group dinner and breakfast at three large tables in a quaint room with open windows. This was a new experience and only happened two more times down the road. Volunteers from Holland ran the facility and were one week into their two-week commitment. Thanks to their generous labors, we all enjoy
ed a nice meal of mixed greens, lentil soup, spaghetti with vegetables, and apple cobbler. I sat between Ella and Joyce.
At the end of the evening, I received another priceless gift from a new friend. Joyce told me to open my hand. She took an inch-long yellow arrow pin from her hat, and placed it in my palm.
Day 5
Arrows and Signs
The yellow arrow hatpin is another symbol of the Camino. It represents the yellow arrows that are written on stones, walls, and streets to mark the pilgrimage route. These beauties also appear on trees, concrete, rocks, signs, telephone poles, buildings, bridges, and other surfaces. In the darkness of the morning, I found significant comfort in this shining marker.
Three other symbols help direct Camino pilgrims. In some cities, scallop shells complement the arrows. Some of these are metal that rise above the ground and others are etched into the concrete. The third is a cairn-type marker, usually about three feet high with a scallop shell etching. The last is a simple red line below a white line, which signifies the Camino Francés.
The actual trail presents itself in many forms. Most commonly it is a hard-packed dirt path about 10-15 feet wide. At times it is an actual road shared with cars. In the cities, it is often made of cobblestone. Sometimes it is solid rock and sometimes soggy mud. The single-person-wide stretches gave me the most energy. My body felt an extra connection to the millions who walked in the exact same track.
As I walked the Way, I learned to follow the physical arrows and signs as well as the directions of my head and heart. Just as there are signs everywhere on the Camino, there are signs everywhere in life, pointing the way forward. I believe the main reason we miss life’s signs is we are not open to seeing them or too busy to notice. Once we start to see them, as I finally did after the death of my father from alcoholism, the ultimate key to success is having a confident inner faith to trust and obey the direction.
I remain amazed that I could walk nearly 500 miles with total trust and faith in little and big yellow arrows that were placed by the good people who volunteer time to mark and maintain the trail. I lost the Camino just two times in 28 days. I am equally astonished at how quickly my heart notified my brain that this was the wrong road. Throughout my life the signs have always been present, but their brightness was dulled by the day-to-day routines that consume our lives.
I woke up early on the fifth day, said goodbye to my new friends, and headed out the front door wearing my Tilley hat with its yellow arrow pin. It was dark, and my headlamp was required to prevent a belly flop on the trail. Outside the front door, I could hear a symphony of snoring. About 15 people slept in a tiny playground under the stars. I found Peter and Olivier and, once again, said goodbye. I was sure it was for real this time!
I liked to start early for many reasons. The predawn walks were peaceful and very quiet. I always anticipated with pleasure the soothing warmth and gorgeous color that accompanied each sunrise. The cool early-morning walks contrasted with the heat of autumn afternoons, which could scorch a person.
On this day, I was grateful for the early-morning privacy to take care of a pressing physical need. I am usually an extremely “regular” person when it comes to my bathroom schedule. But since arriving in Europe five days earlier, I had been unable to poop. I was very uncomfortable and a little alarmed. I had been eating plenty…but nothing was coming out! Finally on this solitary morning, the time came, and although my only option was a hole dug near a vineyard, I was very happy. (Enough said about this topic.)
I walked alone most of the time. I spent the rest of my day with the random people who intersected my life on the Camino. Some pilgrims tended to stay in small groups and chose to make the walk more of a group effort. I truly enjoyed the solitude that allowed my mind to wander into many territories. I thought about my dad and his endless battles with vodka. I thought about my mom and how much I enjoy her company. I thought about my girlfriend Roberta and our future. Would I be a different person after this trip, or would I return to the same daily habits?
I spent about a quarter of my alone time listening to music. Six hundred of my favorite songs resided on my Sansa Clip MP3 player. No rhyme or reason prompted when I started or stopped the tunes. I just turned them on when it felt appropriate and terminated when it was time. As my appreciation for everything increased on the Camino, the music began to sound quite a bit better than it did back home.
My first new companions of the day were a mother and son combination from Italy. Massimo (38) and Mom (69) were special to me, and our paths would cross many times down the road.
At some point in the day while walking alone, I saw Massimo and Mom ahead of me. At the same time, I was listening to a song, Better Than Me, by Hinder. Without any warning, I started the first spontaneous cry of my entire life. It was odd to be walking down this beautiful road, enjoying music, loving the sunshine, and weeping.
It took me several days to figure out where that cry came from. The song by Hinder told of a man reminiscing about the good times shared with his former lover. “I told myself I won’t miss you, But I remembered what it feels like beside you.” It wasn’t just that I was missing Roberta. I was worrying that the love of my life would no longer be the love of my life upon my return.
Until I quit drinking at age 37, alcohol kept me a teenager, especially with women. I had a very active sex life and a very empty relationship life. I had two significant relationships, each one lasting for a two-year period. Both of them were really just tolerant drinking pals. In retrospect, it is impossible to have a meaningful relationship with anyone when Coors Light steals the primary focus.
All that changed with Roberta, although our relationship began slowly. The first time I saw her, I was totally taken by her Sophia Loren looks. We had lunch a few weeks later, but without sparks. We went our separate ways. Then, four years later, our paths crossed and we decided to have lunch again. Her beauty had deepened during the absence. Her quiet warmth entranced me. That first lunch led to another lunch that led to a date to see Slumdog Millionaire on Christmas Eve afternoon.
During the movie, I wrapped my arm around her shoulder. The slightest touch of her forearm was electrifying. Cupid aimed his pointy little arrow and was on the verge of firing. After the show, I walked her to the car. We kissed. And holy shit!
It was unlike any other kiss of my entire life. It was completely relaxed, beyond natural, and extremely sensual. It took 500% of my current and all of my future self-discipline to end the date on that kiss. I was delirious on the drive home.
The romance progressed at a rapid pace, and we were soon completely head over heels in love. We began one of our many traditions by celebrating that kiss on the 24th day of each and every month. We enjoyed movies, theater, walks in the rain, crosswords, cribbage, gardening, cooking, and just being alone. More than her external beauty, I love Roberta for her loyalty, her care and concern for others, and her humility about her talents. She was my best friend and we lived in our own special world.
At the end of February 2009, I took my annual month-long trip to Palm Springs. Roberta planned to come down for two long weekends. This was our first time apart and it was painful! I ate through all of my 1,500 cell-phone minutes in the first two weeks. I could not change my plan, so I bought another phone that served as the Roberta hotline for the remainder of the trip. When she finally arrived, it was an airport scene from the movies. I had a white rose in my hand as she came through security with her carry-on bag. We dropped everything, ran toward each other, and kissed like it was the first time.
Together we planned our next vacation to New York City for Labor Day. We saw Wicked on Broadway, took a boat to Ellis Island, viewed the city from Rockefeller Center, heard a gospel choir in a Harlem church, and even made love in Central Park. One of my favorite moments was watching Roberta gasp for air when she saw Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night at the Museum of Modern Art. I have taken a lot of tri
ps, but without question, I enjoyed this vacation more than any other to date.
During our second year we broached the idea of marriage. At this point, we did not live together but were inseparable on the weekends. I had never been so sure about anything in my entire life. For me, it was not a matter of if, but simply a question of when. I was living the dream with my best friend and lover. There were a few bumps along the road, but nothing capable of sending the vehicle crashing down a ravine.
Neither of us had been married nor had children. So we visited several times with a counselor to avoid complications associated with “merging two movies that were currently in production.” Roberta had some concerns (such as my snoring), which we addressed. We took it slow. We felt no rush to exchange vows.
We instigated a new tradition of having a date day on each weekend. For the majority of that year, we took turns designing a unique day. Some were elaborate and expensive getaways to mountain resorts like Sun Valley, Idaho, but most were simple activities such as a picnic lunch at the zoo followed by a paddle-boat ride on a pond. These are the memories that last forever.
Without notice, things took a dramatic turn. I am still not sure what happened, but at the beginning of the fourth year, Roberta began to withdraw from our relationship. Our magic weekends turned into not-so-magic Saturday nights. The date days ended, our romantic trips ended, and her interest in most activities faded. She began spending more time alone at her house. Several times I asked if she wanted to separate, but she always told me that I was the best thing that ever happened to her and losing me was unfathomable.