“Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.” Henry David Thoreau, Walden
Lost. Yes. Have spent such a large portion of my waking life lost. It seems, looking back over the years, that even in those most prized and most treasured moments, I was in a place different from the place where, at that time, I had thought that I was. Like when driving on the highway, pleased with your progress you suddenly realize that you got on the road going the wrong direction. Awareness comes and with it, often, also comes a slight horror, a bit of a shudder, as it becomes clear, comes into focus-things are not always as they appear. Walking across this wide swathe of land, this entire country, I follow myself, I watch my marching feet rise and fall, tens of thousands of steps each day, meander, search.
Looking for what? Looking for me behind each turn in the path. Searching amongst the rustling rivers, under each stone bridge, inside of each ruin, every vineyard, every pair of eyes that I meet, for me. Perhaps it is an endeavor of accumulation. Perhaps it is that I find some infinitesimally small bit of myself in all of the places that I look. Like grains of sand, each one insignificantly unimportant, dropping through the neck of the hourglass, building, one by one, something of importance. A manifestation, a coalescing, a building of substance out of the vacuum of the void. And maybe, just maybe, in the end, when I have stood far enough away to gain perspective, to bring it all into a clarity, I see finally who I am.
The past week or so is a big blur. Have great difficulty teasing apart one day from the next. We have been doing about twenty five kilometers each day, not taken a rest day since León, about six days back. Feet issues continue. Mine sore but working fine. Teo getting compensation pains from his original issues, tendinitis giving him searing pains in his lower shins, backs of his calves. Have confidence that they will move away, have been treating with ibuprofen, slower walking for longer periods, now he is using an ankle wrap on his left ankle as well.
When I scan back over the last week, two, three, four, five, since we began walking so very long ago in Roncesvalles, almost four hundred miles back, it is like a poorly done, out of focus, hand held, jiggly montage in a movie. Clips of the ground moving under my feet, of churches, dilapidated stone walls, the heels of Teo's feet in front of me, my internal visions of my failed marriage, the pilgrim's meals, bottles of wine, empty the next morning, of packing up and bracing against the morning cold, Julia's face, her words to me, sunshine, pilgrims, bunk beds, ibuprofen packages, baguettes, feral cats, Plazas. Can't really pull one image away from the others. All through this series of images runs the determined, at times desperate, desire to move forward, to reach Santiago de Compostela, to achieve something, to achieve anything.
It is a disorienting place. The rhythms of the day, getting up, getting going, walking, breaks, finding the place to stay, dinner, friends, sleeping. Repeated over and over so many days in a row now. While all of this blurring is going on, paradoxically enough, there is also a growing focus inside, a sharpening of what I am, where my life is going, what I will do between my return to the states and my leaving for the United Arab Emirates. I no longer feel lost in myself. I no longer feel too small and too scared to leave my home, my family, my best friend of almost a decade, to find a new place to be, to relocate my being to a new culture, to return to teaching, something I have not done in about five years.
Walked for part of a day with a tall, blonde, smily German man named Kai. From a really small cow raising town, he saw the film Wall Street, and decided to go to college, something that no one in his town or in his family had done before, got involved in the energy trading business, became amazingly successful, and then at the age of, I am guessing here, forty-four, became completely burnt out. He is now on a one year sabbatical, wants to move into some new career, art maybe. He told us a fascinating tale of realizing that he was done with this life he built. Told us a story of buying, not long ago, a Porsche 911, bringing it home. His four year old son walks out, sees it, standing next to his proud father, looks at the car, up at his father, back at the car, says, "But, daddy, we already have a car. Why did you buy a different car?" He said he sort of froze up, had no answer, said, "Uh, daddy is going to go inside now." Walked away just as confused as his son.
Met and befriended a British man of forty-two named Dean. Dean works six months of the year for the International Red Cross doing logistical support. Has been in the Congo transporting doctors and supplies by dugout canoe to both sides of the cease fire line, the river itself. Twice to Pakistan. Helped out in Tunisia during the recent Libyan conflict. India. Maybe headed to the flood ravaged parts of the Philippines in January. He rescued a two year old, short haired, medium sized, black and white dog named Zues, from a chain in a farmer's field six months ago. In Spain dogs are treated, especially outside of the cities, as goats. They are very often tied to a ten foot lead staked into the ground. They live in this circle, amidst their own feces, becoming aggressive and a bit psychotic. It is really common and it is heartbreaking to see.
Dean is now on a mission to try to help make the Camino Frances more dog friendly. He walked the Way last year with Zues. He said that not a single albergue would allow dogs. He said, in fact, that simply for asking, he would be treated like a homeless person, like some freak. Many did allow, if he paid them the going caminero rate, to set up his one man tent in back. He is currently trying to work out a partnership with the Humane Society in Madrid to sponsor him, give him brochures on the negative effects of chaining and not socializing dogs, t-shirts to give out, etc. He is also forming a small business called Camino People, to try to get British people to pay him to do two week walking and driving tours of the Camino. Says that Brits don't take vacations of more than two weeks, but if he gets a mini-bus that can seat eight to twelve passengers, that he would like to do tours, take them to the best three or four day treks, drive past boring stuff, half days to lunch and stroll around the old quarter of big cities. And they can bring their dogs! "Dogs go free" it says on his website.
Last night in Cacabelos we emailed Dean, who was eight klicks ahead in Villafranca, and he drove back to hang with us. He, Zues, T and I went to find a dog friendly establishment-not an easy task. But Dean is on a mission to change the hearts and minds of the Spanish populace, poco por poco, vis-a-vis their relationship to perros. We sat on the terraza of a place where I could smoke, Zues could lay on Dean's beige, down vest, and we could drink tinto and we split, thirdsies, three good pizzas. We had a perfect evening, heard about corruption in Haiti, about how working under French administrators sucks, about rice distribution in Pakistan, about how all aid agencies want each box tracked so that they can report to their donors precisely where their money goes, how these things are quite difficult, get in the way of quickly getting help to people in need.
Heading out this morning at the crack of ten-thirty, about two point five kicks up the road, we see a white box truck pass us, pull over at the turn out seventy meters ahead, Tdog says, "Hey, Boss, I think that's Dean." Dean pops out of his truck, big grin, "Los Americanos!" Many of the camineros refer to us with this moniker. He was cracking up, remarking about how we had only made two and a half klicks today. "Some of us," he said, "have already been to Ponferrada and back!" "When," he continued, "did you guys get started," looks at his wrist watch, "ten forty-five?" "Ten-thirty," T corrects him. We all bust out. "That," I said, "is why America already peaked, and now," my hand flat, pointing up and then down, "it is all downhill. Like erosion and novocaine, just give us time and we'll get it done!" We visited, told him our hoped for destination, he said to email him when we get in and maybe he'll come find us again to hang. He is a good guy.
We are coming up against some tall hills as we move into Galicia, and will undoubtedly hit weather at points between here and Santiago, some one hundred and twenty-five miles from here. I will quote now from John Brierley's helpful, instructive tome, A Guidebook to the Camino de Santiago:
"The countryside is reminiscent of other Celtic lands with its small, intimate fields and lush pastures grazed by cattle with sheep, pigs, geese and chickens all foraging amongst the poorer ground. Thick hot soups caldo gallego and rich vegetable and meat stews provide inner warmth from the damp. Nearer the coast, fish dishes such as steamed octopus dusted with paprika pulpo a la galega and shellfish mariscos will dominate....Galicia shares many historical and physical similarities with other Celtic regions particularly the west of Ireland. Too poor to provide much employment for its large family structures, emigration (particularly of the younger men) has cast its spectre across the region."
We passed the highest point of the Camino Frances two days ago. Having left Molinesca, walking fifteen hundred feet up a tall ass hill to reach El Cruce de Ferro (the Iron Cross). Those of you who have seen Emilio Estevez's film, The Way, may remember this very well known and important landmark along the Camino Frances. It is the place where you are supposed to deposit a stone that you carried with you, lay it on the massive pile of stones that you walk up, say something akin to, "I leave my burdens with you, Lord." For me it was a small, wooden elephant that I purchased from an African street vendor in Plaza Santa Anna, waiting to hook up with my Tío José, in Madrid, and a small something from my most recent marriage. A solemn moment for me, a passing, a turning.
Two nights ago in Molinesca, a very small, quaint village, in a five euro a night donativo, we talked for some couple hours with a lovely twenty-two year old French gal named Han. She is from a wealthy suburb of Paris, the sort who rejects her family's elite status, wanting to travel, walk with her newly acquired puppy, Canella, live in a tent. Ironically, of course, she can afford to do this rejecting of her family by using her father's money to get along. She was remarkably pretty, very short, black hair, pouty lips, and that exquisite French accent. The next morning we three had cafe con leche together and she disappeared momentarily, reappearing to give us a freshly baked baguette for the road.
The day we walked to Molinesca, after walking with Kai to a very small town, he walks on, T and I decide to take a forty-five to sixty minute break, find a spot in the sun to lay down out of the wind. The sun is warm, and down here, out of the wind, it is pleasant and we are tired. Tdog naps, shades on, hat pulled down, next to his pack. I read a bit, write to Julia, trying to connect, trying to find out where she is, inside I mean. Looking up at the sky, between the two dry stacked, rock walls and moss of every hue of green, maybe one meter plus in height, the aisle formed by the walls maybe a meter plus wide, twelve to fifteen meters long, I see only cornflower blue sky. It reminds me, of course, of Julia's eyes. Yes, I know, dear reader, I am hopeless. Maybe someday I really will learn to just focus, miracle of miracles, on me.
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Location:Calle Carretera,Trabadelo,Spain
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