On the Camino II

I meet Lisa in Los Arcos.  She is walking the Camino with a big black dog, Aiko. A student from Belgium, a small girl, she is carrying  a 20 kilo backpack, three times the size of mine, including dogfood and dishes. Because the albergues will not admit dogs, she is going from one to another to ask if she and Aiko can sleep in their yard. So far, no.

I catch up with Lisa in Viana, where she is washing out her clothes in the public fountain. Aiko is exhausted, sleeping under a tree.  A sinewy young man from Iowa, Jareb, stops to refill his water bottles at the fountain. He says he is doing a minimum of 60 kilometers a day, running 30 in the morning, and walking 30 in the afternoon. I leave, walking with him, but not for long.

A Korean student, a Japanese and two young Spaniards have found each other on the Camino. Bare chested, fist thumping, head bumping, they have discovered their shared enthusiasms for world music and WWE wrestling. Santiago Peregrino, Santiago Matamoros, why not also Santiago, patron saint of testosterone?

In Logrono I drink a beer with Kristian, a red bearded big bear of a young man from Denmark, also half Mexican.  He is the worse for wear since I saw him: Last night was a huge fiesta, he missed his curfew at the albergue, and had to sleep on a park bench. He tells me that the local kids are into cocaine more than other Europeans, maybe because their future seems so dim.

My voice reminds him of William S. Burroughs, the beat poet who killed his wife trying to shoot an apple off her head. Improbably, I have a Burroughs impersonation prepared, so I perform it for the table.

In Najera I see a man who exudes pain. He is repulsive. I want to stay away from him.

When I check in to the municipal albergue in Azofra, he is there. His boots are much too large, evidently salvaged. I feel stronger now, and filled with the spirit of the Camino, I approach him.  He is Andreas from Germany. His parents died in the Spring. He lost his job, and his girlfriend left him. He has nothing. He is walking the Camino for a miracle. He wants his life back.  I don’t know what to say. I say I am sorry. I wish him Buen Camino.

Entering Santo Domingo, I see him resting by the side of the road.  The sun is warm, the breeze is gentle, his boots are off. He has not had his miracle, but it looks as if he will live, for now.

Felicidad and Marilo are leaving the Camino today.  Like many Spaniards, they walk the Camino in sections, 2 or 3 weeks at a time, resuming where they leave off each year. Felicidad says it is a tradition to give gifts when leaving the Camino, and she has a silver ring each for Marianne and Lena. Her English was better all along than she let me realize.  That may have been her gift to me.