We arrived at the hostel in Los Arcos in groups of two or
three, registered at the desk, and prepared to spend the night before
continuing the Camino de Santiago, the ancient pilgrim route across northern
Spain. The host, a Spaniard in his sixties, welcomed each pilgrim in Spanish
with a smile, mixed with a few words of the traveler’s own language. He asked how our Camino, our pilgrimage, was
going and offered words of support and humor.
On the desk sat a simple plate with several walnuts in their shells –
the unspoken message was to help yourself, you are among friends here.
Later,
several of us sat on the porch in front of the hostel and chatted in Spanish.
There was a
Spaniard from Cadiz with a gruff look, short-cropped hair and a three-day old
beard. He had his shoes and socks off
and was looking at the huge blisters on his heels that had formed after hiking
a dozen miles a day for several days.
Actually, they were no longer blisters – the blisters had broken and he
had tried to drain them and trim away the flesh so that they would heal,
leaving him with deep open sores. Now he
was explaining that he had had a tough day of walking and was planning to
return home for a week or two so that he could spend some time healing before
returning to the Camino.
A Brazilian man, about sixty years
old, was talking to him in a loud voice, almost as if he had had a glass of
wine or two. He spoke Spanish slowly and
loudly. He was like the comedian, the
storyteller in a bar who wanted everyone to listen to what he had to say.
“They’re
not so bad. I think you’ll be able to continue!”
“I don’t
think so. It’s time for me to go home.”
“No. Not at all.
They’ll be better in no time. You
just need to rest overnight!”
“Whatever
you say.”
“It’s
really no problem,” insisted the Brazilian.
Other
people nearby were grinning, amused by the false optimism of the
Brazilian. “It’s no problem for him,” someone said. Meanwhile, the man
with the blisters continued to scowl.
Soon the
Brazilian launched into another topic - extolling the virtues of a type of
liquor produced only in Brazil.
“It’s very
good, very strong. Sort of like grappa, but with a stronger finish. You must try it sometime.”
“Sounds
interesting,” said the man from Cadiz in a flat voice.
“You know,
there is something else we have in Brazil that’s better than what you will find
anywhere else in the world. You know
what it is?”
“Las
brazileñas?” joked the Spaniard with the blisters, looking up and smiling for
the first time.
The
Brazilian started to explain that this wasn’t what he meant, that he wasn’t
referring to the beautiful women of Brazil, but his speech was lost in the
good-natured laughter from the rest of the group.
“Why are
there so many Brazilians walking the Camino?”
asked a man wearing a red and black track suit.
“It’s
because we have a writer in Brazil – Paolo Coelho – who walked the Camino and
then wrote several books about it.”
“So that’s
why so many of you have come?”
“Yes, but I
don’t find the Camino to be the way he described it,” added the Brazilian. “He’s a strange writer. It’s as if he’s writing about his dreams,
nothing appears the way he has described it.”
“It’s like
the American writer, Hemingway,” said another.
“He wrote about Pamplona and now all of the Americans come there.”
“I like
Hemingway,” said the Brazilian in his usual straightforward way. “He’s direct and clear, easy to
understand. Not like those crazy dreams
of Coelho, who must have been on drugs.”
“Yes,
Hemingway was just drinking all of the time,” I said.
“You’re
American?” asked the man in the track suit, recognizing my accent.
“Yes, I’m
from California. But I need to go home
now. I’m taking a bus to Logroño and
then on to Madrid for my flight home. I don’t have time for any more walking.”
“Too
bad. You won’t be able to walk the
entire Camino.”
“Maybe like
me, you’ll come back and finish some day,” said the man with the blistered
feet.
“I hope
so.”
I stood up
to leave, looked at the group as they looked back at me. I hesitated for a moment, not quite knowing
how to put my thoughts into words. “Buen Camino,” I said, wishing them luck on
their pilgrimage.
“Gracias,”
they answered. “Buen Viaje – have a good journey home.”
I hoisted
my backpack, remembering how to walk in such a way that my own blisters hurt
the least, and headed toward the bus.
