El Camino

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.