Camino Journal Day 20
April 21
With the morning, came a fresh feeling everything was going to be alright. I’m not sure where it came from or how I came into the feeling, especially with so many thoughts about my past, unable to let go of even the smallest grievances, but I felt it. I was okay. The weightlessness I felt could only be compared to stories I’d heard from Billy Ghrahm or Joel Osteen. They described people who had heavy addictions and in one Joel Osteen sermon, Joel spoke of a man who smoked cigarettes for 35 years. Cigarettes are more addictive and deadly than heroin. Many people never get off them, but this man finally prayed and asked God to take the addiction away from him.
As funny and skeptical as we humans are, when the cigarettes began to taste bad, the man thought it was a bad pack. He’d go buy another one and the same thing happened. He could hardly smoke them they tasted so bad. Undeterred, the man went out several more times over the course of the next few days and bought fresh packs of cigarettes, but none of them tasted as they had before. Frustrated, the man gave up and never smoked again. It was a couple days later when he realized he’d given up on his own will concerning the habit, and asked a higher power to intervene. Some say it was his subconscious, others will call it the universe, but whatever you call it, ask and you shall receive.
During both my Caminos, I’ve asked repeatedly for forgiveness and to learn how to forgive. The Bible says more than once to ask for wisdom, and it will be given. I rolled out of bed at 6:30am and took a large drink off my 1-liter bottle of fresh squeezed orange juice I’d bought at the grocery store the prior evening while I silently prayed for wisdom and the knowledge to know how to forgive. So far, I understood forgiveness as a process, a daily process of continually forgiving, but then and there a feeling came over me that true forgiveness was an act done once and that the majority of forgiving someone is to not return to the grievance. I had heard over the years that when Jesus forgives, he forgets. The sin is wiped clean and never to be remembered again. I was beginning to see one cannot forgive without also forgetting. Harboring the act is to continue in vengefulness, to continue feeling slighted, to continue to allow the act in question to define one’s life.
My feet hit the wooden floor. The young woman who was sleeping in the room with us was already gone. Johnny stirred as the first rays of light sparkled through the opened shutters. I quietly went out to the courtyard and rolled my spliff, opening my notebook to the list of monsters and I studied it.
“Let’s eat them.” I suddenly hear from Joey, his voice ever so close to my own.
“Eat them? Like Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son?” I asked playfully.
“Well, these monsters, or rather masks, these deamons are quite like your children, and if something isn’t done, then they will surely overthrow you. The moment is now. We must dispose of them while we are both strong.”
“But eating them? How do I eat them? They aren’t really real.”
“Eat the paper, then.”
Instinctually, I rip the page with the list of monsters from my notebook and wad it into a ball and shove it into my mouth. I chew the paper to a mushing pulp as the ball only gets smaller in my mouth but doesn’t actually come to pieces. There’s no way I can swallow this. Feeling foolish I spit the wad of paper out.
“Well, it was worth a shot,” Joey says. “It’s all symbolic in nature, anyway. We must assimilate.”
I watched as my little monsters squirmed and thrashed, mangled in the gob of white before me on the green grass. They writhed and withered and almost screamed out. The sun was coming up. Johnny would be up soon, and we’d walk together today.
“Why not burn them?” I ask.
“Try it,” Joey responds.
I pick up the wad of paper and unball it, finding a dry spot in there, I put my lighter to it. It flames up and a trail of embers trace the dry portions of the paper, burning out the ink marks where I’ve listed the Helper Monster, The Rage Machines, The Dark Inspector, and the Chameleon. The only name not burned out was that of The All Consumer. I felt lighter as I scattered the ashes of wet paper around the lawn and smushed the remnants into the dirt.
“The main one is still here,” Joey says. “Must mean there is still work to be done. The All Consumer won’t be as easy to get rid of.”
The All Consumer appears in my mind’s eye. It’s the Hoberman Sphere. A children’s toy. It’s multicolored parts flicker and change their color in pattern and at times go completely black, folding down to its infinitely smallest size, harmless in the deep recesses of my mind. Provoked, the sphere-shaped creature can expand infinitely consuming all in its path. Like the Langoliers, the all-consumer spreads out across time and takes in anything in its path going against the psyche’s perception of self.
“That’s truly a monster,” Joey pipes up.
“But what is it really?” we both stare into the blackness of the deep mind, the sleeping monster barely visible as it sleeps compounded upon itself, appearing as just a small speck.
“Because you and I separated, that is to say you, the psyche, and me the shadow self, you had to create all these masks, these personas. They dealt with the world for you. The others have been merely the minions of this one, as you suspected. They go about doing the work to keep you relatively sane and surviving, but when they can’t get something done, when reality calls on you to acknowledge me, the All Consumer comes out and distinguishes that request by obliterating a reality where you and I can be whole. Self-sabotage ring a bell?”
“But this sounds insane. How can it be these personas were created to help me survive? Do we even know what we’re talking about? Is any of this correct?” I ask feeling crazier than ever, but with a glimmer of hope I was headed in the right direction.
“If it symbolizes something for you, then its correct. Go with it. We’ll leave the all consumer sleeping for now. No need to let it know its minions are now gone. It’s 2 against one from here on out.” Joey says.
“2 against one?” I ask still confused, rolling another spliff.
“Yeah. It’s you and me verses the All Consumer now. If it wins, you’ll likely create new monsters again to satiate the beast. However, if you and I can become one, then we have a chance. You must assimilate me. Don’t call me Joey anymore.”
Johnny appears from around the corner with a Pepsi Zero in hand and his pack of Lucky Strikes. He sits and joins me as I finish up my spliff and OJ. We gather our things after breakfast and slowly make our way out the door at around 8am. In the corner of the reception is a coo-coo-clock that reminded me of my childhood. I wondered how old it was, and snapped a picture noticing it was about 10 minutes slow.
Stepping out into an Asturian morning, I gave no more thought to Joey, or the All Consumer, or any of it. I figured maybe I was a bit insane but didn’t want to write-off completely all the self-therapy I was doing. Maybe there was something to it. How could I assimilate my shadow self? I had no clue about that.
At about the first hour of walking silently in the brisk morning, Johnny and I came upon two-woman hikers. They veered off the trail when we got about 100 meters from them, and Johnny and I both got a sense the two women were a little scared to encounter two men on the trail. We naturally followed them at first, but realized they were taking a detour, so to their relief, Johnny and I turned around and got back on the real trail. We hugged the coast all morning and despite the cooler temperatures with overcasting clouds, the views were still breathtaking.
As we went along, I noticed more and more properties for sale. Each one we passed, Johnny and I prospected out loud what it would be like to buy it and start a new life here on the trail. Throwing out hypothetical prices and renovating projects we’d do if we became the dueños of a Spanish property helped us to pass the time walking. A lot of the places were really run down and collapsing but still stood with higher price tags of 150,000 euros to 250,000 when a few years ago these places would have gone for 60K or 80K at best. The market was fucked right now. Whole towns were for sale, and no one was buying.
“I wouldn’t give more than ten thousand for that one,” Johnny says with an attitude of superiority that I liked. “15K at best, he adds.”
We continued on into our second and third hours of the day walking across a beach, through some woods, over a field and on some roadway. The trail was just beautiful. We refrained from too much conversation and in its place, I played songs from Manu Chao and Paco Ibanez on my phone into the open air. The rhythm of the songs gave us a common pace and we went along with ease. At around 11am, we arrived at an old 13th century church just off the trail. Johnny and I walked the 500 meters detour to have our lunch for the day. We’d brought a few Shandy beers, snacks and stuff to make sandwiches. We both took off our shoes and socks to let our feet dry. Johnny’s blister was bandaged over, and he had new smaller blisters forming on the tips of his toes and also inside the old skin sock. I wasn’t sure how he was making it along, but he was in good spirits and the foot never seemed to bother him. It looked ten times better than it had back at the albergue in Santillan del Mar.
Sitting there eating we wondered how long ago this place stood here. What was life like back then. Were the friars mean? Were the priest’s kind? How many women lived here as property? There was nowhere to go if you got stuck here.
“But look at that highway up there. Now this place is forgotten and useless, since the 1980s when Spain joined the EU, even the small towns are obsolete from the creation of these giant bridges.” Johnny points way up above us over to the West.
I hadn’t paid too much attention until now, but you could see the distinct infrastructure from different periods. The dirt road we used to get to the church, the old one-laned paved road we had been hiking on through small towns, the two-lane highways of the Franco era, and up above, going from peak to peak, were these large 6 and 8 lane highways, bypassing the small towns all together.
“The Danish paid for that bridge,” Johnny says with a hint of sarcasm as I looked confused at him, “Well, the Danes, the Dutch, the Germans, the English and French.” he says trying to quell my misunderstanding. Seeing that I still don’t quite grasp it, “When Spain joined the European Union, they received hundreds of millions of dollars to upgrade their infrastructure. I’m glad to see they actually used it correctly unlike Greece and Portugal. These bridges are some of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.” Johnny explains.
The bridges were beautiful. Elegant even despite their massive size. The pillars propping up the structure were 100s of meters tall and 5 to 6 human bodies wide.
“How do you think they build those?” I ask childishly.
“I’m not sure. These are incredible structures. I don’t think they poured the concrete. Must have brought it in with trucks and cranes.”
We marveled at the sheer magnitude of this bridge above our heads. If only the people of the 13th century or even the 18th had this infrastructure, they could have made it out a little easier. We finish eating and pack up and are back on the trail before noon. The way through Asturias is marked much better and even has many little homemade signs that say how far you are to Santiago, all of them using their own measurements with a discrepancy as wide as 40 miles at times. Still, it was fun to snap photos in front of them and marvel at what a few steps an hour can accomplish. I’d already been walking about 450km, which was a little over the halfway mark of the 500-mile journey.
At times Johnny walked like lightening and it took all my energy to keep up with him. His pace was an added gift to his quiet company. At a quarter til two we took our second break. I introduced Johnny to the Kalimocho, a combination of Coca-Cola and red table wine. It’s surprisingly tasty, even with Coke Zero, and gives you the energy of a cafe con leche, with a little buzz from the alcohol. The drink is served with ice and can feel as refreshing as a glass of water.
As we continued on after our break, my pack seemed weightless due to the small amount of alcohol I’d consumed, and I thought at times I’d lift off and fly over to the Picos de Europa looming so pleasantly to our left. We came up on the eco-hostel I’d stayed at in 2019 in Cuerres where I’d planned on staying again to enjoy the hot outdoor shower with million-dollar views of the Picos, but when we arrived it was barely three-o-clock. I felt good and bustling with energy. The sun was out, and Johnny beckoned me onward to Ribadesella, another 7 miles down the way.
We walked on with little conversation. The battery on my phone was nearly dead so I refrained from anymore YouTube or Spotify. Johnny and I passed a few other pilgrims along the way, but there was little conversation or anyone who seemed to want to join in our pace. At around 5pm and after 25 miles for the day, we arrived at our destination. Walking in a pair provides the added benefit of splitting the cost of private rooms with two single beds. We snagged one off Booking.com for 35 euros and checked in. Our room was on the top floor, and we wearily dragged our bodies up the three flights of stairs, showered, changed our clothes and went out to the grocery store for provisions.
Again, to my delight, there was an automated fresh squeezed orange juice machine and I made myself a bottle for the morning. The cost was a fraction of what you pay at the bar in the mornings and the size nearly quadruple.
Johnny was craving pizza and we found a place with great reviews that opened at 7:30. Snagging a couple of Shandy beers from a corner store along with a couple chocolate croissants we would immediately devour, we made our way over to a bench on the meandering promenade circumnavigating the city’s coastline. There was a lone man on a water powered hover board out in the cove. In his wetsuit he did circle after circle on the water, rising high at times with bursts of the throttle and then lowering again, almost surfing as the engine quieted. He passed in front of Johnny and I’s quiet stair a dozen times and with each pass Johnny and I added to his back story, attempting to figure out who he was and why he’d be out there in the cold water.
“He’s just showing off,” Johnny laughs.
“Seems kind of lonely,” I scoff.
As we scrutinize the wet-suited outline of the body passing rhythmically before us, a man approached our bench while taking a large bite off his sandwich, yanking it with his incisors and chewing but yelling out amidst bites, “Johnny! What are you doing here?”
He looked astonished. “How can you make it this far? Your foot? Did you walk here?”
I’m really stoned and also tired. I look up to see the silhouette of a man blocking out the blinding sun. He towers over us smacking down his sandwich in between bursts of conversation. I cover my eyes with my hand and introduce myself and go back to puffing on my spliff and staring off into space. His name is Cho, pronounced like my name but with a Ch. He’s from the Netherlands. He has Asian descent and speaks English very well with a mixture of a Dutch and Asian accent.
“I can’t believe you made it. You walked all this way. I remember I saw you at Santillan del Mar and you can’t walk.”
“Yes. I’ve walked. We walked all day,” Cho looks at me to confirm, I muster a nod and check my phone for the milage.
“Phone says 39km.” I tell him.
“Oh geeze. I don’t walk like this,” he says stammering in front of us, finishing the last of his sandwich and tossing the tin foil ball into the garbage can next to our bench. Cho sits down on the other side of Johnny but remains leaning outward to talk to both of us. I’m hunched back and still enjoying intermittent drags on my spliff as I contemplate the soreness and weakness of my body.
“I think it’s kind of a waste to walk until 6 or 7 o clock,” Cho goes on persuasively. “You can’t see the city this way. It’s just walk, walk walk all day and then eat, shower and sleep. I don’t like this. I got here at 2pm and I’ve been enjoying the city all day.” Cho says.
“How did you make it here so fast?” Johnny asks, seeming to know something more of Cho’s journey than he was allowing me to hear.
“Oh, I cheated again,” Cho confesses sheepishly. “It’s just I’m on a time schedule. I have to finish by a certain day, you know, so I took the bus again today and didn’t walk. My feet are hurting and I’m having a not so good time right now. I don’t think it’s really cheating though. I took the bus, so what? I’m not missing much. I got to see the city today. I had a 5-star meal at a Michelin last night. I’m just trying to treat myself,” Cho sits back. He’s just kind of rambling and complaining. It happens to the best of the pilgrims.
This is the problem with planning your exit date too soon. We tend to overestimate ourselves and think we will keep a pace we don’t like. So, then it comes to skipping sections and taking public transportation. The journey can quickly devolve into a touristic jaunt of consumerism. I was glad I had given myself two whole months to complete the walk. I had plenty of time. Cho gave himself 29 days.
It can be sort of a consolation prize to speak on when you get back home. You say, “Well, I didn’t finish,” and relief spreads over the other, “But I did all this really cool expensive stuff rich people do,” the other smiles and doesn’t regret being stuck in their hometown.
Cho kept on for a bit. We invited him to eat pizza with us, but he declined being stuffed and went back to his hotel. Johnny and I ordered a whole pizza each and left not a morsal on our plates. I could feel my body using up the energy. It was nice to eat all I wanted and know that a days walking would burn up more than I could put in. I felt like I was a new man compared to three weeks ago. I’d changed so much, I’d lost a couple pounds. I was eating healthy. Still had money and was in love with walking the Camino. I felt a new joy at the longer days. I didn’t have to stop early and busk to earn money for the day’s food or lodging. It was thrilling to walk from 8am to 6pm, pushing forever onward. It occurred to me we’d stopped just one mile shy of a marathon.
“If you walk it, is it still considered a marathon?” I ask Johnny from the comfort of my bed. We both snuggled deep withing the layers of sheets and blankets in our adjacent single bunks. There is no heater, and it would get cold again. Not as bad as three weeks ago, but still the blankets were welcomed after a night in a pilgrim’s hostel with bare dorm bunks and sleeping bags.
“Oh yes. People walk marathons.” Johnny responds matter-of-factly.
“Well, we quit one mile shy of one today. Maybe we should have pushed on.” I laugh rolling over to face the wall and close my eyes. I’m dead.
“Joe, the Camino gives you what you need, not what you want.” Johnny responds with a small sardonic sweetness in his tone. The humor of the Danish, he had said.
I fall asleep quickly and leave Johnny working on his videos.
