Camino Journal Day 9

Looking back to where I been. On the way to Castro Urdiales from Pobeña

April 10

Around 5am my eyes opened wide, and I was up. I put my earbuds in and put on some Joel Osteen. I got into Joel through his father’s books, especially the one titled Becoming a Man of Unwavering Faith. So now when I need pure positivity and pure motivation to have a good day and to believe that everything is good, I put some Joel on. I know what some of you may be thinking, but I’ve come to terms with my pseudointellectual past, and I’ve confronted the possibility I was wrong, despite my great deployment of reason, and a half-hearted attempt to claim the scientific method and the lack of visual proof of a tangible God. When it comes down to it, I never really tested the possibility of a God. One day I was just so terribly angry at the way things were and I quit believing. I just turned it off. It was easier. I was 15.

Ironically, decisions like these and their impact seem to fade from radar, and I found myself well into my late 20s before ever even considering thinking about God and right conduct. It seemed to me that the rich and powerful were also evil and corrupt, that with all the death in the world and hunger, how could people hoard up billions of dollars and eat fancy meals and throw away usable goods. How could it be? Anyway, Joel’s sermons help me to forget about all that. A mass of opium, if you will.

Joel’s messages focus on what is known as the prosperity gospel and he’s often referred to in the same damning breaths as ministers like Kenneth Copeland. Joel will tell you in almost every sermon how he became the preacher, how they acquired the Compact Center, how his mother was cured of incurable cancer, how with a little effort and belief, we can see how good God is.

When I was listening to my morning devotionals, whether it be about Jesus, Buddha, Allah, or Shiva, I attempted to create a direct link to the unknown. As Hakiem Bay would describe it, a Temporary Autonomous Zone, where it’s just me and the content. I listen, and I listen with beginner mind, with empathy, with patience while letting my suffering go, while letting my negative thoughts go, quieting the ego and all its woes, and pretending for a few moments, everything is as I would like it to be, at peace.

Gathering my pack and belongings, I make my way to the foyer and pack up. The entire room smells of marijuana. I guess one of the sisters had been smoking in her room already. Heading out on the street, it’s dark as night and still as light. No one is awake. It’s Palm Sunday, the first official day of Holy Week. Everyone in the town must have partied hard the night before. I rolled a spliff and waited for the cafe to open. The woman inside setting up saw me from the window and gave me the death glare. “Fucking pilgrims,” I heard her saying in my head. We were a bother after all. On the whole, most of the pilgrims don’t speak Spanish, or even try. In Before Sunrise a German ridicules Ethan Hawke’s character for asking if they speak English saying, “Why don’t you speak in German for once.”

Oh, how the tides have turned. The north Camino is most popular with the Germans and on the whole, they don’t speak a lick of Spanish. Micha was an exception to this. I do give props to the Germans for speaking and understanding English so well, although they do it with the rhythm, song and syntax of their native tongue. They speak English like it’s German. And here they are arriving to small Spanish towns with the hopes everyone has done so diligently their homework to learn the lingua-franca. They go into small out of the way Spanish cafes and order in English. The Spanish speak back in Spanish, and the confused looks come over both their faces. A series of gestures and grunts and sometimes frustrations ensue, and the cafe owner must repeat this over and over thousands of times a season. Could she get better at English? Well, certainly, but then could you ever imagine a clerk in Granbury, TX speaking in Spanish to a Mexican customer who just didn’t learn English and expected all the people of America to speak in Spanish? I didn’t think so. Eventually the Mexican will find a shop run by Arabs who will speak Spanish to them and that solves the problem here. Everyone can carry one as before.

On the trail - Castro Urdiales

On the Camino, before the pandemic, the pilgrims never stopped coming. It was an endless source of income and commerce. Although the locals made jokes about the burden of serving idiotic walkers, they were careful to help them all the way. With the pandemic and the sudden stop of tourism, things have changed in Spain for the first time in decades. Things changed around the globe. The stopping of the global economy was a miracle. How did we accomplish this? It’s a feat of global connectivity, empathy and awareness, now overshadowed by the repercussions of a few billion dollars in profit loss by the richest 1% of the globe.

“Hijos de puta,” I mutter under my breath and spit on the ground. I really loved those sisters. I really loved the history of Spain. What was it that allowed the Basques to maintain their unique language after all these years and in the face of countless tyrants, kings, dictators and imperialist? But now is the separatist’s movement just another sly takeover of the periphery by the center? As the Basque Country and also Catalunya attempt to unify the pueblos of these two regions with a common language, what else is erased? We are presented with an idea that all 2 million people of the Basque region have always shared a common way of life, a common language and a common identity, but this is not so. If a person from Bilbao were to speak to a person from Irun 100 years ago, they would have had a hard time understanding each other, and it would be more difficult the further back in time you went. They would speak dialects of some ancient language that would only sparsely resemble each other. It is only in our modern times of war and weapons of mass destruction and the industrial revolution that we see the rise of distinct nation states, and despite all Catalunya and Basque Country’s efforts at a revolution, without the total and complete backing of the industrial economic interests, there will be no new nation born.

Walking this first week through the Basque lands, you can see the hills tell the story. The difficulty in walking these hills helps to isolate these distinct villages and without the modern transportation system that came with the 1980s and admittance into the EU, these villages would still be all but disconnected. The small hill country roads are narrow, and small individual garden plots in every yard and on every hill tell the story of autonomy. The need to isolate oneself from the outside to protect what little you have and what could easily be taken from you by an outsider. In Julio Medem’s film about the 1870s Carlist wars in Spain, Vacas he “illustrates the cyclical nature of the unresolved strife and vacillating alliance between the two rival families in the film by using the same actor to portray generations of characters”. This cycle of strife begets isolationism and self-reliance. The back-and-forth alliances with the other are mere outward showings of utilitarian uses of the other depending on the current environment or situation. This same film tactic of using the same actor to portray generations of characters is amplified in the film Cloud Atlas, in which a group of actors play all the characters across a millennium of generations, interchanging their roles as the plot develops in a montage of mashed up time. Are we all but a product of our strife? A condition of avoidance? Was Joel Osteen part of my avoidance? A pretend utopia where my father wants me to be happy? What is happiness? Did the men of the 1800s experience happiness? Surely, they did.

I love seeing all the potato plots along the trail. The people mostly grew 5 or so rows of potatoes, a couple rows of onions, and a few rows of greens. The rest varied from plot to plot. It doesn’t take but a few potatoes, onions and some chickens to lay their eggs to make a Spanish omelet every morning.

First Coffee of the morning.

The cafe opens as a few ducks waddle up out of the small saltwater river that was emptying with low tide. They’d come for breakfast like the rest of us. The woman opens and serves me a cafe con leche, a couple tapas of chorizo and egg and a 1.5 liter bottle of water. Hugo shows up as I’m finishing my first coffee and I invite him to another. While we are talking outside on the patio, the sister who smokes came walking up to get her breakfast as well. Hugo mentioned he could smell the marijuana last night and this morning, and embarrassed that she’d been caught, she gave us the rest of the stash she had on her, “I have more. Here’s a couple porros for you.” Hugo and I smile at each other.

As she’s walking off, I suggest we smoke it to start the morning and I invite Hugo to another coffee. He’s got his bike and would be gone ahead of me in no time. We smoke and drink and talk about Black Jesus, “So who was that guy?”, I ask, “How long had you been staying there?”

“Only 3 days. I don’t know him. Just met him while I was pushing my bike up the hill just before his house. I had ridden all day and was dead.”

“So you did Irun to Guernica in one day?" I asked astonished.

“Ah, actually I started 40km before Irun,” he said modestly, “That’s why I was so out of it when we met. I’m feeling much better now, and I think I will do 80km today.”

There was a pause in the conversation. Hugo was thinking and then added, “I like that on the Camino you can just say goodbye to another person. When the interaction is over, it’s “goodbye” and that’s it. No bullshit, no fakeness, it’s a goodbye knowing that you will never see that person again. I don’t need to get your WhatsApp contact or your Instagram or anything like that. I just want to be like “barcos que se curzan en la noche”.

“I love that saying. That’s how life can be, ya know. I enjoy that too. Not every communication has to be so complicated.”

“Yea, not ever ass a dog smells is pleasing,” he said with a smile.

We finished the spliff and our coffees and headed off on the trail. Hugo walked his bike for a bit. Our conversations were going well and they were stimulating to both of us. He’d had a girl and they were living out on his stepdads land in a house that had been abandoned by his stepdad’s dad; his step-grandad. The catch of living there was that the stepdad could show up anytime he wanted, and even though he could of cared less to go out to the land before Hugo moved out there, he went quite often almost as if to check up on Hugo. This bothered Hugo so much. There were many fights. Fights between he and his mother, between he and his stepdad and between he and his girlfriend. He’d ended up alone again and out on the trail looking for something to own for his own. Looking for a new love and a new life. He’d hope the trail would bring that to him.

The pungent aroma of Jasmin fills the Camino del Norte in the Spring months.

We got to the first incline of the day and it was striaght up - nearly 45 degree incline. To the side were some very nice steps with a railing and all. At first I go up the steps with Hugo pushing his bike up the dirt trail on the other side of the railing. I’m stoned and a little high from the three shots of espresso, but feeling great and glad to be heading into a day with a rest and private room and hot shower at the end of it.

About 10 yards up a 200 yard ascent, Hugo is struggling to push his bike up the trail. I climb over and push from the back. We do the entire thing in one-go as to not lose momentum on Hugos bike. When we got to the top I was hunched over trying to catch my breath, I unclipped my pack and chugged my bottle of water.

“Wouldn’t it be funny as hell if I just off and went,” Hugo said laughing at the thought.

”Like two ships passing in the night,” I retort in playful banter.

It would have stung a little to have helped him up the hill and then have him disappearing from my life forever, but why? What was that feeling? Was I owed something for my service? Did I long for a friend or companion? Either way, Hugo waited for me a few moments and then walked his bike with me for the next hour or so. I’d planned on going to church, but it didn’t seem likely as we were in the middle of nowhere, however, if by thought or magic, we heard the church bells ring as we entered the first small village. A few other pilgrims had joined us in our walk and conversation along the way and were stunned when I said I’d go to the mass. Hugo, surprisingly went with me. We were greeted by the priest and asked if we could read in Spanish and if we would go up in front during the service and read something for them. We both obliged, and were given our lines to practice. It was a re-enactment of when Jesus entered Jerusalem. There were about 15 in attendance and a few other pilgrims as well. The church was old and cold and sounded amazing.

Before entering into the chapel, everyone was given bay leave branches and they are blessed with a prayer and holy water. You’re supposed to keep them and make soups with them throughout the year. Hugo and I read our passages, take communion and I give a couple coins to the offering basket. Hugo leans over while I’m waiting for the basket to come around and says, “You have to rub them together while you wait for the basket, so everyone hears you’re giving more than one.”

View from the trail - Muskiz, Spain

The single clink of the coin to the bottom of the basket, indeed was not sufficient any longer. A supposed 2-euro donation was the minimum one could shamelessly give. I laughed to myself and gave over my two coins, clinking to the bottom with slightly more force than my usual one-coin offering. We gather our bags, and the priest thanks us again for reading. Hugo walks with me an hour or so more and tells me he would love to find a place where he could have his own business, maybe run his own cafe or bar, and raise a family. He goes on and on about how badly he wants to find love but knows he must not make the same mistakes as in the past. We approach the cafe we’d looked up on Google Maps, as Hugo finished explaining the crazy and wonderful sex he and his ex-girlfriend used to have. “It was even better after the fights,” he said with a bit of yearning in his voice.

He parks his bike, and we remove our packs and head into the seaside establishment to find not a soul in sight. The Twilight Zone theme plays in my head as we search the place high and low, in and out, and find no one. To our astonishment, there is a warm Spanish Omlett on the bar and the entire place is ready to go but completely deserted.

“Hey Hugo,” I say a little creeped out, “Ever seen that TV show Twilight Zone? This feels like one of those episodes.”

He smiles quizzically at me, and I go on, “I mean, like weren’t you just saying your dream is to own a little cafe or bar? And here we are. It’s all ready for you. All you have to do is go behind the bar and serve me a coffee. Maybe that will set it all in motion. Then this will be your bar,” I exclaim with a hint of jest in my voice, "Hugo’s Bar has a good ring to it.

He laughs and continues to scope the place out. You can see he is actually thinking about it. Hell, I’m actually thinking about it. What if? What if this place could be mine? Joe’s Bar or Pepe’s Bar. The amazing views, the beautiful terrace, the downstairs courtyard, the large restaurant, all of it could be mine! All I had to do was go behind the bar and turn the lever on a shot of espresso. Bam! I’d be in a new dimension.

View from the terrace.

But Hugo and I both hesitated, we went back outside and looked around some more, calling out, “Hello! Hello! Anyone here?” wishing away our dream with every breath. The fear of getting in trouble weighed out in the end, and as we were walking back inside the last time, to I don’t know, maybe serve ourselves a coffee, a car came whizzing into the parking lot, slammed on the E-break in a cloud of dust and out pops and Eastern European guy walking briskly toward us and the bar.

“Are you guys open?” Hugo says politely, “The door was open, so we came in.”

“Yeah, yeah, what you guys want,” and just like that we were back to reality.

Taking our coffees and beers out to the terrace we pulled out our provisions from our packs and had lunch. I had a can of octopus, and some trail mix. Hugo had some tuna, clams, some mussels and some bread. He also had a package of 1 euro ham and another with sliced cheese.

We got the spread set up and took in the view. Hugo got out his phone to snap a photo of the food, “Some people are taking photos of their extravagant dining experiences, and this is what I post. Canned fish and baguettes. Salud, amigo! To the boats.”

We toasted and ate. I was a lot hungrier than I thought and loved all the seafood we had. The canned stuff is pretty good in Spain, and I guess it’s pretty good anywhere if you go to the right store.

“That was really kind of cool what we did in church today,” Hugo says coming to from moment of reflective chewing, “I figured I’d burn to a crisp for even walking into a church, but nope, the priest invited me up to the pulpit to speak to the congregation. Wow. Wow. Cojonudo, tio. Really is.”

“Ha, that was kind of cool. I never know what to expect when going to the masses. But that was nice. One time in 2019 I sang in a church in Tineo at the end of the mass. I just try to embrace it all.”

“I’ve never done anything like that. The church has always been the devil to me, but that was cool.”

We fell silent for a few minutes and took in the sea and the view. A few other patrons had joined us on the terrace. Seagulls swooped around, the sunshine warmed our bodies and dried out my clothes. Life was good, I thought. Did I need a woman? Did I want a woman? How come it never worked out before?

As if he heard my thoughts, Hugo chimed in, “Yeah, I don’t need a woman for a little bit,” and he takes a breath, “I mean I’ve got my hand here,” and he laughs, “Hell, I’ve got these two hands! I’ve got everything I need, and a little more,” and he puts his balled fists on top of each other and makes a stroking motion over his crotch laughing, “You know what I mean? Who needs a woman and all those problems? Maybe one day I’ll try again, but seriously, you know what I mean? I was born with all I need. I don’t need a woman to satisfy me. I can do it myself.”

I laughed uncomfortably, “I got that Catholic guilt. masturbation is a sin. I’m always feeling terrible about it, and feel like I need a woman or nothing at all.”

”Man, you Americans are crazy, My father is my father and he never taught me nothing except that Americans are crazy.” Hugo said shaking his head and rolling a cigarette. “Want one more beer?” he asked.

Hugo disappeared for a second to get the Shandys. They are easy to drink and I convince a lot of people to drink them. They aren’t so heavy on you and it feels like you’re getting hydrated. At least for sure you won’t get scurvy.

We finish our last beers and mull over some of the similarities of our lives. I have a stepdad and many times he’s reminded me that my mom is his wife. I told a comical version of this realization to Hugo, and he doubled over with delight. It really clicked for him. It wasn’t his mom anymore. He was a grown man, that was another person who had her own wants and needs. It was indeed more his stepdad’s wife than his mom. He laughed and smiled, gave me a hug and got on his bike and rode away. I wondered if I’d see him again but doubted it.

Hugo from Valencia

Being only a few more miles away from Castro Urdiales, I booked a room at El Catamaran in the city center for two nights. It was $75 total, and I couldn’t be more stoked. After finishing the days walk with 17 miles done, I got checked in and upon giving one of my racoon stickers to the clerk, I noticed I was down to only 5 more. I inquired about a print shop in the city and would head there in the morning to see about same-day printing of a new sticker.

After going out to the grocery store for some snacks and sparkling water, I smoked a couple spliffs hanging out the window of the hotel room thinking about the nearly 100 miles I had covered over the first 8 days and the relative ease I felt while doing it. I had a small blister forming in the middle of my right sole, and although my mind was hyped on the pace and miles I was making, I knew I needed to stay put for a day and lounge around.

There was a full-length mirror in the room, and I stripped down and took visual measurements of any possible weight loss. I compared myself to the image I had in my mind of the perfect body. It depended on the day if I felt closer or further from that mark, a mark made up of millions of billboards, magazines, and pornographic images I’ve seen over my lifetime. This day, I felt normal. I felt acceptance. I was walking at least 15miles a day. If that didn’t show effort, nothing ever would.

Weight loss is another thing like the growing of a plant. It takes diligent action without immediate results to one day suddenly realize the potential locked in the initial intention or seed-thought. I put my hands on my hips, did the finger-thumb-around the wrist to see if they would touch, and then flexed my bi-ceps. I was indifferent to my body, but hey! That was a step in the right direction. Better than absolutely hating it.

View from trail coming into Castro Urdiales

While showering I read the back of my travel size Dr. Bronner’s Soap and read the doc’s thoughts on the one God theory. What a great company, I thought. Organic, fairly traded and sourced soap with a unification message on every label with a mission statement of “United the Human Race”.

After a long hot shower, I felt clean on the inside and out. It was my first real shower since Irun. I washed my long-matted hair, brushed it, clipped my toenails, brushed my teeth and generally spent some time giving self-care. I don’t spend enough time on that. After a week of walking, you really start to notice your body. I wish I always gave this much care to me.

I crawled into bed proud of being so fresh and so clean. Proud that spending the money on the hotel came from my music. I was feeling proud in general when I couldn’t help but remember, “Blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup and dish, and then the outside also will be clean”.

I knew I still had a lot of work to do. I thought about my weight loss and remembered James Allen’s quote, “Out of a defiled mind comes a defiled and corrupt body.”

Truely, I am the maker of my own destiny. I checked my streams on YouTube before putting on the As A Man Thinketh recording and falling asleep.

View from the bed - Dusk in Castro Urdiales