Camino Journal Day 6
On the trail to Guernica - April 7
April 7
Again, I woke up early. 4:30am. I thought it curious my body seemed to only want 7 to 7 and a half hours of sleep a night and not the recommended eight. Funny how aware I was becoming of the smaller things. The random passing thoughts and observations of self that normally I’d have no time to entertain. I got my ear buds out and put on some devotional recordings from YouTube. Over the last 10 years or so I’ve grown accustomed to listening to positive or spiritual recordings to start my day, or at any time my thoughts seemed to deviate into a more negative realm.
In a book titled Practicing the Presence of God, a collection of correspondence from the mid 17th century, the friar says in one passage that if the Lord leaves him to himself, he will do nothing but sin and so he does not fret about his sins in life. If the Lord didn’t want him to sin, then he would not allow him to do so. Once Brother Lawrence remembered this tenet of his faith, he moved on from the committed sin and gave it no more thought.
The book takes little more than an hour to get through and invites the reader to witness all kinds of thoughts about what it means to be in the presence of God. The friar had no interest in his message or thoughts on the subject to be published, and in one letter informed the recipient that if he shared any of the correspondence, the communications would cease at once.
For me, if left to my own devices, my thinking patterns can be quite negative, to say the least. By nature, the human being tends to set in motion their daily life with the first few thoughts of the day. Like the first pebble thrown into a still pond the ripples traverse the entirety of the body of water, changing the calm surface with the tendencies of its nature. I think what the book is trying to point out is that we can choose the pebble we toss in; we can choose our first thoughts, and thus steer our day with our mind and tongue the way a small utter steers a large ship.
For the longest time I’d move through this world with such carelessness. I’d awake as a child, and you can imagine that if sent to bed at 8pm, which was my bedtime, that I’d be up about 7 or 8 hours later…that’s four am. My dad used to call that the crack of dawn. The colloquialism is about the sound the morning must make as it approaches the darkest moment of night. A crack of the whip, I assume, but as a kid I didn’t see it that way, I heard the crack of dawn, like a crack in the Earth, a void between the morning and the night, calling me from sleep but apparently not many others.
I woke up every morning so early my dad made me a VHS tape of the He-Man movie. He showed me how to put it in the VCR and by the time it was over, he’d usually be awake. If not, I’d grab one of his tapes of the Star-Trek movies. I never liked them that much and would start to make noise around 6 or 7 to get him up. That was still too early though. It’s crazy to think about how old your parents were when you were a certain age. Like when I was 6 years old, my father was not even 30 yet. Approaching 40 without a kid, I wonder how anyone in this world was raising a family.
Laying there in Markina I dozed in and out of lucidness with the audio book playing in my ears. The room was fresh with cold Spring air. I nuzzled deeper into my sleeping bag the way I hoped to nuzzle deeper into the mysterious all of alls. The unnamable name. The everything. I’d gotten better over the years about being positive. Sometimes I’m too positive for my own good and annoy the shit out of people. But that’s what it’s all about; NO DOUBT. there can be no doubt. The teachings don’t say, you can doubt a little, it says absolute faith. Pray as if you already have it. What did I want? I had a new song coming out. April 8th I Can Be What I Want was due for digital release. On April 1st my song Honkytonk Guarantee came out, but even I almost forgot about it.
I was really trying to say something without saying it. The same way I meandered around God in my conversations and friendships. I thought maybe with this new batch of songs that I’d hit the mark. Time will tell, but after a $100 on SubmitHub.com and a slew of rejections, I had no doubt forgoing the extra expenditure to send the singles to radio was the right move. Maybe I’m not that good of a writer after all, but like Bukowski reading his contemporaries, I just like what I write the most. Bukowski lamented the disingenuousness of his peers and said in a few interviews he thought many of them were “faking it”, that they hadn’t really suffered and so couldn’t really write about anything worthwhile. He’s not wrong.
My 6th day on the trail would take me past a monastery. In 2019 I used it to ditch the people I’d been walking with for the past week. I’d grown tired of the individual idiosyncrasies and my over willingness to care and do for others was wearing me down. As I’d done already, I’d stay and point out my spiritual pursuits to the Camino, and they would all carry on without me. Where did they go when I disappeared behind the large church doors? The preservation of the buildings stood as if to taunt the decadence of the religion. Why did I go in?
So, I thought as I was finally waking up truly, that I’d revisit with the monk who spoke with me the first time there. I dismissed him coldly back then. He’d approached me after a few hours of me sitting on the outside steps, smoking spliffs and then going into the church and playing songs. It was so early when we got there three years ago that the other pilgrims had no problem leaving me there and even sauntered off down the trail in an almost disbelief that I’d kick around all day long at this church. I enjoyed the day singing to myself and listening to my voice playback off the walls. When I’d come out for a smoke session the priest came over to speak with me and invited me to stay the night in the hostel on the side. It was a small room, but with my aching blistering feet, it would do nicely.
The priest spoke with me further and border lined a conversation about God, but as my excitement grew to speak on the infinite his enthusiasm waned. It’s been said that the lips of wisdom are closed to ears that lack understanding. The priest did say, “I remember when I was young and I felt this certain restlessness inside,” and he rubbed his stomach. I felt like he was projecting a little. Did he want me to stay and become a Monk? What on Earth did they do there?
At around 5:30 I got up and out of bed and went to the interior patio and smoked a spliff. The hosteleros would be getting up ready to serve breakfast any moment. I laughed about how deaf the two old men were. They clearly enjoyed being hosteleros and caring for all the pilgrims. The beautiful thing about being a pilgrim is that there are so many types. If you don’t like one, there’s always another one, a different type, someone to suit your needs, someone carrying your message. Someone with your type of listening ear. They’re always coming, and I bet it’s a real pleasure to be a hostelero as an older gentleman.
My Keen Waterproof boots and Dickies Wool socks. Smoking cigs on the indoor patio of the Markina albergue over breakfast
After toast and coffee and a bit of conversation and cigarettes in the patio, I dawdle around until I’m the last one left. Today, I would definitely separate from the crowd. I had some self-work to do and was feeling pretty good about everything. Time to take a look at the self. I remembered back to an old woman I’d met in Deba back in 2019 who saw me struggling to meet the distinct needs of so many different people. My helper monster was in full force back then. What is curious about the memory is that when I recognized the first drop of sweat beading on my brow, that is the moment I first noticed the old woman. She saw me racing back and forth from the bar to the table full of pilgrims and translating and ordering for them. When we made eyes she said, “Come here, my child,” and she patted the stool next to her.
I glanced back at the table of pilgrims, my supposed family, and notice they didn’t really seem to mind my absence. I joined the old woman at the bar and in the midst of all the commotion of at least 50 patrons and a full outdoor patio, drinks and tapas flying across the room, the large table of pilgrims seated in the middle, roaring with laughter, she says in a low voice, but with perfect clarity,
“When you’re finally tired of all this,” and she does a circular motion with her hands and points over to the group I’d been all but waiting on, and the world slows and stop for a second, everyone frozen around us, “slow down and they will disappear. Don’t try to outrun them, you’ll only see them many more times down the way. If you pause and let them go, they disappear forever. My child, you will see. Try it. Now, back to what you were doing.”
Like magic, the world around me began to move again. I became aware of some sort of settled peace and sat down in my seat at the table with the others. I’d experienced satori before, but this was on a new level.
Spanish Pork Rinds, empanadas with Tuna and a piece of tortilla.
The tapas are out on the bar like this when you go in. You pick what you want, and they get you a plate.
Here I was in Markina, not in the exact same situation, but bordering it. It’s funny how we repeat the same behaviors over and over and hardly ever recognize we are doing it. I thought I’d grown so much and banished the little helper monster, but no. He was here. I’d have to slow down again and let the others pass. I felt good though. My body was good. It wanted more activity. Wanted more walking. It wanted fast walking. I figured maybe I would stay at the monastery again and then get to walking really fast once the group had got out in front of me. I’d make a purpose not to interact too much with others the rest of the way. It wasn’t that anyone got on my nerves, it was just I was so willing to listen and be a part of just anyone’s journey that I knew alone-time was what I really needed, and it’s what I wanted as well.
Bolibar, Spain - View from the trail
I figured it would all work out and had an extra coffee before leaving the city on my own. Micha, Heiko and Johnny were good guys and I assumed they were walking together somewhere up the way. Part of me wanted to be with them, to experience this group sensation of doing the way, but more of me wanted to be alone. I took it easy on the trail and didn’t wear myself out too much. My heart felt good, but the 600 feet up then 400 down, then another 200 up and then 300 down all throughout the day can really take its toll.
The scenery was beautiful, and I arrived again at the monastery around 10am. I’d just missed the singing of the monks and sat on the steps allowing my sweat-soaked shirts and hat to dry in the sunshine while smoking a spliff. I’d hoped the friar would come out again and approach me and we could continue this talk about inquietude. Sure enough, as if by thought, he appeared out of one of the doorways to cross the courtyard to enter into another part of the monastery. He was solemn, somehow saddened and walked with a slouch. I waved at him, but he did not come over, continuing on his way. I’d hoped he’d remembered my profound restlessness that excited him those three years ago, but he did not.
Just then Suzanne arrives looking good and fresh. I’m happy she is still going along. She laid her pack next to mine and breathed some heavy sighs. She was good in English one on one. Talking English in front of other Germans seemed to have thrown her off. She was harkened too much back to her school days and all the torment and ridicule of a high school language class. This is why the Dinglish jokes were so funny. You could tell she was a very nice lady and very successful. You could also tell she was questioning why she was doing this journey. The hills of the Basque Country are no joke. I too was questioning what in the hell I was doing back out here, but since I’d already completed this exact journey, I knew the hidden benefits and the way the magic of the Camino works on your subconscious. I also knew my blood was flowing, and I was alive.
No amount of physical exertion could stop me from noticing the wonderous joy of feeling my body alive, and the miracle of the heart pumping blood all day and all night. Just working along, no matter what is going on. Doing its job and never letting me down. I was getting my rhythm. After the friar passed me by, I knew I wouldn’t be staying the day here. I’d move on. But how to go at it solo? I guess I’d let the Camino work that out.
Muntibar, Spain
Yellow arrow
Before leaving, Suzanne and I had a pack lunch together. She offered me her sweets and I offered some of my kikos. We went into the church, and I sang Jason Isbell’s Cover Me Up. The reverberation of the old churches is incredible. A few times I almost choke up crying while singing. I see Suzanne out of the corner of my eye, and she is losing it, so I go right into Merle’s Today I Started Loving You Again. When I’m finished the last notes dissipate into the ancient concrete walls. Crying makes me extremely uncomfortable and so I try not to look over at Suzanne. As a musician, someone crying because of your singing is the highest form of flattery. My distrusting nature wouldn’t let me believe for a second it was real tears. But I knew it must be, as I myself was affected by the singing and nearly lost it a few times throughout. It took all my might to keep the beauty pouring from myself a constant. Sometimes when I hit a note, I feel refreshed, accomplished, fulfilled, and dignified. A single note and the execution of it can change my who feeling of me and of the world around me. This was one of those times.
When I finally looked over at Suzanne, she hadn’t wiped her tears and showed them proudly to me, “Your songs make me cry.” I blushed and gave her a hug before packing up the guitar. Something told me the moment was over. Part of me wanted to sit and sing all day. The acoustics were so good. I was sounding so nice. But I really was bored of the toy guitar. It merely provided me with a pitch for the voice to follow, much like the toy keyboard the monks used in this church to get pitch before entering into each hymn. But I wasn’t a monk, and if I could genuinely make someone feel something without any equipment at all, it was high time to accept my talent and really think about where it was all going. How good of a singer could I become? People would say I was too old to start playing an instrument at 25, that I was a fool to begin a career in music at 31, but what do they know? What did the monks know? What did anyone know?
I helped Suzanne add the two songs I’d sang to her Spotify playlist before heading out. She listened to them while I was packing up and smoking one more spliff for the road. “I like your versions better,” she said. Even though I could sense her compliments were true, my jaded soul took them with pain. Too much fluff in the world, I guess. “Why do you say that? Those guys are professionals,” and I hated myself for sounding like some hot-shot-local musician pretending to be humble.
”Because I can feel it in my body when you sing.” My disbelieving ears had heard this before, but this time it rang true. The thing I felt making me almost choke to death mid song, the rising ball of tears in my throat, welling up at the creases of my eyes, was the feeling she felt. How did I do that, I wondered. What was this feeling?
I helped Suzanne with a few ideas of how far she would go and where she would stay that night. I told her this was a good place and that they served lunch here at 3pm too. We hugged and I set off. Just before leaving the grounds of the monastery, I was approached by a one-toothed-monk who had to be at least 70 or 80 years old, hurrying down the pathway toward me in a hasty attempt to reach out to me before I’d rounded the corner and would be out of sight. Determined to carry onward, it did not occur to me that monks make beer, and he may just be wanting a friendly day-drinking buddy, and although I slowed up, I did so reluctantly.
Getting into the public paved paths
Arriving close enough to touch me, he enclosed his arms around my head and pack, and I was consumed into the woolen robe of the monk. I pulled away forcefully and he tried to give me the two Spanish kisses on my cheeks and pulled me back into his bosom. This time I jerked myself free and put a few feet between us. He spoke in a mumbled drunken perfect Spanish, catching his tongue on his one snaggled tooth protruding out the front of his mouth while pronouncing the Spanish letter C. His eyes were old and glossy. He again tried to hug me saying,
“My child. My child. How are you? What a pleasure to see you.”
I thought he was crazy and couldn’t imagine what it was like to have to deal with him every day, living there in cloister together with this old crazy man. He had an air of child molester about him, but that could be my own projections, but he was a smelly old man and I got out of there and continued down the trail, to his disappointment. There’d be plenty others for him to visit with, I thought. Sure enough, a few days later I saw a video on YouTube of a pilgrim stopping there and having one of the best beers and conversations of his life with that very snaggled tooth monk. Incredible.
Checking the watch on a break.
-Nearly 7 hours walking and close to 15 miles.
I walked hastily through the trail in a constant battle of if I should walk slower or faster. I wanted to push myself. I enjoyed having the Apple watch and checking my heart rate. It hadn’t got above 170 all day, for the first time. Approaching a bar where I’d usually take a break, a little voice inside said,
“Why not try to stop at every bar along the way, no matter how close together they are.”
It’s strange where thoughts come from, but this thought served two purposes for me, one was to participate in local commerce and the other being that I’d be able to move very slowly while visiting each bar I encountered.
I decided last minute to forego the bar visit and as I passed the opened door, I heard the voices of Johnny, Micha and Heiko. Having accidently made it passed the door without them seeing me, and doing it honestly, I raced on. A few moments later, as if the ether had told them, I got the message in the Camino family group chat on WhatsApp. It inquired to the general whereabouts of the group and if anyone had plans for where to sleep. We were coming up on Easter weekend and everything was either sold out, too expensive, or closed due to Covid. There was really nowhere to sleep for the next two stages. I knew I’d be better off finding easy accommodations while traveling alone.
Despite what the old woman had told me, I felt liberated to be out in front of the group again. I was zooming and it was only around 2pm. I walked as fast as I could until I came to the next town and the bar for my break. I took off my layers and let them dry in the mid-day sun of the plaza and order a coffee, an orange juice, a pincho and some kikos, another bottle of water and a Raddler beer. I laughed at myself as I remembered back to the days of calculating my order down to the last cent, never spending more than a couple bucks at each stop. Fresh squeezed orange juice is the most expensive item in the bars, but it’s worth it. This order would cost upwards of 10 euro. Still cheaper than a stop at 7-11 on the way to a gig for drinks and snacks. I was happy to spend the money as well. Most pilgrims will ask the bar to fill up an existing water bottle. This of course cuts down on plastic waste, but it is better to spend the euro or two on a fresh bottle from the bar. The profit margin for them is so high on these bottles of water that you can really help in that way. And there I go again - my little helper monster. You can also rely exclusively on public fountains for most 90 percent of the trail.
Tortilla “interesante” and Bocadillos de lomo
The barman takes a liking to me and asks me if I know anything about Basque Ball? He kept asking me in English and I kept thinking he was saying something between baseball and basketball. I tried both, and he continue saying it like Baske Ball?. Finally I got it, “La Pelota Vasca”. He affirms with great joy. I ask if he’s seen the films of Julio Medem, who made a 7 hour documentary over the sport. “Who is also Basque.” He looks at me quizzically. I mention another couple titles, “Lovers of the Artic Circle? La Ardilla Roja? Vacas? Chaotic Ana?” and then he says,
“No, come with me. I’ll show you.”
And he takes me just around the corner to the public court and we go in. He tells me in here many famous players started their careers. He insisted on speaking English and of course I kept trying to revert us back to Spanish. I was in character. I wanted to practice. I still had trouble with subjunctive tense, and I lacked fluidness with some aspects of gender. We chatted some more, him telling me there were many Basques in the United States, I laughed and say,
“In Idaho?”
He laughs as well and says, “Tu eres un listo. No eres un Americano normal.”
I feel good hearing that. I was ruining his act He had a show to do, a hospitality show if you will. The Basques, although don’t consider themselves Spanish, are always exporting their kindness and culture. He was a very nice guy. We were gone no more than 5 minutes, but when we got back, his wife was tending the bar in a huff and asking where he’d been. I ordered another Shandy beer, rolled a spliff and went back out to the plaza and sunshine.
Muntibar Muncipal Basque Ball Court
After warming up and drying off, I continued on my way to Guernica. I was proud that I’d already done just over 20 miles today. Walking without distractions, I noticed this anger inside of me. I’d used it for fuel most of my life, but here it was so obvious. My legs were like two motors of rage and anger pushing me at lightning speed down the trail. The little helper monster wasn’t the only one inside me, that was becoming obvious to me now. What was it that blocked me from my success? Was it resentment? It was probably resentment. How to forgive? How to forgive when one is in protective mode?
Sure enough, there were no lodgings in Guernica, but I found a surf hostel down in a town called Mundaka, just a 2-euro train ride away. The man from the bar who showed me the municipal court recommended I take the coastal train, anyway. Everything worked out easily, and after a 20 min ride, I was there. When I got off the train and attempted to exit the small, unmanned station, I realized I’d lost my ticket stub. I wasn’t accustomed to holding onto it, and back in 2006 living in Barcelona, it was customary to jump the turn stalls and never pay for the metro. I didn’t like doing that anymore. Spain had cracked down on the metro. I figured I’d just buy an extra ticket, but when I got into the station, the automated ticket machine was on the other side of the closed turnstile. There were two other people getting off the train with me. A cute couple. They watched me as I tried to figure out what to do and seeing them, I said, “Hey, can you buy me a ticket and pass it over,” pulling out a few coins from my pocket. Could this be another one of my little monsters inside? An absolute honest man? Like the thin man, a true California Gentleman. “Maybe,” I thought. Why didn’t I just jump it?
The couple didn’t speak Spanish, but in English the man replied, “Why not just jump it?”
So, after a few more split seconds of hesitation, as if they were going to report me or something, I squeezed through the turnstile gate and was on my way again. I was at the hostel and paid the 12 euros to sleep. It was me and just one other person staying there. I didn’t encounter them once the entire evening or morning. I walked around the city in hopes of meeting someone. I drank hard liquor and smoked a few spliffs. I couldn’t get high enough. I was also incredibly hungry but couldn’t exactly decide what to eat. I stopped off finally at a tortilla specialty shop, something I’d never seen before and tried a Ham & CHZ and a fish tortilla. My body was worn out, but somehow these little motors of rage didn’t want to turn off. I paced the city replaying episodes of my youth in my mind, getting angry, then calming down. Thinking it through. Accepting responsibility for my life, then turning around and dishing out the blame for the things that have gone “wrong.”
Mendata - Marmiz, Basque Country, Spain
View from trail
I run into Andy and his wife, Claire, who I’d met briefly earlier in the week. She is walking the Camino in crisis. She doesn’t like her good job and doesn’t feel fulfilled with life. Andy is driving a van and supporting her each stage. Some part of me felt Andy’s love and concern and willingness to do whatever it takes to keep his partner happy. Every morning after making her coffee and setting her off, he would find a nice spot to work. He worked from his laptop as a civil engineer for his small business. It could not be easy for him to direct everything from so far away. He always had a smile on his face though, but you could see also he was looking for the answer as to why all these people did this crazy thing as to leave their lives for at least a month and go walking across the Earth. I could sense some resentment toward the encouragement his wife was getting from so many people, but I also saw that he too was enjoying himself. He was in it for her, and maybe she was right about something after all. You could tell he trusted her despite his skeptisism. He loved her; his love was everywhere.
Andy sat silently as me and Claire spoke for an hour or so over drinks and spliffs. Sitting on the seaside patio, beauty all around, the chilly spring rainy air consuming the words. She talked about who she was and what she wanted. Like many of us, we have the answers locked inside. We know already what we must do and what we want, and no matter how many people tell us to do it, or to go for it, we won’t do it until we allow ourselves to do it.
I noticed I talked to much about myself responding to her questions about my Camino and why I did it again. What were the benefits I got and was getting and where to find them? People in general want something tangible to hold onto, to represent finding peace. That’s what I had done with the Camino and everyone wanted to know how. I practiced listening more and trying to empathize without words. She and Andy retired to their van and I to the hostel. On the way back I took a little walk around and smoked yet a final spliff for the night, el penultimo, they say in Spain. The “second-to-last”. “The last one is when you die. Never say the last one.”
A seaside church in Mundaka
There was an old church out on the sea side with just enough of a large lawn to give you the immediate impression it had been there for ages, and you could still feel the loneliness and solitude of a life in that church. The swallowing backdrop of the sea encompassed all, and even the hills and the church itself seemed faint and forlorn, almost not there. If I could feel myself in these places, if the fabric of this physical place were laced with memory of all who traversed it, like data collection in a video game or simulation, then could I also feel and see back to the 1600s or 1700s when this church on the hill was a vibrant part of a world network? I think there are faint traces of what was, as on the trail, when you can feel the spirit of other pilgrims, or when the apostle is walking with you, the ancients are also there. Their voices are like apparitions from another dimension.
I often thought of why I went to mass on the Camino. As a child I hated mass. It was so fake. With Dad’s visitations being every other week, I was only a Catholic every other week. With only two out of every 14 days to hang out with our father, I wondered why we spent a whole day working on the catechism. My dad worked nights, so didn’t go to church with us or do the workbooks with us. I didn’t confirm. I don’t remember being asked to confirm, actually. It wasn’t a decision I was given or a responsibility I was offered. Even still, I was later black-sheeped by my father, and one of the big reasons was I didn’t confirm. Confirm what?
The churches all felt cold and lonely. The churches in the small towns seat 50 to 100 people and maybe 10-15 will be there scraping their two-euro coins together to make a sound as the basket is passed along. Surprisingly, most of the messages I’ve heard in my 8 or so masses in Spain have all been about love. Could be that I’ve only attended during Semana Santa, but I like it none-the-less.
In some of the monasteries and outskirt churches I feel a feeling of terror. I stood there smoking my spliff, staring at that church, searching the 4th dimension with my mind’s eye and all I felt was cold, dark and alone. I could see rough days with a bossman harder and more consistently brutal than the waves rocking the shoreline night after night. I felt the misery of waiting for supplies to arrive, the alienation of the fringes producing tragedy and hastily fatal decisions. Beatings, whippings, slaves and servants. Rape and torture. Who knows what era I was feeling? Maybe there were nice days out here too, with plentiful livestock and produce, with a flowery meadow and all the people singing Kumbaya and living in Utopia. But based on how sad people are now, and with how easy everything is, I imagine my feelings of immense pain in these places is accurate.
I pulled the key card out of my wallet and accessed the surf hostel. Apparently, this is a wild place in the summertime. My body felt so good easing into the foam mattress in the dorm. I couldn’t believe the weightlessness of lying down. My bones vibrated with a light discomfort from the 23.5 miles of walking for the day. Dangling my body from the bed without getting up, I reached for two 400mg Ibuprofen tablets, swallowed them with a gulp of water and resumed horizontal position. I fell asleep feeling good and would awake in the morning for an early start and make it to Bilbao.
