Day Eight: May 2, 2009
I keep smelling myself thinking it's me, but then I realize it's the whole room that is one big tank of BO. I am using the remnants of the menthol rub on my hand as individuals in the Victorian era might have used bags of potpourri to extract a more delightful scent. I feel fortunate to have a place to sleep tonight. We are sleeping on the floor of a church in Logrono and the stone of the floor cradles my tired body. Yesterday's rest has been rewarded with sunshine- the first day without moisture in the air since we began. I acknowledge that at least some of the creakiness in the beginning is due to the cold dampness and my inability to warm up my chilly hips. We were going to "take it easy" today, and instead ended up hiking another eighteen miles. I wanted to stop at 12 miles in the town of Viana. Alas, the pace with which I want to downshift and Daur's expectations of the trip don't seem to align. Pilgrim's mass tonight afforded me a great opportunity to think. The Spanish mass churned in the background as I lost myself to my own thoughts. Because I can't stand and sit repeatedly, I sat for the mass. For whatever reason I have been to Catholic mass enough times to know when to sit and when to stand, but tonight, I figured if there is a god, she would understand. I was challenged in church by the thought- maybe we will do the whole Camino and the whole thing will hurt and the struggle is what I am supposed to learn; to be uncomfortable and to have to ask for help and to rely on others for help to make it. Or, perhaps this journey is to teach me that it is okay to stop, to acknowledge that it's too physically demanding, that I am uncomfortable and that the physicality of it exceeds my scope, that although there are moments that tantalize me with beauty, intrigue and intellectual and cultural stimulation, perhaps the approach needs to shift if being a pilgrim is possible.
Day Nine: May 3, 2009
Logrono to Navarette
I didn't sleep well in the BO tank. The floor being secondary to the aura of suffocation. I got up early, having no will left to fight off the early rustlers. By 5:45 I packed up. Poured water for Daur and I. Stuffed the sleeping bag into the undersized hole, and crept out of the tank to Vaseline my feet before putting on my socks and shoes in the hall. Thinking it was the light switch, I think I also woke up a whole room of monks by accidentally hitting the doorbell. Somehow, after I said I couldn't continue in the way that we had approached the Camino and offered alternatives like driving ahead to a flat section to walk for the week out of the mountains, taking several days of rest in a row, hiking less of a distance each day, etc. we hiked another five miles. The details of the morning aren't pretty. And to my horror and disappointment, very different philosophy's for the remainder of the trip were exposed. I envisioned a Camino with periodic stops to journal, great conversation with strangers that make the miles float away. Sharing cheese and the cheese knife with new people, and getting so comfortable walking that I could wander in my dreams. An opportunity to enjoy the freshness of the outdoors and the uniqueness of the experience. Instead, I thought a lot about where my next step would land and minimizing pain without slowing down. I felt pressure to keep pace and maintain mileage, as it aligned with a prescribed path designated by the guidebook. We walked all the way to Navarette. Finally, we had a real conversation. Homesickness had intensified Daur's focus on tangibles like distance and time. For me, pain created disillusion. She wanted to do the whole thing or not at all, but really, she wanted to go home. I doubted my ability to sustain at her pace with the level of pain I endured. With one step into a taxi the subculture of the Camino vaporized.
On the train to Madrid I was saddened by the immeasurable increase in speed. The poppies I walked by with individual seedpods were transformed into a blur of color. The birds, once defined in black and white with individual feathers, were now a rush of shadow.
May 4, 2009
Two weeks after we left the states, we were again on a flight, this time, much to my disappointment, back to New York. And it was a good thing we were there. We made friends with a three-year-old boy Jayden and his mom, Doris. They sat in our row a couple seats over, and Jayden really wanted the window seat- which I felt some guilt for occupying. Once we were definitively over the Atlantic, Doris tried to die. Her body slumped down in her seat and her eyes rolled back as her head tilted backwards and her neck curved forward. Daur said, "that's not good," just as I also looked over. Eternity passed as we tried to get tray tables out of the way and coffee settled on the ground and seat belts and headphones off and up and out of our seats. Daur rubbed her knuckles on Doris' sternum and couldn't find much of a pulse. In an awkward transfer where Daur ended up with more of the weight, we moved Doris onto the floor. I hit the call button and although many flight attendants seemed to swarm, none of them really did anything. I have never seen somebody resuscitated. I have never been expected to participate in the resuscitation of a thirty four year old mother with her three year old sleeping in the seat next to her. I did what I was told, and handed what was asked for. Nothing in her bag indicated she had a medical history. A physician on the flight, also a passenger, came forward. The ambu bag was out and in use. The IV and the increase in blood sugar seemed to be just the ticket. I am purely amazed that Doris survived. It was a close call. It took thirty minutes to revive her. There were a lot of forms. Daur, the physician and the flight attendants worked on paperwork. Doris began to cry. I got her some tissue, and sat with her son. He said, "momma was lying on the floor", so he must have been more awake than I thought. This experience, albeit personally terrifying, presented Daur in a different light. It showed me why Daur is a good nurse, why she is so task oriented, why that efficient side of her personality doesn't bode well with the kind of trip we had in store or deviating from what we had planned.
May 5, 2009
Flabbergasting. The cars and the people. The useless bustle. The total separation from the earth and the weather. It’s so strange to be back in my house and such a strong impulse to leave as soon as possible.
The doctor tells me I need to see an orthopedic surgeon. I said not so fast. It's surmised that I have potentially stress fractured my tibia in addition to tearing the lateral ligaments (or maybe my meniscus) of my right knee. Yep, that sounds like damaged ligamentos to me. I think it's from the mud, day two, and then potentially compounded by the fact that I hiked another 100 miles.
May 6, 2009
One hundred and ten miles into the journey, I am taking a pause. I would like to return to the path and the way of life when I have the opportunity. For now, I had x-rays done yesterday, and I see the orthopedist on Friday. For a number of reasons, we did not complete el Camino de Santiago in a clean sweep, one shot wonder kind of a way. I did learn that there are many ways to wander the way. For a number of reasons, although it sucks to be home, I am glad that we stopped when we did.
I am tempted to drive across the country or do something to get the hell out of town! Depending on the timing of medical things, I would guess you could anticipate some blogged adventures in the future.
