Camino Santiago Portugese

This is the part of Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey when the main character faces a series of tests along the road.

It ain’t all beer and Skittles anymore.

Last night’s stay was exactly the sort I dreamed of when I was planning my Camino - a room with a family in the home where they live. But it was all so the first night the Road had beat me. My foot hurt terribly, and my body was done. So when my host Celinda and her family asked me to tapa with the other guests, also a family, I said no. Instead I lay in bed and felt sorry for myself.

As her husband succinctly put it while driving me back to town the next morning: “Tu corazon lo quiere, pero tu cuerpo, no puede.” Your heart wants it, but your body can’t.”

This would have been the sad sack theme for the day, but I got mad. If you know me at all, you know I’m very stubborn when angry.

It was all uphill coming out of O Porrino. One of those hikes where you see a corner up ahead and you start praying to gods and demons that the path is gonna smooth out. But it’s another hill. This goes on for about 7 miles. Through woodlands and towns, I am always going up, up, up, up, up.

A woman in front of me (There are a lot of us going up.) picks a flower and tucks it into in her hair. Maybe that will cheer me a bit I stick a few yellow blossomsin my hat, and take a selfie with a smile. Fake it til you make it, right? I come across a vending machine. You find these along the way - homeowners looking to make a fe extra coins.

It is empty.

I call it a name.

More climbing. Around every corner, another hill. “

“Fuuuck me!” becomes my mantra.

Somewhere along mile 5, hobbling along on a foot that feels like half of it is on fire…or dead…depending on the moment, I switch the narrative.

“Fuck you, Camino!”

Now, this is not the kumbaya, spiritual, find-yourself, love-the-universe approach you see in most Camino journals. I’m quite sure I’m not the first person to fling the ‘F’ word at The Way. People just don’t write about it.

But seriously, “Fuck you, bitch.”

I have begun to believe think Camino wants me to quite, and although my rational mind is thinking that maybe my foot has a stress fracture and I need to go to the hospital, I am not here for that. I am here for the kumbaya, “Dammit!”

Somewhere around mile six or seven, my potty mouth and I arrive in the town of Mos. The group of 5 Belgium couples I’ve been seeing all morning yell, “California!” from a bar where dozens of weary pilgrims are stopping.

‘Whatever.’ I offer a tepid wave and slink past them inside.

I join the sad que of weary folks, and ordering a coke at the bar. I try another selfie in the bathroom mirror. It’s come to this: fake bathroom smile selfies.

There’s a church next door (cause you can’t throw a rock and all). Mary 7-swords is here. There’s also a sign that says, essentially, “Hey, it’s great you’re here. We have security cameras. Don’t take our religious stuff.” It’s like the Catholic Church is tired and cranky, too. I diss sad Mary and take Virgin Mary’s photo instead. I’m so pissy, I’m being rude to Jesus’ mom.

I sit and once again slather Vaseline on two more, budding, I-will-give-myself-to-save-the-owie-side, new blisters. And I think of Senora del Dolor. She could not have wanted all those blades. At some point, post crucifixion and resurrection, she must have yanked them out herself. One by one, maybe with excruciating pain, but I bet she did. Mary reportedly lived a decade or two more. No way she spent all that time crying and bleeding. Besides, imagine trying to fit through a door with all those protrusions.

I’m thinking about this as a come across a stone cross where a lot of pilgrims have left rocks and photos and offerings. It’s time for me to unload my second Kory bead. I’m a sucker for symbolism; if Mary should unload that pain then who am I to hang onto it.

I unclasp it from the necklace, and proceed to drop it down my shirt. I cannot find it. I have to take off my backpack. I have to unbutton half my shirt. It is in my bra. I am fishing around my tatas outside a church in front of a cross. This is the sort of funny/stupid moment Kory and I loved. I’m laughing when I balance my second bead in the circle carved at the center of the stone cross. God, he woulda loved this.

I cry a little as I get back to climbing the stupid hill, but it’s not the gut wrenching sobbing I performed after the last bead. Grief is like this. It starts out a ball of sharp blades that cut and bleed you out, but the more you hold the nasty thing, the more the sharp edges smooths out. The more you learn to hold it gently, almost reverently. Grief goes away and it never stops hurting, but you get used to it. It becomes a biotropic parasite, not killing the host it needs for survival. There will be no moment in this journey when I release my sorrows, and I’m all better. That moment is a literary lie, a simplification, a fairy tale. Real grief is more nuanced.

On the day I finally reach Santiago and lay the rock with “Big Show ❤️” in some symbolic place, I’ll be done with THIS part of my grief. I’ll be ready for whatever is next. There is a new clarity in framing the journey without demanding a grand finale.

As I rejoin the ascending hoard, I’m done cussing out the Camino. I’m still in pain, but I’m also still stubborn. Quietly so. I’ll find out later on my Apple Watch that I’ve climbed the equivalent of a 10 story building. On this last leg before Redondela, I just watch my feet shuffle forward on the ground I front of me. I’m not quitting, but I’m not mad either. This is acceptance. But the acceptance phase of grief (although the phases are really bs) isn’t about accepting that somebody has died. It’s about accepting your new reality, accepting that you and grief are walking buddies for life.

A couple of miles outside Redondela, the path finally starts downhill. It’s steep, like, zig-zag-walk-so-you-don’t-fall steep, in some sections steep. I so desperately want to be done for today, that I get giddy when I’m come across a sewer cover with the word ‘Redondela’ on it.

I hobble into tonight’s accommodations. It’s my first albergue, which is a sort of stripped down hostel. My bunk is one of 50 or so. The Facebook brochure sells these as the very center of kumbaya, with strangers laughing and singing over communal suppers. But there are no happy pilgrims opening their loving arms to a weary soul. Everyone here is surly. They all climbed the same hill today - physically and maybe emotionally or even spiritually. (These the three supposed sufferings and revelations - physical, emotional, spiritual.)

My foot is shredded. I get a taxi to urgent care, where the doctor gives me the good news that the pain is not a fracture but a pulled muscle. She recommends a week’s rest.

There is a moment of silence.

We both know that ain’t happening.

She calls the nurse in to wrap it up, and they give me a compression sleeve for when the wrap gets dirty or gives out. The doc says something about trying to walk less, which I will, if I can.

I’m about 55 miles from the finish line with eight days left. And seven swords. Mary managed. So will I.Les mer