This morning we woke up around the same time as the other pilgrims left. As we made our way downstairs to have breakfast, I tried to count the bottles of wine we drank last night. I think between five of us, we drank four bottles. Not bad.
We are now steadily climbing into the mountains yet again. The blister on my right heel is throbbing and my Achilles' tendon is sore, probably because I walked on tip-toes for 16 kilometers on Monday. Shit. Emily has her headphones in, but I have decided to do the Camino earbud-free. It's time to face myself and stop ignoring the noise in my head. A couple with grey hair passes us. Damnit. Why didn't I train for this? A man who looks to be about 65 passes us, wheezing, "Buen camino!" I grudgingly reply, but I'm really angry now. I have the stamina, strength, and drive! Why can't I just fucking walk?! Another middle-aged couple breezes past. "Buen camino!" I keep my head down, ashamed for not having the decency to respond. Angry tears well up in my eyes, threatening to fall for the second time this week, which is already more than I've cried in the last year. I yank off my bag, sit on the side of the path and start untying my shoe while tears silently stream down my face. Emily puts her bag on the path and tells me to put my foot on it so my leg stops shaking. She's so thoughtful and selfless. I switch back to my Chacos sandals, blow my nose, and get up. "I swear, I was only crying to relieve the sinus pressure," I tell Emily with a grin. She smiles and puts her earbuds back in and we fall into a slow but rhythmic pace.
I miss Elona, the Danish lady who danced at the snack stand at the top of the mountain 5 kilometers from Zubiri. We crisscrossed paths with her all afternoon on day 2 and she slept in the bunk above me at Trinidad de Arre. I also miss Sylvia from Brazil and her no-nonsense attitude. She made our elderly friend Nick drink a coke and eat a banana at the snack stand where Elona was dancing and stayed up chatting with us by candlelight where the monks bandaged my foot. I miss Susan and Hildy, the two feisty baby-boomers we ate dinner with after surviving the hailstorm on our first day. "I'm embarrassed that I let this happen," I told Susan one night, referencing my blisters. She took my face in her hands, looked me dead in the eye and said, "You get rid of that thought right now. It happened, now you just need to take care of yourself. You have absolutely no reason to be embarrassed." I tried to let it go then, but today it is sizzling at the front of my mind, scorching any remaining positivity. I miss Dorothy and Toto, our friends from Kansas who brought the guitelele, a hybrid between a guitar and a ukelele. At breakfast in Zubiri, Dorothy said that Toto and Nikko could take turns carrying my pack and he would carry me to Pamplona. Emily could be with the "original" group right now if it weren't for me. Hell, I could be with them too! I can't get them out of my head. There's something about having started with them and sharing crucial moments together. I wonder if they miss us, too.
One kilometer to go. I can see the town in the distance. I contemplate walking the other seven kilometers to Puente la Reina, to try to close the gap between us and our friends, but with my leg shaking with every step I take, I don't think it's even possible. I have to listen to my body.
We arrive just in time to get beds at the albergue and I go straight to take a nap in the hopes of easing a bit of the self-loathing that seems to be the theme for this day.
End rant. Tomorrow is a new day.
K
Uterga, Spain
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