Marlene Goes to a Funeral

Camino. Chapter 11

This is my serialized story of walking the Camino de Santiago across Northern Spain with my sister-in-law. If you’d like to start at the beginning of our journey, click here.

Day 9. An eclectic assortment of events on our 17-mile day. We are sorry to leave the city of Logrono - had we realized it was such a large city, perhaps we would have taken a day to explore (and let my feet heal) - but the hike heading west at 7 AM turns into a pleasant stroll through a large city park and around a small lake as the sun rises over the Eastern horizon.

Soon, though, approximately seven miles into our hike, we discover we must wind our way through the industrial section of the next town, which is not much fun, but, in truth, not surprising as so much of Longrono’s commerce seems to be from the immediate western towns we are approaching. After this initial hardship, we find ourselves in the orchard country of the La Rioja region. We have formally left the French-influenced Navarro region behind, with its large vistas and beautiful forests, and are now in wine country where the sun is strong, the fields are cleared of trees and grapes thrive on the vine. Many clusters, or bunches, are ripe for the picking, we discover, and can be oh-so easily swallowed!

Our walk, though, is surprisingly tough through the orchards. We hike in a warming Mediterranean sun with no shade. The road in front of us is miserable with rocks and sharp stones and packed dirt. When a large tractor or pickup truck drives past, a cloud of red dust lingers in the air. My right heel, rather than the vineyards, dominates my thoughts. My hiking pole helps, but I know I will suffer for this day in the orchards.

A man about my height, who appears to be in good shape, comes up beside me as I struggle to climb a rise on the tractor-beaten, gravel road, and, when we talk, he says he is from Israel. I can’t help but ask why he is walking the Camino? He looks at me like he is trying to read through my question.

“You mean as a Jew,” he asks?

“Well yes,” I say, “Though I know many people of different faiths walk this pilgrimage.”

“True, he says, “But my faith has nothing to do with it and is as strong as ever. I enjoy Spain and have always wanted to study the churches and its symbols along the Way.”

He looks over at me. “Why are you walking the Camino?”

I pause at that. I really don’t know. I should have said, ‘I love God,’ or ‘the adventure,’ or something cool.

Instead, I say, “I always wanted to, I guess.” - which is pathetic and not quite true either.

Honest. I should have been honest, ‘Marlene, it’s Marlene’s fault.’

We’re now up over the rise. We cross another dirt road and continue along the next field. He looks at me again and says, “You know, you really should keep your head up. You’re walking all hunched over. That can’t be good.”

Straightening, I say “I know, I know.” I suddenly feel like an old Rip Van Winkle.

I stop and wave him on. It’s clear I need a few minutes. I use the time to wait for Marlene, cursing under my breath: f’in road, f’in sun, f’in foot.

Five miles further, as we cross a small bridge, Marlene points to a lovely creek running underneath it and suggests we climb down and cool our feet in the water. I pause and think, perhaps, the water will reduce the pain in my heel. So we do and the water is freezing cold - a pleasant alternative to the hot and dusty day.

A short time later a tall, lanky man with a broad hat, crossing over the bridge, spots us, stops, and with outstretched arms, starts singing an Irish folk song to us. When he is finished he asks if he can join us. We, of course, after such a wonderful serenade, welcome him into our stream. His name, he says, is Phil and he is from Liverpool, England. As we sit together, he sings other Irish folk songs and we love the impromptu entertainment. We soon are discussing the Beatles, as he says he does all the time when he mentions where he’s from, and then, just as quickly he breaks into a beautiful rendition of “Yesterday.” Marlene joins him in a lovely duet, and, in a funny, spontaneous, Camino-like moment, all is right with the world.

That is until about twenty minutes later when I try walking. My right heel has stiffened from the cold water and I am in horrible pain. With the Israeli pilgrim’s admonition still ringing in my ears, I try to straighten up and step through the pain, but it isn’t until three Ibuprofen tablets later that I am am able to follow Marlene into our final town of Najera. We find our hostel in the bright, mid-afternoon hour and rest - or at least I do while Marlene takes a shower and washes and hangs her clothes out of our bedroom window. Soon I get a shower and follow suit.

An hour or so later, my hunger and Marlene’s will power are sufficient enough to leave the room and explore Najera in search of a place to eat a late lunch or early dinner. We find everything closed for the siesta except one small cafe. Eating pastries in the mid-afternoon seems very European while we lounge around and drink glasses of red wine. It isn’t long before we are ready to think ahead. Marlene wants to find a church and attend mass and I want to find a farmacia to amputate my foot.

We decide to walk to Najera’s historic cathedral to see if she can attend a mass that evening and, as we hobble up the cobblestone street, we realize we are behind a group of musicians who lead us directly to the church. People all around us in the plaza are going inside the cathedral’s open wooden doors. Marlene decides to attend the concert as a nice thing to do prior to mass. As she goes inside, I wander the streets until I find a farmacia where I buy more Vaseline and ibuprofen, as well as (voila!) a tight, compression sock for my right foot. The combination should make a difference - at least until I reach the next big town.

Marlene comes to our room much sooner than I expect and tells me her story as she retrieves her clothes from the window. In the cathedral, she sat and waited for the musicians to set up. When they started playing, to her surprise, pallbearers carried a coffin down the aisle - this was not the mass she expected. On a positive note, she was able to participate in her first Catholic funeral in Spain. (Given my efforts today, she likely will be attending another.) But as the only blonde, blue-eyed mourner in the congregation, she didn’t feel comfortable receiving communion. The family of the deceased often turned and stared at her, so, she said, she got the heck out of there. I said, the family, probably, thought she was the deceased’s secret lover. Which reminds me of my Great-Uncle David back in Pittsburgh. The family of my Great-Uncle David discovered at his funeral he had another family of twenty-something, odd years living in Florida. With that fact alone, back in Pittsburgh, they nearly raised him from the dead, but that’s another story. I love the fact that Marlene attended a funeral before participating in a normal mass. With all the symbolism on this journey of Christ’s crucifixion, it sort of feels appropriate.

Blessed are you, pilgrim, when you lack the words to express your gratitude for all that surprises you at every turn in the road.

Click here to read the previous chapter.