One Stick, One Step, One Stone

Camino. Chapter 12

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 10. Today we have scheduled a short hike of thirteen miles to Santo Domingo de la Calzada. We are four days out from Burgos, our second major city in crossing Spain, with a mountain range still to be negotiated between us. Today, though, it’s an easy day where Marlene, my powerhouse of a sister-in-law, and I hope to reach our destination by early afternoon. I will rest my feet, we can wash clothes, and she will try to contact her grandchildren back in the States before they head off to school. Leaving the hostel, we prepare for bad weather, but at 7 AM we are given a spectacular start to the day.

The cloud formations are extraordinary, and I think of Michelangelo and the hundreds of other artists who have tried to capture such beauty in their paintings. Living the experience of walking into this artistry is a reminder of God’s rich pallet.

With long vistas of walking on old roads beside harvested fields and vineyards, we employ a mantra of “one stick, one step, one stone, one stick, one step, one stone” as we walk to the distant horizon. I wonder if my older brother who earlier in the week was surprised to hear - and thoroughly admonished me - that I had not written a poem as of yet, as I said I expected to do all along the Way. I wonder if he would consider this mantra my first poem: “One stick, one step, one stone, one stick, one step, one stone…”

About nine miles into the walk, after climbing a long upward grade, we pass an empty golf course and closed club house that seems out of place on this pilgrimage. Soon we are walking through an equally empty town of modern homes and townhouses. It looks so strange to where we have been. It’s like a Southern California suburb has been transplanted into into the middle of nowhere in Northern Spain. I wonder walking down the pristine streets without a parked car in any driveways or along the curbs who the builders of this modern American mecca expected would purchase these homes - were they to be vacation homes for the well-to-do from Longrono or Burgos, our next big city? Did they expect people to drive up the 200 miles from Madrid for a golf weekend? Whatever they were thinking, this ghost town looks to be a financial disaster for someone or some company and seems completely foreign to the ancient brick and stone houses we have been passing. Are we intentionally being directed to hike through a fading testament to the impermanent reality of the 21st Century?

In the early afternoon we walk into Santa Domingo and are pleasantly surprised to pass a hiking store. I am in heaven! I insist we go inside and decide right then and there to buy new hiking sticks, along with, I find, hiking socks with inner liners that I hope will make a difference with my blisters and emerging plantar fasciitis. As I complete my purchases, outside the store the skies let loose and the rains we expected all morning pound the street. We step out and stand under the awning, watching pilgrims walk past who are absolutely drenched.

“Buen Camino.” Buen Camino. Good Way.

We realize stopping here has saved us from a great soaking and this we declare is a good omen for the rest of our day.

Our hostel is near the unique historic center square with the cathedral on one side and its bell tower on the other. Catercorner to the cathedral is what appears to be a five-star hotel. Our little hostel on a side street beyond the square reflects another world entirely - a world of the pilgrim. After washing our clothes and hanging them out our two windows to dry, we go to the grand hotel’s outdoor cafe situated to the side of the hotel’s front arches and order two glasses of red wine with three appetizers. It feels decadent, like we have entered another era, a time of Hemingway’s lost generation after World War I languishing in Spain. But we enjoy the respite as a tour bus pulls into the square. It isn’t long before Marlene and I recognize ourselves in the nice, casually attired people getting off the bus and entering the hotel with their luggage. Now, though, on this pilgrimage, we are a world removed.

Soon, the men are coming into the cafe from the lobby’s glass-enclosed, double doors looking for a drink - it’s like they came off the golf course and desperately need a quickie before heading home, or in this case, back upstairs.

We get up from our table when the cafe fills with wives joining their husbands and other couples coming in to socialize. The noise has increased exponentially and it appears like everyone in the cafe has been on the bus, as people call out to each other across the tables and the bartender and waitress, without any further acknowledgement of our presence or other guests, cater to their need. Our bubble of decadence has been pierced and we debate outside what we want to do next. In the end, rather than walk around the town, we decide to tour the cathedral to get away from the hotel guests, avoid going back to our tiny room, and escape another afternoon downpour.

In the cathedral, though, we are surprised to realize how beautiful it is with its many stunning alters and paintings. We both look at each other, like we found gold or something totally unexpected here in Santo Domingo and are delighted to take the time to walk through the nave.

That evening at around 7 PM Marlene and I go to a neighborhood restaurant we discovered on our way to our hostel. It turns out to be a second floor walkup and consists of two rooms - in the back room several tables hold boxes, folded linen, and cases of wine. The front room consists of about seven tables and we see that we are the only couple there. Maybe it’s the hour of the evening, or maybe it’s the night of the week, but we are happy to give the owner, who seats us at a window table, and his wife, who comes out to greet us, wiping her apron from the kitchen nearby, our business, even as limited as it is with our order of two inexpensive pilgrim meals.

At one point, while eating, we get to work on Marlene’s phone lining up a hostel for three nights from now. Marlene’s Spanish is limited and mine is non-existent, so the going is tough. The restaurant owner, however, hears our plight and comes to our aid. Soon he is on Marlene’s phone getting our hostel arranged. This, we decide, is one more example of people extending themselves above and beyond on this trip.

Halfway through our dinner Marlene gets a text message from Leah, our fellow pilgrim, and soon she joins us. Leah’s hostel is up the same street just beyond ours, and she is happy to enjoy our company after a day of walking alone and being exposed out in the countryside to the early afternoon deluge.

Leah is as foot-loose and fancy-free as ever and is not sure where she will be ending her walk tomorrow. She says she will decide when she gets up or as she walks. She says she carries very little baggage and can stop wherever she feels like. I can’t help but wonder if she would be as casual if her husband, now in Houston, was with her. He did not seem the laissez faire type. Maybe it is a good thing he is not here - her pilgrimage is hers alone, unstructured, and totally up to her to decide what she wants - “God will provide,” she says - and after our struggle to get our hostel arranged several nights out, we can’t help but be a little envious of her freedom.

We will be crossing the Mesita soon and other mountain ranges ahead, so I offer Leah my old hiking stick. With the new sticks I purchased today I will be, otherwise, leaving it behind at the hostel. After much reluctance, she accepts my stick, but, it’s clear, she is not likely to use it. Perhaps she will pass it on to a needy pilgrim.

We leave her out on the street, after a quick stop in our hostel for the pole, not knowing if we will see her again.

“Buen Camino,” Marlene says giving her a hug.

“One stick, one step, one stone,” I tell her.

“God willing,” she says.

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