Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago Read Online Free Page A

to tell me what to do,” he replies with a big smile.
    “ Maybe
you can do both?” I suggest. “Be a pastor and have a coffee
shop.”
    “ Maybe.
Maybe. I don ’ t know,” he
replies as we enter a clearing and take in a big blue sky. There is
not a cloud in sight. The June summer sun beats down on us all, and
both The Barista and I take a second to wipe the sweat from
underneath our large straw hats. I can tell that he is really struggling with this decision, somehow
stuck between what he wants to do and what he is supposed to do.
    “ What
do you do?” he asks.
    “ Nothing
important,” I reply. “I am trying to figure things out.” We
pause for a sip of water. The Barista kneels down and stirs the dirt
on the trail with a stick as if digging for an answer.
    “ Nothing
important huh. You know the human ego is a funny thing,” he says.
“Everyone has a purpose. If you ask me, Americans are too focused
on becoming better than their friends. It is human nature of course.
In Hungary we do the same. But be careful with thinking like this.”
    “ Why
do you want a coffee shop?” I ask.
    “ Because
I know I will enjoy it, and I am in love with coffee. The smell of
the dark brown beans roasting, brewing and dripping into a perfect
cup. The white steam rising from a mug on a cold morning. Holding the
hot cup in your hands, letting it warm up your soul. It is not easy
to make a good cup of coffee you know. It is an art form. You
Americans have bad coffee!”
    “ Hey
now!” I protest.
    “ I
especially love good, um, what is the word in English? Fim. No. Fime.
Foam! Milk foam! Good milk foam on the coffee, steamed to perfection.
I love that. I want this not because it will make me a success in the
eyes of others you see, but because it brings me joy. To remain a
pastor also gives me a sense of helping and joy. But you must be
careful. I am no better than those who ask me for spiritual advice,”
he explains. “What do your parents do for work?”
    “ My
mom cleans houses, and my dad was a carpenter. He also had a
restaurant at one time. He named it after me,” I reply. “But he
has been struggling lately. He was sober for 20 years and well, not
anymore. He has been homeless for the last few years. He lives in his
truck.” I search The Barista ’ s
face and am surprised by his response.
    “ Your
dad is a, what is the word in English? A renegade. Yes, a renegade,
no?” he replies with a smile. “You clearly love them both. I can
see pain, though, in your eyes.”
    “ Yeah
I guess. It is an odd thing to watch your parents struggle. I just
want them to be happy, you know,” I reply. “They are both good
people. They both sort of shun society. Hippies, I guess, but I
appreciate that a lot now. It is funny. Growing up my dad looked like
ZZ Top. He had a huge beard, and sometimes it would embarrass me. I
guess all kids are embarrassed by their parents growing up. For me,
it was just because other dads were clean-shaven and more by the
book. Now that I am older, I hate cookie cutter. I love people who
are different and have interesting stories to tell. People who have
failed, overcome or gone through challenging experiences.”
    “ It
sounds like they taught you a great lesson about life,” he replies.
“Different is good. It is so funny how people always want to be
superior though you know. I read a book about this recently. It
simply teaches you a simple lesson about wanting to be better than
others. You know, employees and their bosses, politicians and average
citizens, bus drivers and passengers, or even the person bagging your
groceries. People who have homes and people who don ’ t,”
he jokes.
    “ So
what was the lesson of the book?” I ask.
    The
Barista pauses in some shade for effect and says, “Make sure you
always have something to learn from people or else they become your
enemy. Everyone has something to teach you. Once you master that line
of thinking you will be both happier, and you will