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

also not answer my
question in the way you did before.”
    “ What
do you mean?” I reply confused.
    “ I
asked what do you do, and you said nothing important,” he explains.
“You have something to teach people. I am learning from you right
now. Don’t sell yourself so short. Have you ever met anyone
important?” I look at him and nod in acknowledgment as we wind our
way through the woods.
    “ I
have. I used to interview a lot of famous people. I guess they are
important,” the words sound wrong as I say them.
    “ What
did you think of the important people?” He asks. I think about this
for a few minutes before replying.
    “ I
didn’t like most of them to be honest. They also thought they were
important. It doesn’t make someone fun to be around when they
believe they are more important than you,” I say. The Barista
smiles.
    “ You
see! You know the answers to your own questions. You just don’t
know it yet,” he pats me on the shoulder.
    The
Barista is a foodie and a philosopher. This Hungarian is my kind of
guy. I am trying to soak up all of my conversations on this trip, and
I love what he has shared about his approach to life.
    Because
of my slower pace and knee pain that seems to be getting worse, we
finally separate and wish them a buen Camino. Who knows if we will
see them again. We just spent about an hour talking and walking. The
Barista looks back with a concerned look on his face.
    “ Will
we see you again? ” he yells back. “ I
want to share a good cup of coffee! ”
    “ I
hope so ! ” I yell back. “We will see you again on the trail! ” We
continue on, limping past the recommended stopping point in
Larrasoaña.
    As
I put one foot in front of the other, I can ’ t
help but think about the millions of people over thousands of years
who have walked this very trail. The ghosts of pilgrims past seem to
walk with you and en courage
you on. Centuries of hopes, dreams, and questions have made this
trek. If only these trees could talk.
    After
another hour or so, I literally cannot walk any more. My left knee is
throbbing, and we stop on the edge of a waterfall to soak our feet.
The cool water feels like morphine rolling over my aching bones .
    As
we rest, a man who is the spitting image of Santa Claus rounds the
corner. A giant of a man who must be at least 6 feet, 5
inches tall with a big white beard and a Robin Hood hat complete with
a feather sticking out the top. He says hello with a thick British
accent.
    A
very peaceful soul, he is from Austria, and as we talk, his voice
soothes me just like the cool water running over my feet. He has
already been walking for four weeks and started somewhere in the
middle of France. “ Too
many people on this part of the Camino, ” he
says with a frown. Just like that, he says buen Camino and is gone.
    Gingerly
putting my shoes back on and hobbling back to the trail, we start
again. I feel like a 90-year-old man struggling to move forward. A
metal walker sounds like an enticing idea. After only
five minutes, a pleasant surprise awaits us around the corner. A
brand new albergue that is not in the guidebook! We check in and
after a full day—10 hours or so—of walking we pay for two beds
and slump into chairs. John from New Orleans, our cube mate from last
night ’ s
albergue, surprises me with a slap on the back! “ How
ya doin? ”
    “ Hey!”
I say, surprised to see him again staying at this random albergue.
“My knee is killing me, to be honest.”
    He
examines the swelling of my left knee with a grimace on his face.
“That doesn ’ t look too good.
It ’ s settled then.” Not
allowing me to argue, he kindly trades us our bunk beds in the
communal room for his private room he had booked for himself. A
small, wonderful act of kindness.
    After
showers and laundry, which is done in a sink, we go downstairs to
enjoy a well deserved communal style dinner with new friends. Working
around the large rectangle table, we meet the dinner guests,