Knowing When to Stop

Perhaps sleeping on a table when your hip is shooting pain to your knees and lower back is not the best idea. I woke up unable to straighten my right leg and I sat guiltily at a rainy train station as my companions from the night before covered themselves in rain gear and charged off into the mountains as soggy conquerors. I envied them their day's adventure.

"It's bursitis," my physical therapist husband said over the phone, "you have to rest it or we won't be able to walk together when I get there!" 

A few hours later found me sitting in Bilbao, an ice pack under my ass and a bunny on my lap. Hotel Ripa was part home, part hotel and had the last available room in the entire city, but as it came with a little white bunny, I could not complain. I had spent the day hobbling along the river to the Guggenheim and sat in the shade of a giant dog made out of flowers while a choir sang terrible pop songs in the square. I walked back to the hotel slowly, stopping to sit every 50 meters, letting strains of Spanish, French, German and occasional traces of musical Italian drift by. I returned to the hotel, contemplated the next days walk, snuggled a bunny and crawled into bed, slightly depressed at my inaction.

The cost of manmade beauty is often great on the surrounding landscapes. Chicago, for example, is stunning, rising dramatically out of the lake's edge. But if Chicago were on a pilgrimage route, a pilgrim would struggle walking through days of industrial jungles. Bilbao, built about 7 miles in from the Atlantic Ocean on the Río Nervión, is a perfect example of the industrial revolution. I had thought to walk the 10 km to Portugalete along the river in order to test my hip. Surely 6 miles was doable?! But after passing countless crumbling abandoned buildings, graffitied walls and ship building yards, I regretted my choice.

Six hours later, I arrived white faced with pain, in Portugalete to claim the last bed in the alburgue. Surrounded by snoring pilgrims and a line for the one shower and toilet stall, I dropped my bag on the bed under the calendar with the sexy shirtless man and headed to the rivers edge for a cerveza con limon to ease my considerable aches.

The afternoon sun gave a warm rose glow to the basilica Santa Maria de Portugalete. Built in 1322 when Portugalete was founded by Maria de Haro, the beautiful church rose above the little city, offering gorgeous afternoon views of the river and surrounding area. As I walked in, a small wiry older man names Carlos asked me if I was tourist or pilgrim. "Peregrina," I responded as he warmly took my hand. He stamped my pilgrims passport and copy of Don Quixote, oohed and ahhhed over my Chicago origins and firmly kissed my cheeks. I settled in for a 7pm mass and watched Carlos set up mics, turn on lights, and take care of all the little necessary details of preparing for a mass, his love and energy showing in each of his movements.  And as he rushed over to clasp my hand in his during the sign of peace, I let go of the day's pains and frustrations and I smiled into his twinkling eyes.