Peeing Pilgrims and Sea Stars

Karin peed. A Lot! It seemed we were always stumbling upon her in the act;  behind a tree, near a 13th century abandoned pilgrims albergue, in tall grass, and once when talking with her, we turned to discover just her backpack thrown on the side of the road as she had dissipated into the forest. Ameya joked that she had a bladder the side of a grape. But Karin is German and Germans have a different perspective when it comes to things of the body and basic nudity. She told us a story from when she was younger and visiting the USA. She had been hiking and returned to the campground where there was an outside shower. “I took my clothes off, because that’s what you do when you shower.” People began to stare in horror at the showering naked young woman; families, moms, dads, children, dogs... maybe even bears. “I did not know that in America, you shower in your swim suit!” she said in her defense.  

Karin wanted a baby. She had left her job and set out to explore the world in order to find peace with the fact that she and her husband had not yet had a child. She traveled to Peru, she attended meditation, she worked at an orphanage in Thailand and she was walking her Camino, all after the heartbreak of two miscarriages. Karin should have a baby, but life does not always follow our plans, and as she scrolled through her phone, showing me pictures of her smiling face alongside her laughing little Thai charges, I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps, there is a little one somewhere already waiting for her love. 

I, on the other hand, am ambivalent about having children. While I am convinced that my husband wants a child, he and I had not yet learned how to be partners, which was a big factor for us choosing to walk the Camino. We did not know how to love and respect each other without waiting for the other to change. I wanted him to be more capable and hands-on and he wanted me to fulfill a traditional supporting role. We weren’t even sure that we could stay together without losing ourselves.  And so, there was no room for thoughts of children when our very identities were being torn down. But time passes and eventually there will be no time left to choose. Perhaps I will not be a mother. That possibility does not terrify me.

But to look at the bright side, my genetic makeup is really no great prize to be gifted to the next generation anyway; Diabetes, rampant heart disease, cancer, mental health issues, addictive personalities, below average height, fierce hatred for maths... how could I curse a child so??  (As I write this, please know that fostering and adoption are very real possibilities..)

Children have a different place in society in Spain than in the US. Perhaps if faced with parenting in Spain, I would not be so hesitant. I longingly watched families walking the camino together; fathers with calloused hands lifting tiny backpacks onto small shoulders as mothers dispensed encouragement. I envied. In the non pilgrim world of Spain, children run in the town squares shrieking as everyone in the area observes and watches out for danger. Kids kick soccer balls against walls of ancient churches, play tag in restaurants, have unstructured play, and are reprimanded by strangers when out of line.  They eat the same food as adults, are welcome in bars and are an accepted presence generally everywhere anytime. However, according to Jose, the Spanish primary teacher that I had talked with a week before, Spanish kids are learning bad habits from their western counterparts. Obesity rates are rising, playgrounds are resting dormant in favor of technology and parents are beginning to over schedule their children. Ah, progress..

The morning after our pulpo apocalypse, we had a slow café in the bar attached to our hotel before wandering uphill out of Fonsagrada. Since the albergues shoved pilgrims on their way by 8am at the absolute latest, we were always slightly behind. But as became a pattern, we always managed to find a rhythm along with our way to Karin, Paul, Dimitri, Jette and Cristina and occasionally, Jan. We spent our day meeting up, passing ahead, and falling behind before eventually walking as a chatty group. 

Early in the day, our path took us up a mountain topped by windmills and the Hospital de Montouto, a collection of crumbling buildings from the 13th century meant to house pilgrims on their way to Santiago. Hospital de Montouto was founded in 1360, during the time of the plague, by Pedro I who is remembered as either “El Cruel” or “El Justiciero” (The Lawful) depending on if one were to side with the  English and Jewry or the French and Pedro’s half brother Henry, who eventually stuck a knife into Pedro’s chest. (multiple times if historical accounts are to be true..their family had serious issues!!) Thankfully, unlike the plague or the hundred year war, the pilgrim’s hospital continued to function into the start of the 20th century. We climbed over stone walls to make our way into the open hilltop meadow. We laid our hands on the ruins of ageless rocks, touching history.  

Karin may have peed there. 

“It is busy all at once and then it’s just me, a cat and a dog” Our path led us down the mountain and directly to the picnic tables of a tiny bar full of joy and love, manned by one.  ...and his dog and cat. Paul nearly fainted with joy when the smiling Argentinian bar owner placed a tiny pot of hot water and a teabag before him. 

Twelve kilometers later (300 miles) we were surprised to find ourselves already at our destination of Cádavo Baleira as comparative discussions of politics, immigration, renewable energy and other such things had caused the kilometers to fly by. We checked into our tiny hotel with Karin taking a single room for 25 euros as all the albergues were full for ten kilometers in either direction. We showered, washed clothes in the sink, walked the entirety of the little livestock town which took about ten minutes and sat outside enjoying cold beers with Jette and Cristina, before heading back to the hotel restaurant for dinner. 

Dinner was a loud and long process of conversation, cultural confusion and laughter and our group grew by two as Christophe, a high level corporate auditor from France and his wide-eyed, innocent son, Marron joined our table. The next day, we knew we were to arrive in Lugo where we would be saying goodbye to our favorite Russian.  Due to his vacation time limitations, Dimitri would be taking a train to Santiago before beginning his journey home to Kaliningrade. So, throughout our meal, the wine flowed and we raised our glasses in Dimitri’s honor. “To the happiest Russian we know! Salut!” Our glasses clinked and were emptied with smiles while Dimitri told the well known and loved story of a boy tossing stranded starfish into the sea, a boy who could not possibly save all the starfish but could change the life of at least one. We listened as Dimitri worked his way through the telling, making the story his own, since in his endearing version of English, the ‘starfish’ became ‘sea stars.’