In Atapuerca, I was assigned a bed in a room just inside the front door of the albergue. I was relieved to find that 2 of the beds in my room were not bunk beds, so I happily took the one nearest to the window. I felt utterly spent, but I enjoyed the afternoon shade and rested for an hour while 35 other people around me raced for showers and laundry facilities.
On the surface, my room was great. It was clean and bright, and my bed was nicely tucked in beside the wall so I felt cosy in the corner.
So far, so good.
Over time, I realised that the room had one major disadvantage – it was situated beside all of the noise.
Outside my bedroom window, a wooden ramp and deck area provided the entrance and exit to the building…and it sounded like a herd of cattle were on the move.
Stomp stomp stomp all the way up….thud thud thud all the way down.
The movement and noise were continuous.
Over and back, up and down….everyone entered and exited the building using that wooden ramp. I tried to ignore it but the noise reverberated through the thin wall and shook the very bed that I lay on.
Outside my bedroom door, the shower rooms, laundry rooms, and washing machines were in full swing. The spin cycles from the multiple washing machines were *particularly* loud. Separately, a group of teenage pilgrims explored their new rooms through squealing, banging doors, and shrieking in laughter. It sounded like they were everywhere all at once – in every room, and in every corner of my brain.
At the front door, the Spanish family I passed on the trail earlier – all 14 of them – cooked up a storm in the small kitchen, with pots and pans banging and clanging, and loud shouts back and forth. They treated the hostel as though it were their own private home and held their family get-together in the outdoor dining area. Quite literally, they took over.
I was close to the end of my rope and couldn’t think straight. For the previous 12-13 days I had thrown myself into the middle of shared accommodation with hundreds of new people from all around the world. By day, I conversed with them over lunch and on the trail. By night, I listened to them snore in their sleep. The boundary line between us felt non-existent and all my defences were down.
Over that time, my body had grown stronger and my new shoes were working well. Physically, I was finding my stride. But my emotional resources were spent. I was exhausted and over-stimulated, and felt disheartened to find that side of things still felt quite difficult. The previous night in Villambistia had pushed me to an edge and I’d pinned all my hopes on a quieter night in Atapuerca.
It looked unlikely.
Just as I did in Villambistia, I escaped the madness by taking a walk down to the village. Even though most businesses along the camino route close on a Sunday, I’d heard that the small shop would stay open for another 20 minutes – so if I wanted something to eat, this was the time to go get it.
There, I bumped into Canadian Don, whom I hadn’t seen in what felt like months, though it was really only days.
He and I first met in St. Jean Pied de Port, when we happened to stay in the same hostel together – full of bright-eyed hope and nervousness.
A day later, we met again when we both stayed in Orisson, where we laughed and chatted our way through one of the best meals of all Camino.
The day after that, we both stayed in Roncesvalles, where he came to my rescue with laundry struggles.
Simply: my bottle of shower gel/shampoo/laundry detergent had cracked and split, so the contents had spilled on the inside of my bag. I wasn’t so worried about that – the gel could be replaced, but finding a replacement bottle was a bit more tricky. Not so! Don came to the rescue with a spare one that he just happened to carry for such a situation, along with an extra sink plug. These are small things but his open generosity meant that I could do laundry that day – and every day – without headache and hassle. In a hostel of some 200 pilgrims, he was the one who willingly came to my aid, and cheerily shared his resources with me.
The following morning, we were part of the same group who left the hostel in the 6am darkness to cross the Pyrenees. His new friends had kindly welcomed me into their pack and I was glad of their warm company. He seemed to be permanently chipper, as well as curious, gentle, and remarkably generous with everyone around him. Quite literally, he brightened the days.
But he and I had lost track of each other after crossing the Pyrenees, and hadn’t seen each other since then. There was much to catch up on.
He greeted me with excitement and warmth, and seemed genuinely delighted to see me.
I’m afraid I didn’t handle the reunion as well as I should have.
I looked at him and saw a man who was still full of bright-eyed wonder and capable strength. I looked at myself and saw a whining, ill-prepared mess. I felt ashamed that I hadn’t been strong enough to keep pace with him after the Pyrenees. He wanted to know how I was getting on, but I didn’t know how to surmise my experience in 10 words or less. I felt over-stretched and very tired….and then felt even more bad-tempered with myself for being such a wuss.
Don eagerly quizzed me about where I’d stayed the previous night but in my fatigue I couldn’t remember…and I dismissed his question with a limp reply:
“Somewhere...” was all I could muster.
I didn’t mean to be evasive. I didn’t mean to be grouchy or mean or dismissive in any way. But his face dropped and I felt like the rudest, most princess-y pain-in-the-ass pilgrim that ever was.
And then I felt *even worse* about myself.
Though we chatted for another few minutes, I needed to get to the shop so I loosely arranged to meet him later that evening. I hoped to see him for dinner in one of the village restaurants, and I hoped to correct my poor behaviour after I’d had a chance to decompress. Don was one of the good guys and I wanted to put things right between us.
Instead, I happened to bump into Dave and Barb, who warmly invited me to join them for dinner in the private cabin they shared with two other couples. Where I would have shared a kitchen with 35 people, they shared a kitchen with just 4. They had plenty of space, bought mounds of food, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
By then, I had a few extra hours to ruminate on my bad attitude. Don had only tried to be nice to me. Barb and Dave were the same. I felt I was the worst company in the world and entirely undeserving of such kind care. I missed out on putting things right with Don that evening while my two friends cooked a meal and served it straight to me. I bought a bottle of wine but otherwise felt I couldn’t contribute – not to the dinner, not to the friendship, and not to the camino as a whole. What right did I have to accept any of this kindness? What right did I have to feel sorry for myself, grumpy and sore? Surely everyone was sore, over-stretched in some way, and homesick. I’d chosen to be there so what was my problem?
Clearly, I’ve got an attitude problem here and I am spoiling this for myself and for everyone I meet. I am the surly, sulky one, and I’d be better off going home instead of making life a misery for everyone here.
Was I brutally honest or too hard on myself?
That evening, to my embarrassment, I broke down in a flood of tears in front of Dave and Barb.
As a general pattern, I don’t easily cry in front of people – not even people I know and love. I’m even less likely to cry in front of people I don’t know at all. And while I knew Barb and Dave for nearly 2 weeks by then, they were still “strangers” in my overall life. They weren’t to know that when I broke down in a sobbing mess in front of them, I was at the end of my invisible tether.
Everything got the better of me – including, (and especially) my own negative thinking.
I had to get some private space to myself. I simply *had* to pull myself together. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to go on.