Free Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago by Gabriel Schirm Page B

a life lesson from Amy, so I don ’ t respond.
She laughs, though, and focuses on the food. I am feeling down, and
my spirits are low.
    After
a bocadillo
de Jamón , cured
Spanish ham sandwich ,
we continue on. I have begun to notice memorials along the trail for
the many pilgrims who have died on the Camino de Santiago.
Unfortunately, every year a few pilgrims do die out here. Some years
are more brutal than others. The memorials range from pictures
fastened to trees to small stone monuments with messages from loved
ones. The Spanish Federation website keeps a list of those who have
died and the causes range from being hit by vehicles, having a heart
attack, or even getting caught in a snow storm while crossing the
Pyrenees and dying of hypothermia. A total of nine people died while
trying to complete the Camino de Santiago in 2013. 1
    I
have been thinking about death a lot lately. Maybe it ’ s
because of the underlying issue that Amy was able to pin down a few
days ago. How do you make your life matter before you are gone? I
really want to know. Maybe I am a bit too introspective for my own
good, but I can ’ t
help it. What happens after we die? What is the point? I think about
Tom from last night ’ s
dinner. Where is his daughter now?
    St.
James seems to have gained some sort of immortality. People have been
walking in his name for thousands of years. But is that the kind of
life that really matters? I
have to admit that as a pilgrim, I don ’ t
care much about St. James. The stories about him appearing on a
battlefield hundreds of years after his death to lop off the heads of
Islamic soldiers seem like a bit of a stretch. It also seems sort of
wrong that we are celebrating this kind of violent sto ry.
As my mind has a vigorous debate and conversation with itself, the
Camino gives me my answer.
    Amy
is far ahead as I am making very slow progress up a hill. I take off
my headphones for a second as I watch the wind blow waves over the
fields. I pass a woman filming the ground with her phone. She yells
to the camera as she is alone, “See! Look!”
    I
look at the ground as I pass, and someone has spelled out in small
purple and white flowers, “Enjoy yourself while you are here.”
    A
smile spreads across my face . “ Thank
you, ” I
say to no one in particular and continue on my way. This moment is
all that matters and is truly all we have. I think about a quote by
G.K. Chesterton that fits this situation perfectly: “ Happiness
is a mystery, like religion, and should never be rationalized. ”
    After
eight hours, we eventually make it to our destination. We decide on a
private room for a total of 36 euros including breakfast. I want to
sleep tonight, so the wall is key. We head downstairs to grab a snack
and run into our Brazilian friends and the Portuguese massage man
from last night who are staying at the same place.
    “ Hello!”
I say to the massage man. I am happy to see him again.
    “ Olá,”
he replies in Portuguese and points to my legs to ask how I am doing.
    “ Not
good,” I frown. I point to the swollen part of my kneecap, and he
makes massage gestures, asking if I need another treatment. “Maybe
later,” I smile, patting him on the shoulder. He looks very
concerned, which worries me more. He doesn ’ t
like the look of my leg at all.
    No
one speaks any English or Spanish, so we communicate through gestures
and hilarious tones. I am able to get his name, Eloi, and get a
better look at him than I did last night. Eloi wears a black beret
that makes him look French. He is a shorter man with a snow-white
beard and kind blue eyes. I guesstimate him to be in his late 60s,
and he has the muscular build of someone who has spent a lifetime
working outside.
    Eloi
is putting his fingers to his lips and rubbing his belly. The
international symbol for an invite to dinner. Both Amy and I are
introverts and love not being around people sometimes, so we debate
with each other until we finally accept. I am so