Chapter 2
The bus to the monastery leaves in the afternoon. I sit behind the rear door and gaze out the window as the road curves through hills covered with beech forests. Schoolchildren get off at each stop and run into houses with white walls, sloping red-tiled roofs, and black wrought-iron balconies crammed with flowerpots. Soon, the villages grow sparse and the bus is almost empty.
I try writing in my journal but can’t concentrate. I pull a map out of my pocket, spread it open on my lap, and trace the pilgrim route with a pen. The line starts at a monastery near the French-Spanish border along the Pyrenees mountains, then heads west to a city named Santiago de Compostela. For long stretches it runs though open country dotted with small towns and occasionally through cities with names like Pamplona, Estella, Logroño, Burgos, Leon, and finally, Santiago de Compostela. It’s about 780 kilometers long. Over 500 miles. Much longer than I planned on that night in Milan.
Am I crazy? The thought crosses my mind as often as the man next to me spits out sunflower shells. I try remembering the last three months but the images blur: mountains, rivers, ashes. India and Nepal. Then Italy. Now an eleventh-century pilgrim route in Spain.
“A pilgrimage?” I say, shaking my head. I almost want to laugh.
The history of the route I’ve managed to learn still confuses me. It is based on the story of St. James, the disciple of Christ, known as Santiago in Spanish, who was beheaded by King Herod and buried by his disciples in Northwest Spain. The tomb was forgotten for centuries until a hermit shepherd followed a star in the night sky and discovered it. The place became known as “Compostela,” field of stars.
The bus hits a bump, lurching me against the window. The sun is hidden by the hills and past the initial line of trees, the woods are dark. The road climbs. The breeze, whistling through an open window up front, grows cooler.
The history doesn’t bother me. The legend does. When the Moors overran Spain, Christians needed a figure to rally around and Santiago filled the spot. There were reports of him appearing all over Spain on a white horse, killing the invaders. I wonder if anyone ever questioned how a long dead man, who once had followed a message of love, returned to massacre entire armies. Never mind how he found his head and re-attached it.
Instead, a cathedral was built over his tomb and pilgrims arrived from all over Europe. The journey was called “El Camino de Santiago,” the way to Santiago. For almost a thousand years, millions of pilgrims walked to the cathedral. But that was centuries ago. For all I know, the tradition has faded, and I might be the only one on a long forgotten journey.
“Pardon,” someone says. A woman’s voice.
I continue staring out the window. The trunks of the trees are white, their bottoms hidden by ferns, and branches reach out over the bus.
The voice again. “Are you a pilgrim?”
That gets my attention. I turn around to see a man and woman in the long rear seat: both in their early fifties, thin, wearing t-shirts, khaki shorts, and brand-new hiking boots. They are in desperate need of a tan.
The woman smiles.
“Where are you getting off?” the man asks. He has a strong English accent.
“Last stop,” I say. “The monastery in Roncesvalles.”
“I reckon you’re walking the Camino then?”
When I nod, he leans forward, sticks his hand out. I reach over and shake it.
“Sheila and myself—I’m Jeff—we’re pilgrims.”
“Amit,” I say, unsure whether I should call myself a pilgrim.
“We’re walking the Camino. Not a bad way to spend the summer, eh?”
I eye his new boots. Five hundred miles. Factor in the blisters, summer sounds about right.
“You’re walking all of it?”
“Oh yes, yes. Of course. And yourself?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m only here for a week.”
The bus slows, then stops outside a house. Vines cover the walls and the gate to the garden is red. The man with the sunflower seeds hands me the unfinished bag and gets off.
“Adios,” Jeff waves.
Sheila leans toward me. “He’s been studying Spanish. Isn’t it brilliant?”
We are the only passengers left. The bus starts again.
“Right then,” Jeff says. “How’s your Español?”
In Milan, I bought an English-Spanish phrase book and realized just how little Spanish I knew. So I memorized what I could on the ride to Spain: Hola amigo, Hello friend; Buenos dias, Good day; Donde estas los aseos? Where are the toilets?; and Lo siento, no sabía que ella era tu hermana, I’m sorry, I didn’t know she was your sister. The basics.
“It’s not that good,” I say.
“Ah,” he shakes his finger. “Bent over backwards, I did, to learn the language. It enhances the experience, you know, conversing with the locals.”
He sits back, drapes an arm around Sheila and spreads his legs out. The bus goes over several bumps. “Oh,” he says each time, pulling her closer. She giggles. I look out the window again. No more villages, just shadows of trees on the road, shifting slightly in the wind. Sometimes, through the trees, I catch glimpses of pastures with grazing cattle, and once, a field of rows and rows of sunflowers.
My mother loves sunflowers. Two years ago, after getting married, she and Ben moved to Long Island and opened a nursery. It’s a perfect match, she likes to joke, regarding their mutual passion for flowers and the fact that he’s Jewish and she Hindu. Both cultures value education, charity, and the importance making your children feel guilty. Then, to prove her point, she reminds me that I still haven’t impregnated a nice girl and given her grandchildren.
Regardless of what she says about them being a match, truth is, she’s in love. They are like teenagers, holding hands every chance they get. It’s strange watching my mother’s eyes soften whenever Ben comes into the room, but I like it. I wish she’d met him earlier. She once told me that she loved being a mother and if my father had been a better man, she would have had many children.
I called her on my way to Spain, told her my plans. “Be careful,” she’d said. When I was eighteen and away at college, I called one day and said, “Mom, I’m thinking about joining the Army.” There had been a long pause on the phone. I knew she was choosing her words carefully. “Be careful,” she’d finally said. Next day, I called to inform her that I’d signed up. Over the years, “be careful,” has become her mantra for her me. She is probably in a temple right now, doing pujas, praying for her son to be careful. That, and for him to get his act together, so he can quickly inseminate the future mother of her grandchildren.
I watch the shadow of the bus spread out on a field, rise and fall over wheat stalks, and the trees close in again. For a moment, I’m struck by a strong desire to get off at the next stop, sprint to the nearest phone booth and call Sue. “It’s beautiful here,” I want to tell her, “you’d love it.” I want to share what I’m seeing. But the prospect of the conversation going where it went the last few times is enough to kill the urge. She can’t understand what I’m doing floating around for months and we end up arguing about when I’m coming home.
The bus passes a stone cross, about three feet high at the entrance to a gravel path. The sides of the cross are blackened, as if by fire.
“I’m afraid I don’t know where you’re from,” I hear Sheila say.
I turn around. “I’m American.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous.”
I catch the look on her face. I got used to it in Milan. People wanted to know where I was really from. Never mind where I was born and raised.
“My parents are Indian.”
“Ah, yes,” Jeff says, “of course.” He runs his fingers along the back of Sheila’s neck. “We have neighbors from India. They make the most delicious chicken tikka masala. Rather spicy, though.”
“It’s a bit of a surprise to meet you,” Sheila says. “We expected Brazilians, Europeans, not Americans.”
I’d asked around in Milan but no one knew if people still walked the Camino. All I found was history books and the map in my pocket. I figured I’d walk west for a week, hopefully not get lost, maybe meet some locals, then head back to see David.
“I didn’t expect to see anyone.”
“Oh didn’t you? I tell you what, there’ll be others. You will meet them at Roncesvalles. It’s rather like a starting point for the Camino, at least for the Camino Frances.”
“What’s that?”
“The route we’re walking. There are others, one from Southern Spain, another from Portugal; all go to Santiago. But the Camino Frances, it’s the most popular.”
“What’s it like?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“This walk. This pilgrimage?”
Jeff scratches his nose with a long, pale index finger. “I recon that’s something you’ll have to experience, isn’t it?”
“It’s lovely,” Sheila says. “It changes lives.”
I take a closer look at this couple. Married twenty-something years, I guess. House, grown children. Retired, maybe. Still seem to like each other enough. I can’t help wondering what change they’re looking for and why they’re seeking it now.
“How?” I ask.
Jeff continues scratching his nose. “I’ve got news for you, I’m afraid. The Camino won’t be like your Disney park,” he says, then laughs. Sheila pats his thigh and smiles.
The bus downshifts loudly. We come up a steep hill, and through oak trees, past a grassy slope, then more trees, I see the spires and the gray-stone buildings of the monastery. They have slanted metal roofs. Behind them, the hills grow higher and fold into the Pyrenees.
The driver pulls up in front of the largest building. Jeff and Sheila put on matching green and purple jackets and quickly go out the rear door. I glance around the empty bus. There are sunflower shells at my feet. Without movement or anyone else inside, it feels lonely.
While traveling through India, I’d spent a few days in Dharamsala, a small cloud covered town in the foothills of the Himalayas. The Dali Lama’s monastery was here. Each morning, I’d hike up to the monastery, sit in the main sanctuary, and watch the monks do their morning prayers. I’d listen to their chanting until my legs fell asleep. One morning, I stepped outside to stretch my legs and saw an old monk walking, turning the prayer wheels along the walls. It took him a long while to turn them all. He repeated this process several times.
Watching him, I thought about the life he’d led, his boyhood as a monk, maybe imprisoned and tortured by the Chinese like many of the monks here, forced to flee his country, losing his family, the sights he must have seen. When he neared me this time, I bowed. He bowed in return and held one hand up in a blessing. The other held a string of large, wooden beads.
“May I ask a question?” I asked. By now, I’d picked up enough Hindi to have basic, uncomplicated conversations.
“It’s okay,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“How do you find peace?”
He was solemn for a moment, then smiled the biggest, warmest smile. Behind him, far in the distance, were the sharp-edged mountains of the Himalayas. I felt like they must when sunlight envelops them after a cold, winter night.
“Where,” he asked slowly, “are you from?
“America.”
He nodded thoughtfully, as if that explained everything.
“I say ‘yes,’” he said. “To all that happens, I say ‘yes.’”
Then he bowed and returned to his prayer wheels.
There is a bang against the side of the bus, then a creak. The driver opens the baggage hold. Jeff says something, Sheila and the driver laugh. I stare at the Pyrenees through the windows. “Yes,” I say to myself and step out.
Jeff hands me my blue Lowe Alpine backpack. “Look at that,” he says, pointing to his pack. It looks like a cleaner version of mine. “We have the same rucksacks.”
“Sort of.” I put it on and adjust the straps. “Mine’s a fake.”
“Sorry, what?”
“It’s an imitation. That’s what you get for going away for a short trip but not coming back. You buy what you need. You live cheap, you make do.”
His eyebrows tighten and he looks like he’s about to speak.
“My pack fell apart in Nepal,” I say quickly. “On my way out, I bought this in Katmandu for very little money.”
While he slips his arms through the thick, padded straps, I study his pack with its double-stitched, water-resistant lining. Mine has no lining and the straps are thin. I hope it lasts this week. The straps are already cutting into my shoulders, and I try not to think about how they will feel after an entire day.
Suited up, I follow them across the lawn to the far end of the building where a group of men and women wait outside a closed door. Most have backpacks. The others hold bicycles with satchels slung over the rear wheels.
I count nineteen of us, eleven men and eight women, ages ranging from twenties to sixties, everyone wearing different colored versions of Gortex. Except for me. I have on an imitation Patagonia fleece pullover I bought in Nepal. Real cheap.
Jeff points to the door. “The office for pilgrims, I figure.”
I try writing in my journal but can’t concentrate. I pull a map out of my pocket, spread it open on my lap, and trace the pilgrim route with a pen. The line starts at a monastery near the French-Spanish border along the Pyrenees mountains, then heads west to a city named Santiago de Compostela. For long stretches it runs though open country dotted with small towns and occasionally through cities with names like Pamplona, Estella, Logroño, Burgos, Leon, and finally, Santiago de Compostela. It’s about 780 kilometers long. Over 500 miles. Much longer than I planned on that night in Milan.
Am I crazy? The thought crosses my mind as often as the man next to me spits out sunflower shells. I try remembering the last three months but the images blur: mountains, rivers, ashes. India and Nepal. Then Italy. Now an eleventh-century pilgrim route in Spain.
“A pilgrimage?” I say, shaking my head. I almost want to laugh.
The history of the route I’ve managed to learn still confuses me. It is based on the story of St. James, the disciple of Christ, known as Santiago in Spanish, who was beheaded by King Herod and buried by his disciples in Northwest Spain. The tomb was forgotten for centuries until a hermit shepherd followed a star in the night sky and discovered it. The place became known as “Compostela,” field of stars.
The bus hits a bump, lurching me against the window. The sun is hidden by the hills and past the initial line of trees, the woods are dark. The road climbs. The breeze, whistling through an open window up front, grows cooler.
The history doesn’t bother me. The legend does. When the Moors overran Spain, Christians needed a figure to rally around and Santiago filled the spot. There were reports of him appearing all over Spain on a white horse, killing the invaders. I wonder if anyone ever questioned how a long dead man, who once had followed a message of love, returned to massacre entire armies. Never mind how he found his head and re-attached it.
Instead, a cathedral was built over his tomb and pilgrims arrived from all over Europe. The journey was called “El Camino de Santiago,” the way to Santiago. For almost a thousand years, millions of pilgrims walked to the cathedral. But that was centuries ago. For all I know, the tradition has faded, and I might be the only one on a long forgotten journey.
“Pardon,” someone says. A woman’s voice.
I continue staring out the window. The trunks of the trees are white, their bottoms hidden by ferns, and branches reach out over the bus.
The voice again. “Are you a pilgrim?”
That gets my attention. I turn around to see a man and woman in the long rear seat: both in their early fifties, thin, wearing t-shirts, khaki shorts, and brand-new hiking boots. They are in desperate need of a tan.
The woman smiles.
“Where are you getting off?” the man asks. He has a strong English accent.
“Last stop,” I say. “The monastery in Roncesvalles.”
“I reckon you’re walking the Camino then?”
When I nod, he leans forward, sticks his hand out. I reach over and shake it.
“Sheila and myself—I’m Jeff—we’re pilgrims.”
“Amit,” I say, unsure whether I should call myself a pilgrim.
“We’re walking the Camino. Not a bad way to spend the summer, eh?”
I eye his new boots. Five hundred miles. Factor in the blisters, summer sounds about right.
“You’re walking all of it?”
“Oh yes, yes. Of course. And yourself?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m only here for a week.”
The bus slows, then stops outside a house. Vines cover the walls and the gate to the garden is red. The man with the sunflower seeds hands me the unfinished bag and gets off.
“Adios,” Jeff waves.
Sheila leans toward me. “He’s been studying Spanish. Isn’t it brilliant?”
We are the only passengers left. The bus starts again.
“Right then,” Jeff says. “How’s your Español?”
In Milan, I bought an English-Spanish phrase book and realized just how little Spanish I knew. So I memorized what I could on the ride to Spain: Hola amigo, Hello friend; Buenos dias, Good day; Donde estas los aseos? Where are the toilets?; and Lo siento, no sabía que ella era tu hermana, I’m sorry, I didn’t know she was your sister. The basics.
“It’s not that good,” I say.
“Ah,” he shakes his finger. “Bent over backwards, I did, to learn the language. It enhances the experience, you know, conversing with the locals.”
He sits back, drapes an arm around Sheila and spreads his legs out. The bus goes over several bumps. “Oh,” he says each time, pulling her closer. She giggles. I look out the window again. No more villages, just shadows of trees on the road, shifting slightly in the wind. Sometimes, through the trees, I catch glimpses of pastures with grazing cattle, and once, a field of rows and rows of sunflowers.
My mother loves sunflowers. Two years ago, after getting married, she and Ben moved to Long Island and opened a nursery. It’s a perfect match, she likes to joke, regarding their mutual passion for flowers and the fact that he’s Jewish and she Hindu. Both cultures value education, charity, and the importance making your children feel guilty. Then, to prove her point, she reminds me that I still haven’t impregnated a nice girl and given her grandchildren.
Regardless of what she says about them being a match, truth is, she’s in love. They are like teenagers, holding hands every chance they get. It’s strange watching my mother’s eyes soften whenever Ben comes into the room, but I like it. I wish she’d met him earlier. She once told me that she loved being a mother and if my father had been a better man, she would have had many children.
I called her on my way to Spain, told her my plans. “Be careful,” she’d said. When I was eighteen and away at college, I called one day and said, “Mom, I’m thinking about joining the Army.” There had been a long pause on the phone. I knew she was choosing her words carefully. “Be careful,” she’d finally said. Next day, I called to inform her that I’d signed up. Over the years, “be careful,” has become her mantra for her me. She is probably in a temple right now, doing pujas, praying for her son to be careful. That, and for him to get his act together, so he can quickly inseminate the future mother of her grandchildren.
I watch the shadow of the bus spread out on a field, rise and fall over wheat stalks, and the trees close in again. For a moment, I’m struck by a strong desire to get off at the next stop, sprint to the nearest phone booth and call Sue. “It’s beautiful here,” I want to tell her, “you’d love it.” I want to share what I’m seeing. But the prospect of the conversation going where it went the last few times is enough to kill the urge. She can’t understand what I’m doing floating around for months and we end up arguing about when I’m coming home.
The bus passes a stone cross, about three feet high at the entrance to a gravel path. The sides of the cross are blackened, as if by fire.
“I’m afraid I don’t know where you’re from,” I hear Sheila say.
I turn around. “I’m American.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous.”
I catch the look on her face. I got used to it in Milan. People wanted to know where I was really from. Never mind where I was born and raised.
“My parents are Indian.”
“Ah, yes,” Jeff says, “of course.” He runs his fingers along the back of Sheila’s neck. “We have neighbors from India. They make the most delicious chicken tikka masala. Rather spicy, though.”
“It’s a bit of a surprise to meet you,” Sheila says. “We expected Brazilians, Europeans, not Americans.”
I’d asked around in Milan but no one knew if people still walked the Camino. All I found was history books and the map in my pocket. I figured I’d walk west for a week, hopefully not get lost, maybe meet some locals, then head back to see David.
“I didn’t expect to see anyone.”
“Oh didn’t you? I tell you what, there’ll be others. You will meet them at Roncesvalles. It’s rather like a starting point for the Camino, at least for the Camino Frances.”
“What’s that?”
“The route we’re walking. There are others, one from Southern Spain, another from Portugal; all go to Santiago. But the Camino Frances, it’s the most popular.”
“What’s it like?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“This walk. This pilgrimage?”
Jeff scratches his nose with a long, pale index finger. “I recon that’s something you’ll have to experience, isn’t it?”
“It’s lovely,” Sheila says. “It changes lives.”
I take a closer look at this couple. Married twenty-something years, I guess. House, grown children. Retired, maybe. Still seem to like each other enough. I can’t help wondering what change they’re looking for and why they’re seeking it now.
“How?” I ask.
Jeff continues scratching his nose. “I’ve got news for you, I’m afraid. The Camino won’t be like your Disney park,” he says, then laughs. Sheila pats his thigh and smiles.
The bus downshifts loudly. We come up a steep hill, and through oak trees, past a grassy slope, then more trees, I see the spires and the gray-stone buildings of the monastery. They have slanted metal roofs. Behind them, the hills grow higher and fold into the Pyrenees.
The driver pulls up in front of the largest building. Jeff and Sheila put on matching green and purple jackets and quickly go out the rear door. I glance around the empty bus. There are sunflower shells at my feet. Without movement or anyone else inside, it feels lonely.
While traveling through India, I’d spent a few days in Dharamsala, a small cloud covered town in the foothills of the Himalayas. The Dali Lama’s monastery was here. Each morning, I’d hike up to the monastery, sit in the main sanctuary, and watch the monks do their morning prayers. I’d listen to their chanting until my legs fell asleep. One morning, I stepped outside to stretch my legs and saw an old monk walking, turning the prayer wheels along the walls. It took him a long while to turn them all. He repeated this process several times.
Watching him, I thought about the life he’d led, his boyhood as a monk, maybe imprisoned and tortured by the Chinese like many of the monks here, forced to flee his country, losing his family, the sights he must have seen. When he neared me this time, I bowed. He bowed in return and held one hand up in a blessing. The other held a string of large, wooden beads.
“May I ask a question?” I asked. By now, I’d picked up enough Hindi to have basic, uncomplicated conversations.
“It’s okay,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“How do you find peace?”
He was solemn for a moment, then smiled the biggest, warmest smile. Behind him, far in the distance, were the sharp-edged mountains of the Himalayas. I felt like they must when sunlight envelops them after a cold, winter night.
“Where,” he asked slowly, “are you from?
“America.”
He nodded thoughtfully, as if that explained everything.
“I say ‘yes,’” he said. “To all that happens, I say ‘yes.’”
Then he bowed and returned to his prayer wheels.
There is a bang against the side of the bus, then a creak. The driver opens the baggage hold. Jeff says something, Sheila and the driver laugh. I stare at the Pyrenees through the windows. “Yes,” I say to myself and step out.
Jeff hands me my blue Lowe Alpine backpack. “Look at that,” he says, pointing to his pack. It looks like a cleaner version of mine. “We have the same rucksacks.”
“Sort of.” I put it on and adjust the straps. “Mine’s a fake.”
“Sorry, what?”
“It’s an imitation. That’s what you get for going away for a short trip but not coming back. You buy what you need. You live cheap, you make do.”
His eyebrows tighten and he looks like he’s about to speak.
“My pack fell apart in Nepal,” I say quickly. “On my way out, I bought this in Katmandu for very little money.”
While he slips his arms through the thick, padded straps, I study his pack with its double-stitched, water-resistant lining. Mine has no lining and the straps are thin. I hope it lasts this week. The straps are already cutting into my shoulders, and I try not to think about how they will feel after an entire day.
Suited up, I follow them across the lawn to the far end of the building where a group of men and women wait outside a closed door. Most have backpacks. The others hold bicycles with satchels slung over the rear wheels.
I count nineteen of us, eleven men and eight women, ages ranging from twenties to sixties, everyone wearing different colored versions of Gortex. Except for me. I have on an imitation Patagonia fleece pullover I bought in Nepal. Real cheap.
Jeff points to the door. “The office for pilgrims, I figure.”
While he and Sheila make small talk with the others, I remove my pack and sit on it. Instead of joining the conversations, I pick at the bag of sunflower seeds the man in the bus gave me, content to listen, maybe pick up more information. I hear German, English, Spanish, Portuguese, French, and a few languages I can’t place. Despite the language difference, it’s easy to sense their excitement.
The driver is still standing outside the bus. I watch him climb in, start the bus up, turn it around slowly, and drive away. Soon it is gone and there is only the sound of pilgrims talking and the breeze through the trees lining the other side of the road.
I sit for a while, waiting for something to happen. I have no idea what to expect. Perhaps a surly monk will open the door, motion for us to enter, lead us to our cells, and with grunts and exaggerated hand motions, forbid us to speak until we leave in the morning. Then again, this pilgrimage has an office and all the pilgrims look like they robbed a sporting goods store. I wouldn’t be surprised to see tour buses pulling in. Maybe a gift shop around the corner.
Just as I’ve finished the sunflower seeds, a latch behind the door clicks and it swings open from inside. There is a rush and a line forms. I follow the group through the door, down a narrow hallway and to an office, carrying my backpack like a suitcase. Past the heads and backpacks, I see a woman with thick arms, her gray hair pulled up in a bun, sitting behind a desk. She smiles and waves us in. Bookcases line the walls and a framed print of the Virgin Mary hangs behind her.
The woman takes each person’s name, writes it down in a ledger, and stamps a booklet they hold out. Her fingers are covered with streaks of blue ink.
“What’s that?” I ask Jeff. He and Sheila are in front of me. They both have booklets.
“Credencial,” he says, “pilgrim passport. Haven’t you got one?” He watches me for a moment, scratches his ear. “No,” he sighs, “course not. Where were you planning on sleeping?”
Same question David had asked, suggesting I visit Barcelona or Madrid instead. I’d pointed out that if I could find places to sleep in India, Spain shouldn’t be so hard. Besides, being a tourist in a crowded city is a guaranteed way to feel lonely. At least when you walk in nature, you are supposed to be alone.
“Youth hostels, cheap hotels. I thought I might camp a few nights.”
The line moves forward. I hear the thunk of the stamp on the oak desk. The woman stamps several booklets quickly. Thunk thunk thunk.
“No need for that,” Jeff says. “They’ve got accommodations along the Camino. Refugios. Refuges. Some are rather nice, I hear. Then there’s your four walls and a roof types.”
“Are they expensive?”
“Oh no. Three hundred pesos, five hundred maybe. If you’ve got a credencial.”
The driver is still standing outside the bus. I watch him climb in, start the bus up, turn it around slowly, and drive away. Soon it is gone and there is only the sound of pilgrims talking and the breeze through the trees lining the other side of the road.
I sit for a while, waiting for something to happen. I have no idea what to expect. Perhaps a surly monk will open the door, motion for us to enter, lead us to our cells, and with grunts and exaggerated hand motions, forbid us to speak until we leave in the morning. Then again, this pilgrimage has an office and all the pilgrims look like they robbed a sporting goods store. I wouldn’t be surprised to see tour buses pulling in. Maybe a gift shop around the corner.
Just as I’ve finished the sunflower seeds, a latch behind the door clicks and it swings open from inside. There is a rush and a line forms. I follow the group through the door, down a narrow hallway and to an office, carrying my backpack like a suitcase. Past the heads and backpacks, I see a woman with thick arms, her gray hair pulled up in a bun, sitting behind a desk. She smiles and waves us in. Bookcases line the walls and a framed print of the Virgin Mary hangs behind her.
The woman takes each person’s name, writes it down in a ledger, and stamps a booklet they hold out. Her fingers are covered with streaks of blue ink.
“What’s that?” I ask Jeff. He and Sheila are in front of me. They both have booklets.
“Credencial,” he says, “pilgrim passport. Haven’t you got one?” He watches me for a moment, scratches his ear. “No,” he sighs, “course not. Where were you planning on sleeping?”
Same question David had asked, suggesting I visit Barcelona or Madrid instead. I’d pointed out that if I could find places to sleep in India, Spain shouldn’t be so hard. Besides, being a tourist in a crowded city is a guaranteed way to feel lonely. At least when you walk in nature, you are supposed to be alone.
“Youth hostels, cheap hotels. I thought I might camp a few nights.”
The line moves forward. I hear the thunk of the stamp on the oak desk. The woman stamps several booklets quickly. Thunk thunk thunk.
“No need for that,” Jeff says. “They’ve got accommodations along the Camino. Refugios. Refuges. Some are rather nice, I hear. Then there’s your four walls and a roof types.”
“Are they expensive?”
“Oh no. Three hundred pesos, five hundred maybe. If you’ve got a credencial.”
“Hang on,” Sheila taps my arm with the booklet. “You must get it stamped in the refuges. When you reach the cathedral in Santiago, show your credencial and they’ll give you a compostela.”
“What’s that?”
“A certificate. It shows that you completed the pilgrimage.”
“Brilliant way to prove that you did this,” Jeff says. “You know what it says to me?”
“What’s that?”
“A certificate. It shows that you completed the pilgrimage.”
“Brilliant way to prove that you did this,” Jeff says. “You know what it says to me?”
“What?” I start to ask, but the line moves again. Two thunks and they are gone.
Standing there, waiting my turn, I feel more and more foolish. I had no idea what this pilgrimage involved. I think of Jeff’s boots, soles with barely a scruff, the laces still clean. Mine look like someone dragged them through the sewers of India. This helps me feel a little better. I may not know the details of the pilgrimage, but I know how to walk.
The woman sells me a credencial for three hundred pesos. It is a long piece of card stock folded several times like a map, each side divided into blank squares. There are lots of squares. Many more than I plan to fill. She stamps the first square with a blue-ink image of the Virgin of Roncesvalles. I am now an official pilgrim.
Finished, she shuts the ledger, buttons up her thin, black sweater, and motions for us to follow. We go out the door, around the building, through a stone courtyard, and inside another building. We walk up a winding stairway, the air growing colder, backpacks scraping the narrow walls, boots scuffling against stone steps. The place is like a fortress.
She stops on the third floor and waits until we catch up. We stand in a room with a sagging couch against one wall and two open doors at both ends. Each door leads to a room lined with rows of bunk beds, the mattresses bare, the ceilings high.
She makes small talk in Spanish and English, her breath in heavy spurts. After we have gathered around her, she claps her hands for quiet. Then, like the nuns from my one year at Catholic school, she firmly lists the rules: lights out by ten, respect the other pilgrims’ right to sleep, pay in advance if you want dinner at the restaurant, leave by 8 a.m.
I almost expect her to spell out punishments for those who disobey: rapping across the knuckles with a ruler, five Hail Marys, ten Our Fathers, and writing on a blackboard two-hundred times—“I am a naughty pilgrim…I am a naughty pilgrim.”
She leaves and we claim beds. To my surprise, unlike Catholic school, men and women share the same room. A line has already formed for the single shower in the bathroom. I take out my journal, then go down the stairs and back outside.
It is a cool evening. I walk to the front grounds and sit down, leaning back on my elbows. I run my hands through the lush grass, feel the breeze ruffle my hair, and watch the sun dip low. What will it be like walking with these pilgrims? In the bunkroom, the woman who stamped the credenciales had remarked that today’s group was a small one. Each morning, a new group would start at Roncesvalles, while others started at different cities along the Camino, some walking from as far as France or Holland. She told us about a bridge at a village called Puente de la Reina where several pilgrim routes converged into one.
There would be moments, she had said, when we would be completely alone with no one around for miles, and then, times when we would be surrounded by pilgrims, just one of many. The way she smiled when she said that, she almost made it sound like a good thing. Then she mentioned that she’d walked the pilgrimage three times. Why, I wanted to ask, but refrained myself. Probably part of the job. Know the route you’re selling.
A thin gray cloud moves across the sun, cutting it in half, like a reflection in the water. The two halves slowly disappear behind the hills. When I blink, I see orange spots where the sun had been.
Standing there, waiting my turn, I feel more and more foolish. I had no idea what this pilgrimage involved. I think of Jeff’s boots, soles with barely a scruff, the laces still clean. Mine look like someone dragged them through the sewers of India. This helps me feel a little better. I may not know the details of the pilgrimage, but I know how to walk.
The woman sells me a credencial for three hundred pesos. It is a long piece of card stock folded several times like a map, each side divided into blank squares. There are lots of squares. Many more than I plan to fill. She stamps the first square with a blue-ink image of the Virgin of Roncesvalles. I am now an official pilgrim.
Finished, she shuts the ledger, buttons up her thin, black sweater, and motions for us to follow. We go out the door, around the building, through a stone courtyard, and inside another building. We walk up a winding stairway, the air growing colder, backpacks scraping the narrow walls, boots scuffling against stone steps. The place is like a fortress.
She stops on the third floor and waits until we catch up. We stand in a room with a sagging couch against one wall and two open doors at both ends. Each door leads to a room lined with rows of bunk beds, the mattresses bare, the ceilings high.
She makes small talk in Spanish and English, her breath in heavy spurts. After we have gathered around her, she claps her hands for quiet. Then, like the nuns from my one year at Catholic school, she firmly lists the rules: lights out by ten, respect the other pilgrims’ right to sleep, pay in advance if you want dinner at the restaurant, leave by 8 a.m.
I almost expect her to spell out punishments for those who disobey: rapping across the knuckles with a ruler, five Hail Marys, ten Our Fathers, and writing on a blackboard two-hundred times—“I am a naughty pilgrim…I am a naughty pilgrim.”
She leaves and we claim beds. To my surprise, unlike Catholic school, men and women share the same room. A line has already formed for the single shower in the bathroom. I take out my journal, then go down the stairs and back outside.
It is a cool evening. I walk to the front grounds and sit down, leaning back on my elbows. I run my hands through the lush grass, feel the breeze ruffle my hair, and watch the sun dip low. What will it be like walking with these pilgrims? In the bunkroom, the woman who stamped the credenciales had remarked that today’s group was a small one. Each morning, a new group would start at Roncesvalles, while others started at different cities along the Camino, some walking from as far as France or Holland. She told us about a bridge at a village called Puente de la Reina where several pilgrim routes converged into one.
There would be moments, she had said, when we would be completely alone with no one around for miles, and then, times when we would be surrounded by pilgrims, just one of many. The way she smiled when she said that, she almost made it sound like a good thing. Then she mentioned that she’d walked the pilgrimage three times. Why, I wanted to ask, but refrained myself. Probably part of the job. Know the route you’re selling.
A thin gray cloud moves across the sun, cutting it in half, like a reflection in the water. The two halves slowly disappear behind the hills. When I blink, I see orange spots where the sun had been.
I sit there until church bells ring, the sound echoing off the hills. Far to my left, pilgrims file into the chapel. Going to services hadn’t even crossed my mind. But I’m curious. Are these pilgrims religious? Is that even a requirement? I get up, follow them inside, and sit alone in a pew between giant, arched pillars. Three narrow, stained glass windows above the altar let in hints of dying light.
The bells end and monks in white robes file in from a side entrance. They walk slowly, looking far more solemn than the Buddhist monks I saw in Nepal. After gathering along the steps to the altar in a straight line, they start chanting. It is a long chant, growing louder, voices rising, until it fills the chapel. Sitting on a wooden pew, rubbing my hands together for warmth, watching the pilgrims around me, some kneeling, some moving their lips, and others like myself, simply staring, I get the sense that I’m part of something bigger than myself. It’s a strange feeling, but one I like. I don’t feel so alone.
The chanting ends and it is time for communion. About half the pilgrims get in line while the rest of us watch. I catch one woman glancing around the chapel, looking bored. It’s a relief to know that I’m not the only non-Catholic here.
After communion, the monks raise their arms, palms facing forward. The one in the middle, bald with a neatly trimmed white beard, motions for us to come closer. He waits until we assemble, then speaks while one man translates into English, another into French.
“When you walk the Camino,” he says, “you follow the footsteps of those who have come and gone. They sat where you sit. They stood where you stand. Remember them and one day, others will remember you.” He gazes at us for a long, silent moment, as if searching for someone familiar. A woman behind me coughs. “Pray for us when you reach Santiago,” he finally says.
The monks lower their arms, turn, and walk away, candles flickering their shadows on the walls. As the chapel empties, I open my journal. At the airport in New Delhi, my aunt had pressed the small leather-bound notebook into my hands. “For you,” she had said, hugging me goodbye, “don’t get lost.” She watched me flip through the blank pages, then gently rubbed my cheek. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that was how I felt. And now, sitting inside a fourteenth century chapel in Spain, preparing to follow the footsteps of long-dead pilgrims, I wonder if I am any closer to being found.
I write down what the monk had said, put the journal in the cargo pocket of my pants, and take one last look around the chapel. A habit I’ve developed while traveling because I don’t know if I will ever be back. A monk returns to the altar and picks up a candle. He is small and thin and very old. How many pilgrims has he watched setting off for Santiago? We stare at each other for a moment, then he shuffles to the side entrance and shuts the door behind him. I walk out.
A few stars have appeared above, faint in the darkening sky. A low mist covers the hills. I head for the restaurant near the main road and catch up with Felipe, a Brazilian man making the pilgrimage with a friend. We make small talk until he mentions that he will only stay a week, then return to Rio.
“Why a week,” I ask, surprised. I figured that I was the only one.
“It is my dream to walk the Camino. I go home because of my work. I will return next year to finish,” he pauses, sighing. “I do not have a choice.”
We walk in silence. Suddenly he asks, “Why are you on the Camino?”
My instinct is to think of something funny. I doubt my reasons are as deep as his. He watches me, waiting for an answer. I run through the options in my mind: “because of a woman.” When in doubt, always blame it on a woman. It’s an excuse all men understand. “Because I was drunk.” I normally use that one to explain why I joined the Army.
We walk quickly, the bottoms of our pants swishing against wet grass.
“I needed to get away, figure things out,” I say. An honest enough answer. Surprisingly, it satisfies him. He nods and doesn’t ask for more.
The restaurant is crowded and noisy. Rough stone walls, casks of wine behind the bar, candles on the tables, fluorescent lights on the ceiling, and a waitress who looks like she’s waited on too many pilgrims in her lifetime. I share a table with Jeff, Sheila, Felipe, and his friend. The waitress brings bread, salad, and fried trout. By the time she serves the coffee and flan for dessert, there are four empty wine bottles on the table and we are working on the fifth. All of us are feeling pretty good.
Two tables away, a woman sits surrounded by a group of five men. She talks loudly, moving her hands. She speaks English, but the way she rounds her sentences, her voice sounds musical. She must have made a joke because several men laugh. Then I hear her say that she is Brazilian and has just celebrated her twenty-second birthday in Barcelona.
Trying not to look obvious, I pick up a glass of water and watch her through it: wavy dark hair past her shoulders, long bangs which she brushes away from her eyes when she laughs, tight white t-shirt. Lips so full and pouty that men would fight wars over them. She turns and I see a line of tiny gold hoop earrings in her left ear. The hoops sparkle through the glass.
If someone had pressed me to imagine pilgrims, this wouldn’t have been it. Church groups, yes. Jeff and Sheila, maybe. A beautiful Brazilian woman flirting with men twice her age while everyone gets drunk, no.
“Isn’t this lovely?” Sheila says to me.
I set the glass down and nod. “Much better than I figured. I thought we’d be having bread and water, sleeping in tiny rooms with no windows. A hard bed. A cross on the wall.”
“I’m afraid we’re a bit more advanced now,” Jeff says.
They turn to talk with Felipe. I eat the flan and have half a glass of wine.
“What do you do?” Jeff asks me.
“I’m not sure,” I shrug. “For now it’s travel, I guess.”
“Why travel?”
One thing I’ve learned: mention that this started with the death of my father, and the conversation changes. Condolences. Questions. Things I don’t want to talk about.
“I’ve got the time,” I say.
He glances at Sheila, back to me. “You’re wealthy then?”
That makes me laugh. From the looks on their faces, a little too maniacally. But, for someone with about eight hundred dollars left in his savings account, no credit cards, no job, and a one-way ticket to New York, that’s pretty funny.
“Not really,” I say. “I’m just trying to make up my mind.”
There is still some flan left on the spoon. I pick it up and lick it. They are staring. “I’m trying to figure out what to do with my life,” I say, eyes on the spoon, “that sort of stuff.”
“Right,” says Jeff.
“And what did you do before you traveled?” Sheila asks.
They aren’t letting me off easy. Hoping to bore them into stopping, I give the truth.
“I used to be a rep for a pharmaceutical company but got laid off. Before that, I did clinical research in hospital emergency departments, thought I wanted to be a doctor. But I left ‘cause there’s no money in research and I was tired of not being able to pay my bills. And before that, I was going to be a lawyer but senior year in college, I went to a pre-law seminar. I was in this room with something like fifty lawyers for two hours and when I came out of those doors, I knew it wasn’t for me. I’d rather do something meaningful, so the medicine thing. But now, I’d rather be involved in a creative field, like film.”
I sip the wine, it’s so good and cheap. Then I lick the spoon. All traces of the flan are gone. “To be honest,” I say, knowing how this sounds and not caring, “I could go either way. Become a doctor or work in film.”
Sheila clears her throat.
“Come here,” Jeff says.
I set the spoon down, lean forward. He wags a finger.
“Closer.”
I lean even more.
“Escuche,” he says. Mouth to my ear, his breath smelling like old coffee, he whispers: “It means ‘listen’…you could be putting off things forever.”
Satisfied, he settles back into his chair. He does have a point: when will I draw the line and commit to a career? A drunken excitement builds. Yes, I think, help me figure things out, tell me what to do.
“You know what I like?” he asks.
I take a sip of wine. “What?”
He strokes Sheila’s pale forearm. “Cheese.”
“Cheese?” says I.
“Oh yes. They make rather lovely cheeses where we live.”
“I simply adore Brie,” Sheila says, smiling at her husband.
They talk about Stilton. Then Camembert. When they reach Cheddar, I figure it’s time to take off before they remember me again. I drain my glass and rise from the table.
“I’m beat,” I say. “See you in the morning.”
“Cheers. All the best.”
I leave the noise, the cigarette smoke, and the questions behind and walk across the deserted lawn to the monastery. I take my time and when I finally reach the bunkroom, the lights are off and a man snores loudly. A couple sits on the floor, whispering in French. I go and stand by the open window for a while, letting the cold air numb my face. The hills are dark lumps. I zip up my fleece pullover, stare at the night sky, and soon my mind falls quiet and memories rise from their ashes:
A January night in New York. I sit in a small hospital room in Long Island Jewish Medical Center. Outside the window, I see snow, brown and dirty from the street, piled against sidewalks. Inside, it is neither hot nor cold. Hospital weather.
On the bed before me lies the body of what used to be my father. The cancer has left darkened, brown skin draped over an assortment of bones. From his mouth, a tube coils itself into a machine that mimics his lungs, forcing him to breathe. His head remains still but his eyes move around and around, rolling, searching. They take in everything: the yellow ceiling, the plastic jug half-full of urine, the white sheets, the door leading into a pale corridor where nurses in blue scrubs walk by, the tired, young man who sits by him. They keep on moving, searching, seeking.
“A primitive reaction of the brain,” the neurologist tells me while he suctions electrodes to my father’s head. “It means nothing.”
Wires run from the electrodes to a boxy, antiquated machine with flashing buttons. Green wires. Red wires. White and yellow wires. A Goddamn Christmas tree.
Yet, I see the eyes. Only the eyes. They’re rolling, flittering, moving, searching, endlessly searching. What the hell are they looking for?
I stand, look down at him. I can kill him, I think. Block the door, unplug the ventilator, put a pillow over his face, end the misery.
A scream grows in my abdomen and struggles to break free. I do nothing.
The bells end and monks in white robes file in from a side entrance. They walk slowly, looking far more solemn than the Buddhist monks I saw in Nepal. After gathering along the steps to the altar in a straight line, they start chanting. It is a long chant, growing louder, voices rising, until it fills the chapel. Sitting on a wooden pew, rubbing my hands together for warmth, watching the pilgrims around me, some kneeling, some moving their lips, and others like myself, simply staring, I get the sense that I’m part of something bigger than myself. It’s a strange feeling, but one I like. I don’t feel so alone.
The chanting ends and it is time for communion. About half the pilgrims get in line while the rest of us watch. I catch one woman glancing around the chapel, looking bored. It’s a relief to know that I’m not the only non-Catholic here.
After communion, the monks raise their arms, palms facing forward. The one in the middle, bald with a neatly trimmed white beard, motions for us to come closer. He waits until we assemble, then speaks while one man translates into English, another into French.
“When you walk the Camino,” he says, “you follow the footsteps of those who have come and gone. They sat where you sit. They stood where you stand. Remember them and one day, others will remember you.” He gazes at us for a long, silent moment, as if searching for someone familiar. A woman behind me coughs. “Pray for us when you reach Santiago,” he finally says.
The monks lower their arms, turn, and walk away, candles flickering their shadows on the walls. As the chapel empties, I open my journal. At the airport in New Delhi, my aunt had pressed the small leather-bound notebook into my hands. “For you,” she had said, hugging me goodbye, “don’t get lost.” She watched me flip through the blank pages, then gently rubbed my cheek. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that was how I felt. And now, sitting inside a fourteenth century chapel in Spain, preparing to follow the footsteps of long-dead pilgrims, I wonder if I am any closer to being found.
I write down what the monk had said, put the journal in the cargo pocket of my pants, and take one last look around the chapel. A habit I’ve developed while traveling because I don’t know if I will ever be back. A monk returns to the altar and picks up a candle. He is small and thin and very old. How many pilgrims has he watched setting off for Santiago? We stare at each other for a moment, then he shuffles to the side entrance and shuts the door behind him. I walk out.
A few stars have appeared above, faint in the darkening sky. A low mist covers the hills. I head for the restaurant near the main road and catch up with Felipe, a Brazilian man making the pilgrimage with a friend. We make small talk until he mentions that he will only stay a week, then return to Rio.
“Why a week,” I ask, surprised. I figured that I was the only one.
“It is my dream to walk the Camino. I go home because of my work. I will return next year to finish,” he pauses, sighing. “I do not have a choice.”
We walk in silence. Suddenly he asks, “Why are you on the Camino?”
My instinct is to think of something funny. I doubt my reasons are as deep as his. He watches me, waiting for an answer. I run through the options in my mind: “because of a woman.” When in doubt, always blame it on a woman. It’s an excuse all men understand. “Because I was drunk.” I normally use that one to explain why I joined the Army.
We walk quickly, the bottoms of our pants swishing against wet grass.
“I needed to get away, figure things out,” I say. An honest enough answer. Surprisingly, it satisfies him. He nods and doesn’t ask for more.
The restaurant is crowded and noisy. Rough stone walls, casks of wine behind the bar, candles on the tables, fluorescent lights on the ceiling, and a waitress who looks like she’s waited on too many pilgrims in her lifetime. I share a table with Jeff, Sheila, Felipe, and his friend. The waitress brings bread, salad, and fried trout. By the time she serves the coffee and flan for dessert, there are four empty wine bottles on the table and we are working on the fifth. All of us are feeling pretty good.
Two tables away, a woman sits surrounded by a group of five men. She talks loudly, moving her hands. She speaks English, but the way she rounds her sentences, her voice sounds musical. She must have made a joke because several men laugh. Then I hear her say that she is Brazilian and has just celebrated her twenty-second birthday in Barcelona.
Trying not to look obvious, I pick up a glass of water and watch her through it: wavy dark hair past her shoulders, long bangs which she brushes away from her eyes when she laughs, tight white t-shirt. Lips so full and pouty that men would fight wars over them. She turns and I see a line of tiny gold hoop earrings in her left ear. The hoops sparkle through the glass.
If someone had pressed me to imagine pilgrims, this wouldn’t have been it. Church groups, yes. Jeff and Sheila, maybe. A beautiful Brazilian woman flirting with men twice her age while everyone gets drunk, no.
“Isn’t this lovely?” Sheila says to me.
I set the glass down and nod. “Much better than I figured. I thought we’d be having bread and water, sleeping in tiny rooms with no windows. A hard bed. A cross on the wall.”
“I’m afraid we’re a bit more advanced now,” Jeff says.
They turn to talk with Felipe. I eat the flan and have half a glass of wine.
“What do you do?” Jeff asks me.
“I’m not sure,” I shrug. “For now it’s travel, I guess.”
“Why travel?”
One thing I’ve learned: mention that this started with the death of my father, and the conversation changes. Condolences. Questions. Things I don’t want to talk about.
“I’ve got the time,” I say.
He glances at Sheila, back to me. “You’re wealthy then?”
That makes me laugh. From the looks on their faces, a little too maniacally. But, for someone with about eight hundred dollars left in his savings account, no credit cards, no job, and a one-way ticket to New York, that’s pretty funny.
“Not really,” I say. “I’m just trying to make up my mind.”
There is still some flan left on the spoon. I pick it up and lick it. They are staring. “I’m trying to figure out what to do with my life,” I say, eyes on the spoon, “that sort of stuff.”
“Right,” says Jeff.
“And what did you do before you traveled?” Sheila asks.
They aren’t letting me off easy. Hoping to bore them into stopping, I give the truth.
“I used to be a rep for a pharmaceutical company but got laid off. Before that, I did clinical research in hospital emergency departments, thought I wanted to be a doctor. But I left ‘cause there’s no money in research and I was tired of not being able to pay my bills. And before that, I was going to be a lawyer but senior year in college, I went to a pre-law seminar. I was in this room with something like fifty lawyers for two hours and when I came out of those doors, I knew it wasn’t for me. I’d rather do something meaningful, so the medicine thing. But now, I’d rather be involved in a creative field, like film.”
I sip the wine, it’s so good and cheap. Then I lick the spoon. All traces of the flan are gone. “To be honest,” I say, knowing how this sounds and not caring, “I could go either way. Become a doctor or work in film.”
Sheila clears her throat.
“Come here,” Jeff says.
I set the spoon down, lean forward. He wags a finger.
“Closer.”
I lean even more.
“Escuche,” he says. Mouth to my ear, his breath smelling like old coffee, he whispers: “It means ‘listen’…you could be putting off things forever.”
Satisfied, he settles back into his chair. He does have a point: when will I draw the line and commit to a career? A drunken excitement builds. Yes, I think, help me figure things out, tell me what to do.
“You know what I like?” he asks.
I take a sip of wine. “What?”
He strokes Sheila’s pale forearm. “Cheese.”
“Cheese?” says I.
“Oh yes. They make rather lovely cheeses where we live.”
“I simply adore Brie,” Sheila says, smiling at her husband.
They talk about Stilton. Then Camembert. When they reach Cheddar, I figure it’s time to take off before they remember me again. I drain my glass and rise from the table.
“I’m beat,” I say. “See you in the morning.”
“Cheers. All the best.”
I leave the noise, the cigarette smoke, and the questions behind and walk across the deserted lawn to the monastery. I take my time and when I finally reach the bunkroom, the lights are off and a man snores loudly. A couple sits on the floor, whispering in French. I go and stand by the open window for a while, letting the cold air numb my face. The hills are dark lumps. I zip up my fleece pullover, stare at the night sky, and soon my mind falls quiet and memories rise from their ashes:
A January night in New York. I sit in a small hospital room in Long Island Jewish Medical Center. Outside the window, I see snow, brown and dirty from the street, piled against sidewalks. Inside, it is neither hot nor cold. Hospital weather.
On the bed before me lies the body of what used to be my father. The cancer has left darkened, brown skin draped over an assortment of bones. From his mouth, a tube coils itself into a machine that mimics his lungs, forcing him to breathe. His head remains still but his eyes move around and around, rolling, searching. They take in everything: the yellow ceiling, the plastic jug half-full of urine, the white sheets, the door leading into a pale corridor where nurses in blue scrubs walk by, the tired, young man who sits by him. They keep on moving, searching, seeking.
“A primitive reaction of the brain,” the neurologist tells me while he suctions electrodes to my father’s head. “It means nothing.”
Wires run from the electrodes to a boxy, antiquated machine with flashing buttons. Green wires. Red wires. White and yellow wires. A Goddamn Christmas tree.
Yet, I see the eyes. Only the eyes. They’re rolling, flittering, moving, searching, endlessly searching. What the hell are they looking for?
I stand, look down at him. I can kill him, I think. Block the door, unplug the ventilator, put a pillow over his face, end the misery.
A scream grows in my abdomen and struggles to break free. I do nothing.
(If you are interested in reading more, please contact me.)