You've probably heard the Camino is life-changing. Maybe not for everyone; but do something where you walk for over a month, through physical and mental obstacles, and I think it's bound to have a lasting effect, even after the Camino. That was the case for me.
Los Arcos was the beginning of a new phase in the Camino for me. Up to Pamplona I was getting my bearings; when I stayed for a rest day in Pamplona, many of the people I had met to that point did not, and they moved on to the next city. This was not a huge loss, as at that point I knew the names of only a handful of those I had seen on the way. In Los Arcos this changed.
I have done many things in my life alone. Not to say I didn't have a good support network: my family and friends have always been there, and I am grateful for that. But I have always done things alone: learning, traveling, thinking, passing the days. When I was in Japan, I was very often alone, and went hiking quite happily alone, not lonely. I met people there, people I am still friends with today. But most of the time I was alone, and I was okay with it.
But someone cursed me. I met a Japanese person at a hiking get-together, and they asked me "Don't you feel lonely hiking by yourself?" This took me aback. No, not at all, why would I be? I had nature, I had camping supplies, I had a blog to write.
But the question stuck with me, and from that moment on I had difficulty enjoying being alone. I still did things by myself, of course, but I began to think "Would this be better shared with someone else?" My mom came to visit me and we travelled around Japan, and I found the answer was "yes, at least some times, with certain people". I have not yet recovered from this curse: part of the reason I abandoned my original plan for my bike tour - to ride to Brazil and Argentina - was because I got tired of not having someone to share it with.
In a sense, I envy those that travel happily alone, as I once did. It's not that I don't value sharing - in fact, I do prefer the way I feel now, as before I actively did not want to share with or be dependent on others. But it would be nice to choose either.
In Los Arcos, I met people who would appear, disappear, and reappear during the following month. Juan Carlos from Mexico City, Santiago from Guadalajara, Marina from Japan, Renata from Germany; I had met Kate from England and Mimi from California before, but got to know them better in Los Arcos and soon after.
I was the last person to get a bed in my albergue for that night; they told the woman behind me they were full. It is hard for me to imagine what my story would be like if I had traded places with that woman (don't worry, there was plenty of space at other albergues, I'm sure she did fine).
I first met Juan Carlos and Santiago walking around Los Arcos. We wandered together, speaking English because my Spanish is negligible, and we talked about our lives, our plans, our experience on the Camino, our reasons for being on the Camino. I felt immediately a strong sense of camaraderie with these two. We went to the fantastic church for which Los Arcos is famous. Then they both had other things to attend to, but we made sure we would meet later for the pilgrim's meal at the albergue. It felt very nice to be able to look forward to further conversation.
I met Marina when she introduced herself to Juan Carlos; she was only the second Japanese person I'd met - I had tried to help a Japanese man who was locked out of his albergue in a previous town. I announced to Marina my usual spiel that I knew Japanese and had even lived in Tokyo. Marina was impressed as Japanese people often are; but I felt a little embarassed and we didn't speak much Japanese at the time.
We all met again at dinner. We sat around a table and ate together, much as I had before, first in Roncesvalles and then a couple of other albergues, but this was different. Through a great meal and two bottles of wine - the French people sitting next to us didn't want theirs, so we happily relieved them of it - we got to know each other. The subject of the church came up, and I feigned indignance when both Marina and Renata told me they hadn't been there. I coaxed them into going there, late as it was.
When we got there, we found that the church had been closed and had not held services that evening. Instead, there was band practice in the choir area. It reminded me of mariachi, though it was different; accordions were central. We couldn't see them and they couldn't see us, but the music was a magical backdrop to the church's interior. It was boisterous and happy, and they sang and played their instruments well. I said to both Renata and Marina that it was a magical experience, and they both agreed with smiles on their faces.
We left the church and Marina went back at this point, I believe, but Renata and I hung out in the main square. A man was playing with his dog: he would throw a water bottle up the sloped street leading into the plaza and the dog would chase it down and return to drop it at the man's feet. Renata was face-timing with her wife back home. There was something magical about this as well, and I enjoyed watching Renata circle around with her camera, telling her wife how much she loved her and what a great time she was having, while the man threw the water bottle and talked and laughed with his friends. At one point the man threw the bottle near Renata, and the dog looked to her to throw it. The dog watched her every movement, and I remember its joyful anticipation with envy. She threw the bottle, it landed and began to skate down the slope back into the plaza, and the dog took off immediately and retrieved it. I think I could have watched this forever.
But at some point we went back to the albergue and went to sleep. I think I left late the next day (7 am!), and everyone was gone. I never saw Renata again. I saw Santiago briefly in Logroño, but he was with friends and I felt as though I was intruding. I would see Marina again the next day, and many times after that; but at the time I thought she had left me behind, along with Juan Carlos and Mimi. I was alone in a town of sharing: the main nightlife was going from bar to bar and sharing tapas, or pinxos as they are called there.
This was the moment that my main challenge on the Camino showed itself: a struggle to enjoy my time with others when I knew I likely wouldn't see them again. And, even more, to enjoy myself without them, with new people or alone. I wouldn't trade the magic of my time in Los Arcos for anything, and that is the lesson I ended up taking away from the Camino: enjoy the time you spend with others, and make sure they know you enjoyed not just the time you spent with them, but the people they are.
I didn't learn this lesson until very late in my pilgrimage, but I tried to put it into practice immediately. I will continue to struggle with loneliness throughout the Camino and after, but this reminder sticks with me. I am grateful to all those I met on the Camino, for the time we shared. I am grateful for those I met up with in Porto, Barcelona, and Amsterdam, and back here at home.
Thank you, I not only enjoyed the time we spent together, but I am grateful that I met you.