Allessandro

“I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?”

Haruki Murakami

My mind was on Alessandro yesterday. We met last year on this same steep stretch, as he and his five countrymen chanted “I-tal-ia!” The lone woman from their group and I raced liked two aging olympiads, huffing towards an imaginary finish line at the crest of the climb. If you remember my post from that day, I was thrilled to report that Team USA crossed first. Alessandro gave me a crown of weeds and we continued on, ending up in the same albergue many a night, stepping in each others footprints over fourteen days through the Asturian mountains.

Alessandro passed away this year. I don’t know what happened, only that there were Facebook posts about how he was going to be missed, how much the Camino meant to him. I knew him for a sliver of a moment, and yet I will not forget his laughter, his enthusiasm, his unwavering belief that if he just spoke Italian a little faster, I’d eventually understand. I would never have forgotten him in any circumstance; he’s tightly lodged in the Primitivo picture book in my head. The image is razor sharp when it surfaces, loud, full of banter, hands wildly gesticulating. In my memory, I walk up this shady slope and he’s laughing at the top. I check into the albergue tonight and he’s raising a toast at the end of the table. I walk into Santiago and he’s celebrating, embracing everyone around him.

My mother died when I was 14, my father when I was 36. There are no particular moments that stand out during those years we had together; a smattering of photographs, one or two traditions passed down, no blessing before the final goodbye. I say this not to garner your sympathy, but to let you know why I am on this journey with my son. And why Alessandro is on my mind today. How does a man I met only briefly stand out in my memory, when others have faded quietly into the past?

When I sink into myself at the end, the letters will stop coming to my mailbox, you’ll eventually remove my contact information from your phone, and the county treasurer will have a different person to exasperate with increased taxes every year. The new owner of my little house might wonder for a moment or two who I was, but they will not remember the parties on the patio, the family dinners, the mantel loaded each Christmas with homemade stockings. They won’t know that I walked Caminos, that I cherished a full house, that I loved my children. But the people who walked those Caminos with me, who came to the parties, and these children of mine?

They know they are loved.

I am walking with Sam so that he knows me, as much as I want to know him. My life is like a “Bang Snap” thrown on a hot July pavement - a brilliant flash of light gone in a second, a quick “pop” and then a little bit of paper left in the grass. We empty the cardboard box of them so quickly, and then it’s over. Today, I will show Sam where I met Alessandro, where I met Manon, where I met the Austrian sisters. I’ll show him so he can remember them, so he can remember me, so he can remember us. I will give him something to consider, to quietly smile over, when I am not here to remind him in person.

Cairns Along The Camino

Twenty five years ago, my five-year-old son was wheeled away from me at Emmanuel Hospital in Portland. Surgeons were waiting to remove his right kidney and fit him with a central line for chemotherapy, after discovering the leg pain he was experiencing was actually a massive tumor. His seven year old brother and three year-old sister snuggled together in Sam‘s bed that night, with the goal to “keep it warm for Sam until he comes home.” Sydney was just eight weeks old, so the events of that day meant little to her. I wonder now though, how the following year of chemo and radiation appointments, the evening ritual of flushing Sam’s central line, the days when he was so sick he’d lay motionless on his sheepskin rug while Sullivan practiced times tables and Shelby learned to read - how did it shape her? How did it shape all of us?

Twenty five minutes ago, my 30 year old son and I discussed if we were doing the Ruta Verde on our upcoming Camino Primitivo, or if we’d stick with the traditional path on our way out of Lugo. Do I recommend trail runners or boots? Can we take that fun cooking class you spoke of when we’re in Barcelona? Do you want to do the rooftop tour of the Cathedral? Why in the world would I need hiking poles? Gonna tutor you in Spanish all across the country, mom. And, and, and…

This will be my ninth Camino and Sam’s first. The irony doesn’t escape me - the child I was afraid I’d lose is the one walking with me in September. I’ve thought about that long-ago day often as I’ve walked myself across Spain. I’ve thought of other things as well - dogs I’ve had, s’more parties around the fire pit with Shelby’s cheerleading team, the theatre kids I made pancakes for after their traditional opening show sleepover, the loss of a marriage, the decision to get out of bed and face a day I’m not sure I was ready for. These things are all stones of remembrance I bring, piling them up until they resemble a life lived - sharp edges, smooth and rounded ones, pictures, notes, promises and memories. A Cruz de Ferro in my head, of sorts. But as I walk, the sharp things fall away and I’m left with a monument of the good memories and reasons to keep walking forward. It’s difficult to walk a Camino and remain bitter.

There isn’t a monument on the Primitivo that inspires the same ritual as Cruz de Ferro, but I’ll ask Sam to bring a stone with him from home anyway. Maybe he’ll set it on a stone fence along the Hospitales Route. Perhaps he’ll skip it across the water at Grandas de Salime. It’s his Camino, so he can place it wherever it means the most to him. Me? I’ll be picking up a stone and bringing it home. This is the talisman I’ll add to my memory box, marking the time I walked a Camino with the son I thought I’d lose.

Moving towards Oviedo

I remember my first Camino. We were in Hospital de Órbigo, sitting around with a lot of young people before their nightly yoga class. Everyone was talking about their feet. “How are your feet doing?” a handsome young man asked an equally beautiful young woman. “Oh, I’m having so many problems!” she replied in tears. “My middle-aged feet are doing fine,” I marveled silently to myself. So there it is - I’m terrible at golf, even worse at water skiing, basketball and tennis, but I can walk. I wend my way through Spain, connecting the dots across an entire country in the pursuit of a relic, an answer, a moment.

Why do we go on pilgrimages? Maybe there are questions that can only be answered in a different time zone, different country, different air. Your phone rings, the floors need vacuuming, a dog begs for a walk - a few of the many things that keep us from confronting the hollows in other parts of our day and heart. Perhaps we set out when thoughts that simmer under the surface gently bubble to the top, pop and release a bit of pressure. We keep the burner on low purposefully; if the flame is too high, there’s a chance we’ll be burnt by the ferocity of our questions. Yet when we begin to move across the land, the decisions we’ve planned to weigh and consider dissapate, and we’re left with moving one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, whether I sell my house and move the country, remarry or remain single, leave that job to focus on writing - it’s really not that important. What’s valuable now is to recognize my place in this long line of people, to keep moving forward.

Photo: Sam catching some shuteye as we make our way to Oviedo and his first Camino.