Category: Feet – Body

A Camino Myth

“What the hell happened to your feet?”

I heard it in many different ways, in varying degrees of disgust and revulsion, in multiple languages, with an array of accents and all kinds of “surprise.” My fellow peregrinos stick their noses where they don’t belong, playing doctors when I’ve seen no credentials of the sort. I’ve noticed a trend. Middle-aged men questioning my ability to care for myself.. sound familiar? Pretending to take an interest in a young girl with fucked up feet only to mark their territory as they frequently do.. like taking a piss on every tree in the park. At least these douchebags aren’t staring at my breasts, right?

Even a few stylish women sipping wine in the early afternoon join in on the fun. Gripping the stems of their lip-stick-wine glasses with white knuckles only to slam them onto the table with a thud.

They gap at the floor, wide-eyed. “Well, shit, don’t break the glass now,” I think to myself, “that would be a waste.” For a moment, I hope that it’s my whole ascetic that raises alarm. Unfortunately, it’s just my ugly feet. The gaggle of grey haired women, groomed and combed, each take a turn to reveal their shocked faces and pearl earrings.

With good intentions, I’m sure, they remind me of how vile my feet are, even after I’ve assured them that I feel no pain and after they’ve covered their gasping mouths with manicured nails. And I’m left wondering why the hell anyone cares. If they cared, maybe they’d make an appointment for me to get a pedicure.

“Are those the only shoes you have..?” I reply, “Yes.”
I can’t help but crack a smile.

(I know some of you peregrines have some gnarly blisters hiding in those boots. It must be easy to take the piss on someone with bare feet. Although, for your sake, I hope your feet are smooth as a baby’s bottom, fresh-out-of-the-oven. In short, I hope they aren’t as ugly as mine.)

To be fair, they are as bad as they look. Heads turn when I’m caught clipping skin as thick as toenails with a pair of cuticle scissors and scraping away at the mud under the surface with my bare hands. Maybe I should become an archeologist, or a brain surgeon.

My sandals make it difficult to hide the distress of my feet, collaged in bandaids and stained by la tierra of the Rioja hills. They have become unrecognizable. Only pink scars remain, thicker than the Dove-smooth skin that has been caressed many times before. But don’t be fooled by their distress, I imagine myself dancing to Santiago during the remaining stretches without any need to dress my bare feet. Calloused and tanned, they will be liberated from their bandages, tasting the sunshine for the very first time. My only worry is that no soul will dare to suck on my toes in the meantime.

As for the shoes themselves, I suppose that they’ve seen brighter days. And still, I love them to pieces. Their once Starry Starry Night violet muted by the leftover dirt from the South of France. The dirt reminds me of our days together. We are a team. But seeing as though they can’t wrap my feet for me, I acknowledge my responsibility to care for them. And I will admit that my half-assed care on occasion has left me with blisters ranging from quarter to dime-sized wounds in decedent shades of new flesh. They’re tough, but they deserve better.

Feet, I will do right by you.

Sandals, you sparkle with the promise of a new day of walking, the mud, the blood, the beer and tears. And despite the recent downpours and flooded pathways, my little treasures, you cannot be cleaned. I fear that holy water can’t even help you. I like you this way.

—

It pours. The walk to Estella is an overcast sky. Water slips inside my raincoat and my skin dampens with dew. It’s fucking cold. The bitter drops laugh at me, and I decide to laugh with them. Even on the rainiest day, I can’t imagine doing anything but cussing in the cold. “One foot in front of the other,” I tell myself. “Jacquelyn is here. And there will be wine, god dammit.” My soiled toes kiss the rain and press on, enlivened by the promise of a drink. “Oh, the silly things I do for a glass of wine.”

We seek refuge in a cafe. Rain pelting the roof. It grows more ferocious by the second. Fuck, it’s cold. The last 20 minutes of the walk was spent taking about wine, mostly about how badly I wanted it.
Now that I have finally have it in my hands, I can hardly enjoy it without shivering. “Fuck it,” I say, and upstairs to the bathroom I went, where I stood underneath the hair-dryer despite the Swedish woman’s persistent knocking on the door. “She’ll get her turn,” I assure myself. “And if I freeze to death, she never will.”

I was confronted by an English man once I slumped downstairs after spending a selfish amount of time and electricity under the hairdryer. He appeared, with a large, wooden staff and camouflage raincoat. Military-strong, the army ranger/backpacker, I call him, told me that my feet were the ugliest damn creatures on earth, as they all do. He’s not special.

I told him my famous short-story.. “Yes, these are the only shoes I have. No, they don’t hurt. Yes, I’ve been told how to treat my blisters, so long and thanks for all the fish.” And then, his eyes grew two sizes larger as he said, “Oh my god. You’re a Camino Myth.” And I asked, “I am?” He told me that he’s already heard of me. “You’re the young-ish, American girl who’s walking the whole Camino in a pair of sandals.” He looked at my feet again before speaking, like he had just found something that he’d lost, “This older guy named Syd told me that he met a girl with dead skin flapping off the side of her sandals and walking in a great deal of pain.”

“Yeah, well, fuck Syd,” I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that this character, Syd, is a god damn liar. I wanted to tell him that he’s found the wrong girl. This girl feels no pain at all. If I ever meet Syd, I’ll tell him, “Hey, Syd, this girl walked 45 kilometers with her bloody feet from hell and water-logged sandals without uttering a single complaint.” Instead, I told the army ranger, “Well, the next time you hear someone talking about my feet, you can tell them that I was attacked by a pack of ravenous wolves, buen Camino!” And then Jacquelyn and I headed out for our final march in the rain to Estella.

(Later, this same guy pretends he’s my dad. “You know, I have two daughters about your age. Smoking cigarettes is bad.” No shit, asshole.)

What I didn’t have to explain is that I am a warrior. (And I smoke on occasion.) All who travel the Camino beware. I am a Camino Myth. And everything you hear is true.

My feet are fucked up, and who the hell cares?

Also, keep your eyes pealed for the funny, German guy who sleeps in the woods every night, rain or shine. I haven’t met him yet, but I hear that he is a Camino Myth too.