Got up at 6 this morning with my manly German roommates. Popped out my ear plugs, swung down off my bunk, and headed into breakfast, which was just some toast and coffee in the main room with maybe 15 other pilgrims, mostly German. A German girl across from me offered me some of her tomato to spruce up my bread, a girl named Sabina. Then a girl from London named Stephanie sat next to me. Both have walked at least a couple of stages of the Camino before, which is reassuring. That people would want to come back. And in fact, when the lot heard that today was my first day of walking, I received much encouragement myself.
And thus, I was very excited to begin. I left them at 7:30, which really is too late. Tomorrow I’m up at 6, out by 7 at the latest.
Where there had been crowds of tapas-eaters the night before, there was naught but peaceful silence as I tentatively found and followed the arrows for the first time through and out of Pamplona. Cool breezes ushered me out of the city, and I was hesitant but excited as the city turned into university campus turned into country lane with rustling wheat on either side and the last of the Pyrenees in the distance.
Hardly a naturally observant person and not used to having my path laid out for me, I lost my arrows in the first semi-town I came to, so I awkwardly followed two young Spanish guys to a little church, and post-sunscreen application, we all went off to find the Camino together.
My first walking buddies! They were two guys from the south of Spain just done with their first year at University. Maybe I was a little overeager, because only one spoke English and of course I don't speak Spanish. And as it didn’t occur to me to speak slowly and clearly, he had to ask me to slow down as we talked. Felt foolish about that. But they were nice, interested in hearing about Paris and my disasters with Madame, and I in turn got to hear about the lovely little medieval town on the Portuguese border the one was from. For a 19 year old to be so proud of the little town he grew up in.. well, I think it's rather sweet.
Soon enough the terrain got rockier and more wooded, and their long legs left me behind. My next conversation was with a pair of cheerful French women, who were surprisingly delighted that I spoke French. Imagine that. And of course it felt nice to hear and speak French--I'm rather used to having it droning in the background at all times, and all this Spanish is making my head spin.
The two women passed me by and I began the first haul up the hill. It offered outstanding vies of windmill-topped mountains and rolling fields and tiny towns in the distance. It was also difficult. I felt the burn. Oh, did I ever. So, about halfway up when it flattened a bit and I discovered a bench, I decided to stop for a trail mix break. There I met up with Sabina again, and we've been walking together ever since.
As I was saying before, Sabina walked the last 2 stages of the Camino last summer and was back to do the rest, so she had some good advice. My favorite was a story about the four pilgrimages, the four paths of the world. Apparently there is a legend that there are four ways, the pilgrimage to Santiago, to Rome, to Jerusalem, and another in Asia I didn't recognize. And each is called by a certain symbol--the Camino is the way of the sword, for instance. And apparently, if you walk all four then a fifth will become known to you. One out of this world, if you will. A spiritual path. A lovely idea.
The top of the hill, that is, of Alto de Perdon (the mountain of forgiveness), was most difficult to get to. My body is not quite used to such physical exertion yet. We pushed on though--crying out in four languages. It was, of course, unbelievably worth the effort, for the top afforded astounding views of... well all I said before, only more of it, and even more beautiful. And with more sky. And the icy wind all around. And little old Pamplona off in the distance.
But best of all was the famous pilgrim's sculpture, the two dimensional outline of all of us, or so it seemed, holding ourselves together, the wind whipping around (the wind was unbelievable) as we climbed up the last of the hill.
The statue really reminded me of how many people have walked the same path, and that it was not just a day's hike. I wasn't going to walk back down now and get in the car like I did when I went to Colorado with friends a few summers back. Nope, I had to go on.
Did I mention it was windy? The wind was astounding. I found out later that apparently there was even a vacuum, though I didn't know at the time, and this Belgian guy named Geronimo told me you could hang out over the edge with your pack on and not fall, supported by the icy breeze alone. He said he hung out taking turns for an hour. I, however, was cold, so I ate some more trail mix and Sabina and I began the descent. After taking pictures in front of the statues, of course, holding on for dear life so as not to be blown away.
The Way led, well down of course then, very sharply indeed. And my poor toes were starting to ache. I tried to appreciate my first and probably only (relatively) pain free day though. And golly, it was all so beautiful.
Gradually the hill flattened out and we came upon more and more (and more beautiful) fields of wheat as well as vineyards--and cherry trees. We came up to an unmanned table where cherries straight from the fields were for sale, and Sabina and I bought a bag of the best cherries, not to mention the BIGGEST cherries, that I have ever eaten (and I have eaten my fair share of cherries). As we approached, a man came straight out of the field to greet us, and for a few minutes just went on and on in Spanish, weighing out the cherries, giving us the cherries, watching us begin to eat the cherries. I didn't understand a word. How much better is happy incoherence than stubborn, unfriendly comprehension? I do not miss you Paris.
I few kilometers down the road we met up with a few of Sabina's acquaintances from the previous two days through the mountains. Keeping in mind that I'm terrible with names... there were two German women who seemed nice but who don't seem to speak any English, two German men, one who was quiet and another more talkative chap who's probably younger than I and who has spent most of his life in Scotland. Then Geron, the Belgian I mentioned, as well as a guy from Seattle who seemed very mellow. There aren't so many Americans on the trail, at least not so far, and though it's good being special, it was still a pleasure to run into a fellow countryman. I hope we meet again.
Sabina and I joined their table, of course. It was a nice half hour of drinks and languages and spitting out cherry pits. I didn't even buy any lunch. Didn't really talk much either--was just content to enjoy and absorb. And the little rumble of hunger is almost pleasing, I find. Hunger and happy ache and happiness. Plus, it's my turn to slim down and meet an engineer and move to Australia, is it not? Not that I am being foolish about it. And not that that is the reason why I am here, to lose weight. In fact it's dinner time now, time to hobble down the hill and find a pilgrim's menu. More later.
Later:
Picking up where I left off...
After the half hour break with the group and the cherry pits, we all set out at different paces. Sabina and I began to drudge--to drudge I tell you. We drudged and trudged up and down, in and out, over and through. And after hours... and hours... and hours of thinking one town was Puente la Reina and then the next--it must be the next, it must--we finally pulled into the narrow streets of our destination... only to discover that the albergue we had chosen (rumors of a pool were in circulation) was on the far side of town, over the bridge, and up the most sadistic hill in existence. I suppose they wanted to offer their guests arresting views of the city and the countryside. This guest, however, only wanted a bed and maybe some juice and a shower. My legs were numb, my body ready to just shut the freak down when thankthelord... we made it.
I collapsed into a stool at the bar, suddenly very proud for having completed my first day, and the patient gentleman behind the bar took my credencial and gave my my very first sello--stamp. As he did I weakly sipped a glass of water and filled out my little attendance card (I was so tired I wrote my last name twice). Then for the best part--a bed, from which I now write. The albergue here is very large indeed, and very open. Perhaps it would be like a large cattle car, sans privacy and most unpleasant, in other circumstances, but since it is so empty it is rather nice. Very clean. Though expensive at 8 euro a night. But, well, there is a pool, which I did not use.
It took me a half hour just to get up the energy to shower, though in fact by this time, rehydrated and out of the sun, I was feeling better than alright. And the shower was so very nice. A shower where you really have to scrub to get clean has some sort of special integrity in it, does it not?
Sabina and I talked much both before and after dinner. She is a big gamer, a total nerd really, which is a relief. She even knows about Killer Bunnies! Just think--KB on many continents. I must remember to tell Tony this.
There was also a lovely woman that Sabina knew near us--a French woman named Genevieve. The two of them had walked through the Pyrenees together, even though Sabina speaks no French and Genevieve barely any English. Genevieve had managed to secure for herself a little room off the main room in the albergue, and she kept saying to us in her thick accent, "Come into my house!" When she found out I spoke some French she was delighted, and then found she could actually talk through me to Sabina a bit, even. I was very touched to be able to help these two friends, who up until this point could barely speak to one another, finally communicate with language a bit. Now that is a good reason to know a foreign language.
Darn, I'm out of time to write. Still not done with my story though. I really should have just abbreviated all of this, but well, with me it's either all or nothing. And now it's 10pm and sleep time. I am tucked away in my little sleeping bag, and the snoring has begun. No more light to write by anyway. Shall continue tomorrow.
Continued the next day
Okay, so, Sabina and I went down to dinner last night as I told you, crossing first the beautiful puente, or bridge. Voici le pont:
Once crossed, but before we ate, we decided to check out the couple of choice Romanesque churches in town. Humble structures they seemed to the cathedrals I have frequented of late. Each had a rounded tower and wind-swept sculptures on the doorways. I have come to Spain to see these sculptures, I really have.
Then of course, when you step inside and expect only cool darkness, instead you are met with gold--so much gold. In the bigger church there was gold everywhere, the entire eastern face from floor to ceiling--gold. Elaborate altars and altarpieces, statues of saints, and so much ornamentation it looks like a wall of golden lace. Not at all like France, where the churches I went to at least were more like monuments. But as we all know, the Spanish take their religion a little more seriously.
The statue of James in the main church was also pretty great--one does see him so often along the Camino, it is as though he's walking with you. Leading you. They also had a fabulous Mary and child where both were were dressed in the height of late eighteenth century fashion, just like Marie Antoinette and little Louis XVII before the peasants ran out of bread.
After the shock and awe of the churches, we got an okay pilgrim's menu dinner at a random restaurant and talked about many things until it was time to scuddle back up the hill to make our 10pm curfew. I was very interested in what Sabina had to say though, especially when she was talking about remembering the day the Berlin wall came down, how it was like her country was whole again, what it was like seeing families reunited after so many years. She also told me she thought the Germans were far more closed and closed minded than the Spanish--and that their number one fault is that they can not get over their past. I was, for once, completely silent as she spoke, because how could I possible agree with the suggestion that we forget such horrible things? But at the same time, how do you look at a young woman born fifty years after that era and tell her she is still personally responsible? And anyway, how could one person pay? So I guess I was moved--and stayed silent.
Like I said, dinner was only okay, though we did get to coo at a mulleted baby toddling around the establishment throughout. Then limp limp limp... back up the hill. In bed by ten, asleep by ten fifteen. And like I said, life is good.
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