June 21st -- Puente la Reina to Estella

Today? Today was hard. My joy comes not from having seen and done many wonderful things today--though I did--and here are a few:


...but instead it comes from being here, alive, and willing to walk on tomorrow. That in itself is a miracle. Now, after a three hour plus nap, my body is angry but at least compliant, my spirit a little stronger, but my feet. Oh God, my feet. So many blisters. My left foot is one big blistery pulp--in fact the entire little toe of my left foot is one big blister. It was hell today out there, beautiful wonderful hell, and I am beginning to get very scared--these blisters will only get worse, and I don't know what else to do other than to take pain killers and walk on, grinding my teeth and limping. And discussing it with other pained pilgrims now and then. Many Estella peregrinos have come to my aid already, with compeed blister plasters (check the new vocabulary) and ointments and the like.

But anyway. I left in the company of Sabina again this morning. She is a little intense, but I did in fact appreciate the company, especially because I feel I am still learning the ropes here somehow. We left late again though, after another extended breakfast with Dormian, the German-Scottish guy from yesterday, a nice Scottish girl with a smile like Keira Knighty whose name of course I no longer remember, and a few others.


The beginning of the walk was steep but beautiful, with wooded trails winding slowly around sheer rock faces full of morning sunlight. I even had the tenacity to try running up one of the hills, just to beat it into terrestrial submission--no wonder I am so freaking sore, teaching land forms lessons.


Eventually the terrain flattened out into rolling hills of wheat rustling uncapturable in the breeze under a perfectly blue sky complete with white fluffy clouds and, always, mountains in the distance. But the pain. Oh the pain. Pain like I've never in my life felt before. For the beginning it was almost a twisted blessing. The pain in my foot kept me focused. All I could do was streamline my thoughts into a mantra of putting one foot in front of the other at a slow... steady... pace. It was almost a meditative state. No distractions, no thinking about people or places or random details, just a purifying pain. Pain and the path and fields of wheat and a blue, blue sky.

Stopped for lunch in a little town on a hill that was most beautiful. And as a picture is worth a thousand words, here are two:

But after lunch the pain got worse. Until it wasn't helpful anymore. Not even the Roman road on which we were walking was interesting enough to take my mind off the pain. And one by one everyone I recognized passed me by. Then others I had never seen before, from earlier towns even. And so I guess I am beginning to really learn some humility here. My mind, so used to racing, says speed up speed up speed up! And my body, out of shape but so alive and invigorated by the exercise agrees--says yes! speed up! do!

But my feet. Oh God my feet. They say die! DIE DIE DIE!

And so I trudged slowly, limping more and more slowly toward Estella. Things got a little better in Villafranca, the last real town before Estella, after they had gotten much worse, of course. Sabina had finally come to her senses and left me behind. And I was limping at a snail's pace, whispering at one point under my breath "I can't... I... I can't. I just... I can't. I can't." But just when I was convinced that I could go no farther, I looked up mid-mantra, and there hanging in the rear window of a car was a logo from what I now think is a Spanish bank or something. All I knew then, though, was that it read "Can".



So... I could. I took the hint and it got me to the town square where I found a bench and promptly collapsed, temporarily of course. After a bit of a hobo snooze I swapped out my sneakers for flat leather sandals, the kind that are all the rage in Paris. They, of course, offered no support and were painful in other ways, but at least they left my many blisters alone. Thus clad I was temporarily invigorated again and limp/jogged the next few kilometers, eager to get to the finish line like the last marathon runner coming in at last. For some reason, my joy was high--how could it not be though, walking in the dust as Christ and the desert fathers did, in flat leather sandals.

Of course, unlike the last marathon runner, my finish line was still far, far ahead by the time my joy ran out. And there was no encouraging crowd cheering me on--I was very much alone. And I was on the verge of praying for a miracle (me, praying) when the little church in the distance became the little church just off the path. There were so many little hermitages and shrines and crosses on every hilltop--if I had the time and the energy I could spend years visiting them all. But this one actually connected to the path almost, after hours and hours of nothing but fields, a little shed here and there, and every few hours a town.

Even with the situation so dire, I took the hint and began to limp up the gravel path toward what I found out was the Hermitage of Saint Michael the Archangel. The sign was in Spanish, but I gleaned enough information to know it was Romanesque and that all the sculpture had been carted off to a museum long ago. Even so, it held a strange allure. And after a mess of picnic tables, with trash strewn about most irreligiously, there it was before me, stark and mysterious. Just solid gray stone without window or ornamentation.

I don't know what I was looking for, the sculpture long gone, but I limped around the back.. and there I found a door. Or rather, a door-sized opening in the stone. And yeah, I admit I was kind of scared. The hermitage was welcoming me, and yet part of me feared, what.. brigands or something, who knows. Rowdy gangs of angsty Basque adolescents hanging out and waiting for solitary female pilgrims, too exhausted to put up a fight. No, that fear would almost make sense. What I was afraid of was ghosts.

Almost delirious (apparently), I stood just outside and asked aloud.. Hola? I admit, I feared a ghostly response--some medieval hermit still tending the altar perhaps. Unfortunately, there wasn't one. So I stepped inside.

The change was immediate.. dark and quiet and cool. No gold at the altar this time though. In fact, all there was was an altar, who knows how old, and on it flowers both dead and alive as well as notes and messages I did not read out of respect. I was blown away by the humility of the place, but still rather frightened. I am not used to being so alone, and maybe that made me assume I had company of another sort. So, feeling it was best, I knelt down, pack and all, and curled up into a sort of ball like a turtle in her shell, the pack over me, my forehead nearly touching the floor.

And I just sat quietly for a while. Listening to my heart beat and hearing my aching muscles cry out. I tried to listen to my mind as well, but it seemed to be moving too fast. I am not so good at sitting still inside, especially when expecting to open my eyes and see a tonsured 12th century monk kneeling beside me. Although we all know that would have been the best thing to ever happen to me. At the time though, I really didn't want it to.

After a few minutes of huddled repose I stood again, very slowly, and left respectfully, speaking Gracias into the silence before I stepped outside into the sunshine--still no response. The entire event seemed kind of like a gift to me personally. The place was built by who knows who in who knows when for who knows why--I'm certain it is a lovely story. And the place has been there saving pilgrims from the mid-afternoon heat for almost a millennium. But even so, at that moment it was like it had been built for me alone. And I was grateful.

The remainder of my journey today was long--much, much longer than I expected--and I was very much alone. It was long and rocky and I in flat sandals, and though I thought it to be impossible, walking was growing steadily harder. Like I said, Sabina had left me behind. Hell, I had left me behind. Sorrow. Defeat. I didn't literally think to stop. I mean, I was going on. Where else would I go? I would have to walk to Estella just to tell someone that I didn't want to walk to Estella. So at least that part of my endurance was untouchable--I wasn't going to quit or anything. A part of me untouched by mere physical fatigue remained calm.

But then... even that began to give way. And I became sad--so, so sad. So hurt and hurting. So afraid suddenly of infection, of injury, and with no end to the pain in sight, even if I did reach Estella. One hill led to another, one stony descent to another stony descent. Then buildings began to appear and I thought--I am so close! But then I realized these buildings weren't part of a town, they were just there, hanging out, scattered in the river valley for one reason or another--but mostly to fill me with false hope. Even the graffiti in this stretch was unfriendly: TOURIST! it read in English, YOU ARE NOT IN SPAIN. FREEDOM FOR BASQUE COUNTRY!

Then cars began to come out of nowhere on this country lane and to pass me one the dusty road, spitting up clouds and choking me with exhaust. A poor horse stood tied up in the sun, flies clustered around his eyes, and there was nothing I could do for him but to pat him on the nose. A few late coming pilgrims passed me. Sabina, who had stopped for lunch, caught up and then left me behind. And then there was no one for a very long time. I sat alone for a time on a metal rail and watched two mares and two foals frolic in the field below--and they seemed very far away.


Eventually the two non-English speaking German women I had met the day before came along, and I honestly don't know if I would have ever made it to Estella if it weren't for following them. They didn't do anything, even. But I managed to force myself to keep going as long as they were in eyesight. And at last I was in Estella. I saw a sign for the albergue I though I heard Sabina say she would probably choose (they were staffed by an organization for the mentally handicapped, which seemed a good cause). I managed to make it to the front door, take out my credencial, smile weakly, pay the fee, follow the man into the bedroom, and to bid Sabina hello before I collapsed into oblivion for well over three hours.

I woke up only twice, once after a man came in to offer us what turned out to be the best straight-from-the-oven doughnuts I have ever eaten. The taste lingered pleasantly in my mouth for hours. And you know, I have no idea what was in that doughnut, because the second time I woke up I was cured. Well, not physically. I'm learning the hard way that no one is ever in perfect health on the Camino. But spiritually I was and am okay. And the fact that I am okay, actually looking forward to another crisp and cool morning, made me so happy then. I found myself smiling into the pillow, the stale taste of doughnut in my mouth, even with Sabina groaning miserably in the bunk below.

Actually, I should differentiate between happiness, which is what, a pleasant feeling? A nice euphoria? But you can be happy without doing anything to deserve it, no? I could be happy without ever having done the Camino. But if you do the Camino, it seems you bypass happiness and go on to joy. A happiness you've earned for yourself. And there is a difference. I had been through so much pain--enough to make me think I couldn't possibly go on. But in fact three hours and change later I was somehow ready to go again. Humans, or at least this human, are such strange and masochistic creatures. The best time of the day on the Camino is between seven and eleven in the morning, when it is still rather cool, and I look forward to leaving tomorrow... even with the blisters.

Eventually, the afternoon long gone, I got up and showered and Sabina and I went to find some dinner together, the only rule being it had to be within a five minute radius of the albergue, for I could walk no farther. Fortunately, just down the hill we found Michael the Austrian, who I don't think I had met before but who Sabina knew, again, from her two days in the mountains. His travel companion went home today with severe food poisoning from some mysterious source, apparently he fell and gashed himself open real good, had to be rushed to the hospital, and is now on his way back to Austria. Knowing that he was feeling sad and lonely because he was to make his Camino alone, Sabina asked if we could dine with him. And we did.

The entree was delicious, the main course alright, the service terrible, and the conversation wonderful. We talked about life and what have you in English and German, enjoying the simple pleasure (now put drastically into perspective) of a nice tall glass of red wine. I wasn't overjoyed, not pain free, but it went well enough. And then we limped back up the hill to the albergue, which was staffed by friendly doughnut-offering people, even if it was kind of icky and lacking any real character. As I mentioned at the beginning, there were a bunch of people sitting around talking about various aches and pains. I saw Stephanie from London there again--and her blisters were worse than mine if you can believe it. Put things a bit more into perspective. Why do bad blisters happen to good people? Why?

So that's where I am--pain and joy and pain. And it's real joy--for once in my life I can give myself over to it without feeling foolish because hell, I have earned it. The pain, though I don't know what to do about it and wish it were long gone, well it at least makes the joy real.

June 20th -- Pamplona to Puente la Reina

My life. Is so. Amazing. Where to begin? What to write? I have half an hour to jot down as much as I can before I head back down into the town below--crossing the famous pilgrim’s bridge in the process-—for dinner with my new friend Sabina.

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.

June 19th: En Route to Pamplona

Well, I've left. I--Have--Left. Left Paris, that is, where I have been studying since February. My train is streaming through the suburbs to Irun on the Northern coast of Spain, where I will transfer to another train and be on my way to Pamplona and the start of my journey. I fear this book is to by my main, if not only, companion for the next month, so prepare thyself for many tiresome updates.

"Regarde, Papa, regarde!" says the little boy in front of me, the only soul speaking in this car. Why are French children so cute? Ah, well. So yesterday was Professor Langer's goodbye party for all us students in the Bois de Vincennes, and it was nice but awkward, of course. Jenn and I left at 4:30 or so, and she then accompanied me on my last evening in Paris, which was pleasant. Maybe not something I will cherish until the end of my days, but nice enough for some closure.

Left the Bois we did, and then headed over to the Rue des Ecoles first, to get me a last-minute poncho before the 37,000 Au Vieux Campeur stores closed. Next we headed back up to Shakespeare's so I could get an English-language traveling book. I chose The Three Musketeers: it seemed high adventure and some serious swashbuckling was in order. On the way, we walked the Rue St. Jacques, the street I have always assumed was the Camino out of the city as Paris used to be, of course, a major starting point for the pilgrimage. And you know what? Even though I've walked it a million times before, up on a wall above some tourist shop I found what I'm pretty sure was a scallop shell sundial. Maybe not, but I took it as a sign nevertheless.

After Shakespeare's I paid my final respects in front of Notre Dame, and we then headed back up past Rue des Ecoles to find a cafe in the Latin Quarter. We found a popular but only moderately picturesque cafe on Rue Descartes, where I enjoyed my last glass of wine. Next door was an unassuming pita restaurant, where we got falafel for dinner. I had expected that to be all the ceremony I needed, but it seemed I was not quite ready to say goodbye yet, so we went up and over the hill to Rue Mouffetard for a nutella and banana crepe then, which we ate by the fountain, amongst the students and the tourists.

Oozing Nutella, we then walked to Cardinal Lemoine to board the metro and bid a somewhat sad goodbye where the no. 4 splits and Jenn goes south towards Porte d'Orleans and I north to Porte de Cligancourt. I then caught the 1 at Chatalet because I wanted to bid farewell to the Arc de Triomphe and make the slow walk down the hill home, weighed down by 15 lbs. of kinder chocolate with which to line my suitcase.

And as I walked I made my peace, even got a little sad, actually. Goodbye FNAC! I said, I shall miss your four floors of technological and librarial goodness. Goodbye overpriced brasseries full of beautiful French people. Goodbye movie theatre that usually plays crap but once had an Audrey Hepburn marathon that filled my weekend. Goodbye sushi restaurants I never tried but always meant to. Goodbye green scaffolding and metal and wood boards plugging up the holes in the sidewalk from construction work I've never seen anyone work on. Goodbye post office on the corner, little market livrasion with sketchy fruit on display down the street. Goodbye left turn, Rue Laugier, with your sidewalks plugged up by old ladies or nannies with small children. Goodbye tiny cars parked haphazardly on street corners or perpendicularly with their back wheels up over the curb, no tickets on the dash. Goodbye green gate, gate code, courtyard with slippery stone and a strange fountain. Goodbye buzzing door, elevator the size of a coffin, checking my makeup in the mirror inside. Goodbye light switches two feet off the ground. Goodbye opening the door slowly so Madame won't wake up and offer me fruit juice 87 times. Goodbye hallway, bedroom, broken bed. Goodbye window with automatic shutter as loud as an oncoming train. Goodbye sleeping in a comfortable Goodbye... goodbye Paris! You were awful mean to me at times, but I came to love you in my own way by the end.

Well I guess I have made my peace with my departure. I've got all I need to survive for a month in Spain in a pack I can run with stashed on a luggage rack -- a most freeing feeling. Soon enough I shall be training through the Pyrenees, and well, life is pretty good. I am starving though... never thought about food. Well, dining car here I come...

(9:35pm in Pamplona)

WHAT a successful day! I've already had such an adventure--as well as realized just how green I am at all of this. And that being green can be dangerous. But since it is too late to regret my mistakes, let me explain instead.

First of all, that cute French child in the seat in front of me was not actually cute at all. He terrorized me for five hours and his dad didn't seem to care. So, I was tired and crabby by the time we pulled into Irun.

Stepping off the train the obvious struck me: Holy crap, they speak Spanish in Spain. And I speak zero Spanish. How am I going to survive this? And when I couldn't figure out which train was stopping in Pamplona, not that there were many options, I began to panic a little bit. That's me--always stressed. But of course someone helped me eventually and I was on my way then, up and over mountains, and sometimes even with views of the ocean, all of it shadowed with a gray mist.

Miraculously the clouds parted and the rain stopped as we pulled into Pamplona, and I started my trek to the main albergue (pilgrim hostel) in the humidity with a light foot. First impression was that Spain is much more colorful than France. One bridge I saw, for instance, was strung like a loom with many colored objects, which turned out to be plastic bottles in a recycling campaign--something so beautiful and so humble and so not-ever-going-to-happen in France.

I was nervous walking up my first hill into the old city, feeling the burn, the weight of my pack, my shortness of breath, etc. Wondering if I was up to the challenge. Then I got mad lost, first of my own accord as I had time to be lost and didn't much mind wandering through the winding medieval streets. But you know, eventually it stopped being fun. Or funny. My map was for the Camino alone and hardly sufficient, and I could not for the life of me find the albergue. It seemed like the place where it was marked on the map was not just a skeletal structure covered in scaffolding, most vacant. So I walked around and around hoping it would appear... up and over and around the city's many hills, and for some time... around and around and around... before I finally got up the courage to ask a Spanish woman loading a box into the trunk of her car if she knew where it was.

Miraculously, the woman I chose spoke a pretty British English, if only to tell me that the building I was searching for was in fact a working construction area, and that maybe I could find help at the cathedral, and that she didn't know how I would survive the Camino with the insufficient maps I had. But of course when I got to the cathedral, it too was closed.

You know, all I needed was a pilgrim's passport, a credencial, the official document that gets stamped at each town you sleep in to prove you've walked that day. I had read you could get one at the main albergue in town. When it came to sleeping though I did have reservations at a hostel god knows where in the city. But I figured if I were to go and find it it would take half the night, and then if I spent the morning searching for the credencial, I would lose half a day's walking. Not a pleasant thought.

So I decided to wander in the direction of another albergue, most vaguely marked on my Camino maps, and as I walked I would try and calm down and make a rational decision. But things were looking grim. I couldn't find the other place, the sun was beginning to set, I didn't freaking know where to go, and honestly I was just wandering aimlessly trying not to panic... and then. Then an elderly Spanish gentleman started rambling at me. In Spanish. My first instinct was to pull a Paris and say no hablo espanol and run off, but then I realized.. I knew what he was saying. I heard the word peregrino--pilgrim. He was asking me if I was a pilgrim, and if he could help me find my way.

And so for the first time I was able to say yes--si--I was am a peregrino. And so with a combination of Spanish (him), English (me), and French (us) he was able to tell me that there was a little white roofed German albergue down in the river valley. "Casa... house... il y a... blanca *point, point*" he said, and sure enough, down below there was white roof, easy enough to get to. I thanked him, and he seemed so happy to help, which melted my cold Parisian heart then and there.

I was alive, I wasn't stuffed into some closet in a shady Pamplona bar somewhere, and in fact soon I was to be safe... and what is more, random Spanish people were going out of their way to help me! And so I went literally skipping down the hill. There was an awkward encounter at the door -- a nice looking German lad around my age said hello to me, and his open welcome confused me. I thought maybe he worked there, and I rambled the question to him in energetic, I've-just-run-down-into-a-river-valley English. Turns out he did not say hello, he said hallo, which is German. And he barely spoke English. And he didn't work there. And he thought I was crazy. Great first impression Rachael--turns out pilgrims really are that friendly.

I didn't expect anything more than my credencial and directions to the hostel of course, but when I stepped inside I was offered a chair and some juice--and a bed as well. I was so relieved I didn't have to go back and try to find the hostel, but more relieved I didn't have to leave the world of the Camino, with its warm welcomes and (sometimes) English-speaking-German crowd. I didn't even care that my bed was in the male dorm, although certain roommates did not appreciate my presence there. But so it was, I was safe and happy.

Leaving my pack behind, I bounded back up the hill for a sandwich and a peek at the street named in my man Hemingway's honor. In fact there was even a bust statue of him in front of the bull fighting stadium. I laughed, took a picture.

I then happened to find a little store run by an asian-spanish couple that sold watches with alarms, which I needed. I walked in tentatively--so used to the instant grimace of Parisian faces--but instead I was met with smiles. In Pamplona, in the middle of the touristy area, and at closing time no less, I smiled and said.. brace yourself.. "Yo necessito.. *points at wrist*, pero.." and then I made the most god-awful alarm clock noise you're ever heard in your life. I did.

The woman laughed and repeated my noise back to me, and then reached under the counter and began to pull out a number of exactly what I needed. I picked out one, but puzzled by how to set it, her husband took it out of the box and did it for me, set the time, the date, even the alarm for 6am per my request. I was so flipping grateful--again. And I couldn't help beaming as I blended back into the streets of Pamplona.

The streets were full of happy tapas eaters, sporting an unsettling amount of mullets. I chose to think it a Basque thing. And as much as I would like to pass an evening tapas-crawling through the streets of Pamplona with friends, maybe I liked knowing I was on the verge of doing something entirely different better. I had been branded a pilgrim. I was set apart from the mulleted masses now. I had a purpose and a challenge that begins tomorrow, and a bed in a room with older, smelly German men waiting for me in the valley below.

Pilgrim. The title comes even now with a spiritual significance even though I haven't walked anywhere yet. And I am trying to learn how to see others as pilgrims do, as that German lad I made an ass of myself in front of earlier saw me. A... team member, I guess. An equal, with whom one can talk despite differences in country, sex, language, age, or what have you. It's been awkward so far. I'm not a very open person, or at least not with strangers. Not used to having polite conversation with strange German men in their underwear. But I'll learn.

Said strange German man is actually the author of one of the German guide books. A "professional peregrino" he called himself. He also said not to worry, most people do accomplish their camino. So I won't. Worry, that is. Instead I'll try to fall asleep at 10 before the sun goes down, listening to the frogs babbling outside my window, sitting in the river that runs right next to the house. Not me, the frogs. So lovely.

Goodnight.

The Camino de Santiago

All over Europe, the discontent are stirring. They leave their homes, hop on trains or planes--some just walk out their front doors, putting their lives in the hands of God, or Fate, or the Spirit of Adventure. They are seeking something more than what their lives have provided them—something spiritually significant in a dry, rational world, which they can then bring home to give their lives greater significance.

In the summer of 2009, just finishing up a semester of studying in Paris, I joined the ranks of the seeking discontent and found my way to the Camino de Santiago (The Way of St. James), a thousand-year-old pilgrimage veining its way across Western Europe and through Northern Spain to Santiago de Compostela in the far Western reaches of what, in the Middle Ages, was considered the known world.

As they say: this is my story.

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The urge to leave our complex and busy lives--frustratingly rooted in wealth and goods—is a sympathetic urge for many living in today’s rational, irreverent, commercial society. In fact, leaving worldly things behind has long been a part of the Catholic religion that so influenced European culture, and I’d like to think my own American culture as well. As early as the late Roman Empire, a small number of Christians were unhappy with the way their newly-accepted religion was being incorporated into a more worldly mainstream society. In the East, they followed the example of hermits like St. Anthony and made their way into the wilderness of the Egyptian desert. These were the first Christian monks, the "Desert Fathers" who sought a clearer connection to God, free from the distractions of everyday life. A pilgrim can identify with these guys.

Still, a move to the desert does more than remove distraction. Theoretically, a person may “de-clutter” his or her life without leaving home—by changing his or her lifestyle, quitting a stressful job, or by breaking ties with less than desirable companions. “Going out into the desert”, however—which for me became a symbol of my own pilgrimage through the harsh climate of North-Central Spain—also means leaving the unconsecrated ground of everyday existence for a brief walk through sacred territories. The path is a liminal state, a place between worlds, where time seems to stop and we are left to experience something that unifies us as human beings and to learn as much as we can in the few kilometers given to us.

A pilgrimage such as the Camino de Santiago, then, is a particularly effective means of regulating this “place” into a manageable process. The path is laid out for us, so we needn’t worry about where we are going. It’s about trust—on the path, you stop worrying about what decision you want to make next and instead just trust the path will lead you where you want to go. This leaves you with far more time to truly experience life. Jesus, who wandered much like a pilgrim himself, put it best: "Do not worry about tomorrow”, he says, “for tomorrow will care for itself” (Matt 6:34). In doing so, a pilgrim begins to live in the moment, focused, noticing things they have never noticed before. Speaking from experience, such focus brings great peace—the kind you can bring home and experience regularly, with some effort. This is why many people, and more and more every day, are going on pilgrimage.

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But where did this particular pilgrimage come from? Tradition has it that in the period after Jesus' death and before James' martyrdom, James left Jerusalem and made for the Iberian Peninsula, or modern day Portugal and Spain. He spent many years trying to spread the Word to the people there but was met with no success, and eventually he returned to Jerusalem, where the New Testament says he was martyred.

The legend continues. A group of James' disciples spirited away his body in the night, and made it to the sea, where they boarded a small boat and began to drift, borne by the hand of God. And as with what normally happens in stories like these, they drifted until reaching the North-Western coast of, you guessed it, the Iberian peninsula. It seems James, even after his death, had a destiny to fulfill there.

One version of the story says that just off the coast their little boat got caught in a storm, and the body of the saint was washed overboard. It was borne over the waves by a bed of scallop shells which miraculously brought it to shore, where his disciples found him. They took him inland and buried him, and everybody forgot about James for a long, long time.

Hundreds and hundreds of years passed. The Muslim armies came to invade the peninsula and remained there for many years, until, in the ninth century, a spirit of Christian reconquest gripped many in Western Europe, including the mighty Frankish King, Charlemagne. At one decisive battle in the Pyrenees, when things, of course, looked grim for the Christian forces, a gleaming figure appeared overhead. He rode on a white horse high above the men, bearing a standard and leading them into battle, slaying many. Inspired by the vision, the Christian armies overcame their foes, and eventually came to drive the entire Muslim host out of Spain. The white rider they saw of course was Saint James, who was known in the Iberian dialects by this time as Santiago, from a combination of “Santo” and “Iago” (“Santo” meaning saint and “Iago” being the shortened form of the Latin “Iacobus”, which means James). And not long after, the Christians returned, the saint’s remains were found in the little town of Compostela where his disciples had buried them.

Now, I don’t ask you to forget the evils of racism and holy warfare that your grade-school teachers taught you (though it seems a number of our leaders were absent that day). I’m not pretending like the propagation of the cult of Santiago wasn’t at its inception a large bit of propaganda for Christian, in particularly French, influence in Iberia. I also don’t ask you to use your rational mind and believe that these miraculous events actually occurred at a certain time in a certain place. I do, however, ask that you try and understand what such a story meant to the people who lived at this time. That is the only way to understand the Middle Ages, after all. And to the greater population, James, who had long ago set out to convert Spain without success, was finally, after nearly a millennium, seeing his holy mission realized. In doing this, we may understand our own experiences as well, for those who flocked to Compostela in the High Middle Ages often went to experience a freedom and a feeling that modern pilgrims are still seeking today, even with the existence of tourist package-tours and resort-style hospitals that suck out a large percent of the spirituality.

Pilgrims started arriving in the city around 950 C.E, from all over Europe—some with better intentions than others, but nearly all of them seeking something. Men went on foot, on donkeys, or on horseback with entourages. Monks and canons and priests went. Criminals were sentenced to pilgrimage. Bored housewives occasionally saddled horses and bid their husbands adieu. Aging serfs left the manor for Santiago and were never heard from again. By the High Middle Ages, it was the third most popular pilgrimage in existence, second only to Jerusalem and Rome, and with the pilgrims came those who provided them food, shelter, and protection. Monasteries from France set up shop along the Camino, and with time, Templar Knights built castles with the original intention of protecting the peregrinoes (pilgrims). I read once that pilgrimage was so popular, it was like a traveling nation, governed and sustained by an intricate system nearly unto itself.

There were and are many paths to Santiago, but one, the Camino Frances (The French Route) became the most famous. Spanning from St. Jean-pied-de-port just across the French border in the Pyrenees, where the French routes all met up, all the way to Santiago. This is the path that I walked 1000 years later, from June 19th until July 12th, 2009.

Of course, I should also tell you that the Camino de Santiago had been a pilgrimage long before the Christians got a hold of it. The place where James' body washed ashore had been a Celtic, druidic holy place in prehistory. And the scallop shell, which had borne the saint's body ashore, and which was and is the symbol of the Camino, had been a holy pagan symbol for just as long.

The Camino, therefore, is old. Feet have walked it for thousands of years. And when you walk, you feel connected to these people. Scallop shells are everywhere, pointing you West. Each backpack seems to have one attached to it. And of course there are yellow arrows, painted on the road, on telephone poles, on houses, on trees. You're never lost and never far from someone to help you--usually. Images of the Saint pop up every day, and it is indeed almost as though James walks with you, as the legends say. Believe it or not, miracles become a daily occurrence. And in addition to feeling connected to the past, you feel connected to the others who walk around you--the most diverse, interesting crowd you could hope to meet. Each person is there for a different reason, each person has a story, even me. This story I captured feebly in my Camino journal as I went, which I hope to transfer into a blog for you now. So maybe you can feel a little bit of the magic.

Maybe you will even be inspired to make your own Camino.

I should warn you though: I didn't make it to Santiago itself. Instead, I walked from Pamplona, 2 days walking from St. Jean, until Ponferrada, 200k from Santiago. 500k total, 23 days. The reason why I didn’t get to Santiago—and why I do not regret it—will be revealed in due time. Anyway, it is most definitely the journey, not the destination, that matters.

And here's a map for you:



Buen Camino!