Nadine, Author at Nadine Walks

A Stone of Burdens

February 28, 2014

There is a sort of famous spot along the Camino called the Cruz de Ferro. It’s located about 2/3 of the way into the Camino Francés; pilgrims reach it after walking for about three weeks. This huge ‘Iron Cross’- a wooden pole with a cross at the top- marks the approach of the highest point on the Camino.

I’ve read about several legends associated with the cross: how and when and why it originated, and maybe I’ll write more about it when I actually start my Camino and learn about it from other pilgrims. But what I do know, and what I’m a bit fascinated by, is the tradition of the rocks. At the base of the pole is a growing mound of rocks, placed there for centuries by pilgrims walking the Camino. Pilgrims are supposed to bring a rock along with them on their Camino, ideally choosing one from their place of origin. It seems as though this rock can represent a lot. Often, pilgrims carry a rock in honor of someone: someone who has passed away, someone they have lost, someone whose memory they hold onto.

But I’ve also heard the rock referred to as ‘a stone of burdens’: the rock represents all that you want to leave behind. Or, all that you want to forgive, or be forgiven for.

Pretty heavy stuff.

I’m not sure where I’m going to find my rock, but I still have several months to search for it. And I’ve only just started to think about what my rock will mean to me. I have a few ideas already, but I’m sure that when I place it on top of the thousands of other rocks from pilgrims before me, it’s going to hold more meaning that I could ever imagine.

I’ve been thinking about loss recently. I’ve been struck by how much loss I’ve experienced in the last 3-4 years, and I wonder: was I just lucky for the first 30 years of my life? Or, did I learn how to open my heart, to love more fully, and to risk losing/being left? Or, is this a natural consequence of getting older? Maybe it’s a combination of all three.

Last week my best friend’s dog died, and I’m heartbroken. It’s brought up loss all over again. Everyone, for good reason, thinks that their dog is the greatest. Molly wasn’t even my dog and I thought she was the greatest. Because she was the greatest. The death of a pet is different than the death of a friend or a parent or a partner, but that doesn’t change this fact: losing someone you love is hard. It is always going to be so hard.

I guess the only way to counter death, if it’s even possible, is to carry the people we lose within us. So I’m thinking about the rock that I will take with me on my Camino, and how I will carry it for over 300 miles before I place it at the base of a cross at the highest point on my pilgrimage.

And within that rock, I’m going to carry with me all of the people I’ve loved and lost in my life. I know that I’ll carry them for my whole life- it won’t end when I place that rock at the Cruz de Ferro. But I love the idea of this act: to carry something as you walk across a country, something that represents your love and your loss. I like the act of placing it down: not to leave it behind, but to be able to place it somewhere. That I can carry a rock for hundreds of miles and hold it in my palm and before climbing over the mound of stones to the base of the cross, I can look down into my hand and say, “This is for you.”

Camino Planning: Time to Begin.

February 26, 2014

It’s nearly March, and it’s time to get serious about my Camino.

It’s not like I haven’t been serious; at this point, there’s not much that can stop me from going to Spain this summer to walk. My mind has been made up for awhile, I’ve done a ton of research, and most of my friends and family know about my plans.

But everything else? I feel like I haven’t even begun.

Let’s run down where I stand on training, supplies and equipment, and logistical stuff that needs to be planned:

Training hikes completed: Zero.

Equipment purchased: Zero. (As ever, all I currently have for this walk is a Spork. And a headlamp that either belongs to my ex-boyfriend, or my handyman. Either way, it’s mine now).

Spanish learned: Zero.

Flights/hotels/trains booked: Zero.

Aside from work, a major portion of my time is spent thinking about and focusing on the Camino, but I don’t have much to actually show for all of this. What, then, have I been doing?

For starters, I get lost in reading blogs and books about people who have walked the Camino or are preparing to walk (and on this note, I’m so excited that several bloggers I follow will be walking the Camino in the next month or two. It’s so great to be able to follow along in “real time”, and makes me even more excited about this crazy adventure).

What else have I done? I signed up for the Y, and I’ve been pretty consistent about driving out there, lacing up some sneakers, and walking/running on their indoor track. It’s not a training hike, but walking 4 miles is certainly better than nothing. It feels so easy and I feel like I’m walking so fast, but then I think about wearing a 12-15 pound pack, walking an additional 4-5 hours, and doing it every single day. Yikes.

And, finally, I watched ‘The Way’. Again.

So with approximately 4 months left until I leave for Europe, I know that it’s time to check some items off of my Camino to-do list. I’ve got a few goals for March; nothing too difficult, but all stuff that is going to push me into the reality of the Camino.

I’ve got a lot of time to purchase all of the items I need for this walk, but the two big things I want to have by the end of March are a backpack and shoes. This is the perfect time to try out different models and find a pack and shoes that really fit and are comfortable. Then, moving into April and better weather (hopefully), I’ll be ready to find some long trails and begin my practice hikes.

I’m also hoping to buy my plane ticket by the end of March. I’ve held off on this mostly because I need to wait and see how long the school year is going to last, and whether winter is going to hit us with any more snow days.

I also really need to pin down my plans for this trip: how many days to set aside for the walk, and what my post-walk plans will be. I’ve been considering a dozen different options, many of which involve spending some time in France. The latest plan is to have a friend meet me in Santiago, walk with her to Finisterre, and then travel over to France and spend time exploring Provence. Just typing this all out seems unreal. Walking across Spain, meeting a friend and walking to the coast, roaming around France, spending the last day of my trip in Paris… it’s just unreal.

My plans keep getting bigger and bigger: at first, I figured I’d spend 5-6 weeks in Europe. Now I know I’ll be there for at least 6 weeks, but I’m leaning towards 7. And then there’s this crazy part of me that thinks, “But Nadine, you have 8 weeks off in the summer! Why not spend that entire time in Europe?”

I may never come home.

But first, before any of this craziness and fun, I need to get some things done.

How do you say, “Let’s begin!” in Spanish?

LIVING (part two)

February 3, 2014

I wrote the first part of this post (LIVING (part one)), thinking that I had sufficiently explained how and why ‘living’ is a reason that I am going to walk the Camino this summer. I published the post and then instantly thought, “I would need to write a book to explain the importance of ‘living’ to my journey this summer.”

So this is part two, but I know that nothing I can say here will explain the depth of what it means to me to live.

Lines from a poem by Walt Whitman have been circling in my head. I’m pretty sure I first heard of the poem after watching the movie Dead Poet’s Society (and just mentioning the name of this movie makes me want to drop everything and watch it again, right now).

Oh Me! Oh Life! (Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass)

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

These lines: “That you are here- that life exists and identity…” These words are simple and gripping. We are here, our lives exist. We exist. And “that the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” A friend wrote this line in my yearbook, on the last day of my senior year of high school. I remember studying those words, feeling their strength and thinking I understood them.

How well do I understand them, even now? That the powerful play goes on? How aware am I that my life exists, that I get to live all of my days, these incredible and heartbreaking and bitter and glorious and fleeting and everlasting and mundane and precious days?

There have been moments- periods- when I’ve felt acutely aware of the value of my life. Of life and of my existence. But there are also so many ordinary days. Days that slip by, days when I think only of the past, or the future. Or when I am simply bogged down in the routines of my days.

Going to Spain to walk the Camino is a response to my existence and to the powerful play of my life. And it’s an attempt, in some way, to contribute a verse. Man, I could write a book about this, too. All I can say and all that I know is that I am in the process of contributing a verse… I’m writing it now, I’m living it now, and will continue to write it and live it.

There are so many different ways to live, ways that feel small and large and powerful and delicate. I feel life today when I look out my window at the falling snow, and as I listen to music that I love, as I drink a mug of milky espresso, as I craft my words into a blog post. It’s the awareness of all of these things that equals living. I could live in any number of ways this summer, but this summer I choose to live on the Camino.

LIVING (part one)

January 28, 2014

Last month, I was talking to a colleague at the school I work in. He and I are acquaintances, our conversations always centered on the kids we work with rather than details about our own lives.

But there was something different about that particular conversation. We had started talking about our summers off- in the way that many school employees do in the middle of winter.

“What do you usually do with your time off?” he asked.

“Oh, hang out, spend time with family and friends.” I paused. I hadn’t yet decided that I was going to walk the Camino at that point, but I knew that I’d be traveling somewhere in the summer. “Last year I spent a month in France… and I want to do something again this summer. Something big.”

I wasn’t sure what his response would be. When I went to France last summer, I got a lot of mixed reactions from people my age. Just about everyone thought it was a great idea, and many were thrilled for me. But often there was something else in the response. Sometimes it was unspoken- just a look in their eye- but other times it was voiced. “Wow, must be nice,” they would say. Or, “I wish I had the money to do that,” or “With kids, my traveling opportunities are pretty limited.”

It’s not that I felt judged at those times, not exactly. It was more like I felt that I had to defend my lifestyle and the choices I was making for myself.

I’m in my early thirties and a lot of people my age are married and starting families. I’m not. This automatically gives me a very different lifestyle, but sometimes- especially when it involves exciting European travel- I have to be careful how I explain myself.

I didn’t know how that conversation with my co-worker would go. I looked at him, trying to guess what his reaction would be. I continued on. “I’m not married yet, I don’t have kids, but I hope to, someday. And I know that I won’t always have this time, all for myself. So… I don’t want to waste it.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then his face broke into a wide grin and his eyes lit up. “That,” he said, “is awesome. It’s awesome. Go to Europe, go to Asia. Oh man, you’ve got to travel everywhere.”

He started talking about his early twenties, when he spent a year abroad. He talked about the amazing experiences he had and the places he still wants to go. Then he talked about his wife and kids, about his upcoming trip to Disney World- how he learned to develop a happy acceptance of what vacationing with kids meant.

But again he looked at me, and there was so much life in his eyes when he said- “Go for us. Go for all of us who are married and have kids and spend our summers at the shore. Go roam around Europe.”

He’d become animated. “Send me a postcard when you’re there. Please, promise me you will. I want you to send me a postcard with a single word written across it: LIVING.”

And this is why I’m going to Spain this summer, why I’m walking across the country. This- this– is my life. I’ve got to live it.

To be very honest, I look at my friends who are in wonderful relationships and raising children and I feel some envy. They, too, are living. And so often, it’s the very kind of living that I want to be doing. I want to build a family and take my kids camping and to the beach and to Disney World and, well, everywhere. And maybe one day I will.

But now, what I have is this time and this summer and a choice on how I want to spend it. And I’m going to spend it walking across Spain and living.

Steps in the Snow, and My Camino Training.

January 26, 2014

There are so many pieces of this Camino journey that I need to consider. I have a lot of time- 5 months- to prepare, and I know that this time is going to both crawl and fly. Money, travel logistics, buying equipment (I won’t need much, but, having never backpacked or “formally” hiked before, the ONLY item I already own is a Spork), learning some basic Spanish, training… the list goes on and on.

I’ve done a bit of reading on how much physical preparation is required to walk 500 miles on the Camino, and it appears that this is a walk that nearly anyone can do. Practice and training won’t hurt- and by all means, it will probably help- but many say that the first week of the Camino will be an adjustment, no matter how prepared you are. And that after a week or so, most people find their ‘Camino legs’.

That being said, the advice is to get in some good, long training hikes, ideally wearing both the shoes and pack you’ll be bringing on the Camino. For pilgrims walking the French route and starting in St Jean Pied-de-Port (the common starting point), the first day is widely considered the most challenging of the entire route. Pilgrims leave the village and almost immediately begin a steep ascent into the Pyrenees. From what I’ve read, it is a long, tough day.

I’m relatively fit, and already a regular walker. The winter months slow me down and I don’t get outside nearly as often as I do in other seasons. But as soon as the weather warms, I know that I’ll be hitting some trails and will work up to some long hikes. In the next few months, I’ll find good shoes and a good pack and will attempt to put it all together.

But my legs are getting itchy. I’m reading account after account of pilgrims on the Camino, about the long days of walking, about the sore muscles and blistered feet. I’m anxious to get outside and to get walking. So today, I did. Despite the freezing temperatures and the falling snow, I took a walk. I bundled up and put on some boots and walked through my neighborhood. And despite the raw wind on my face and my numbed fingers, the walk was beautiful.

So this is my training, for now. Short, winter walks in the cold. I’m also thinking about joining the Y so that I can stay a bit more active in these next few months: go to some yoga classes and walk/run around a track, maybe even spend some time on an elliptical. It probably sounds silly but this is big for me: I’ve never joined a gym before. In the past few years I’ve gone to some zumba and yoga classes, but I’ve always hesitated to join a gym. Maybe I still feel out of place: a non-athlete surrounded by people who know what they are doing.

I think I’m finally beginning to let go of this: the idea that I don’t actually belong in certain places or doing certain things. I belong anywhere I want to belong. I have a feeling that the experience of walking the Camino is going to stretch this idea even more, that it will challenge the ways I’ve always seen myself, and that it will challenge the limitations I put on myself. In fact, it’s already started to.

Walking 500 Miles.

January 17, 2014

Why am I walking the Camino? Every day I think of new reasons, and at times I think that I must have 500: a reason for every mile I will walk.

I started this blog to share my story of walking the Camino, but in these early stages, I’m struggling to know what to share. It doesn’t feel very exciting to talk about all of my pre-planning and my thoughts and my fears. I’m sure I’ll get into it all, and I suspect that as the summer approaches I will have Camino fever and want to write every day. But today? It’s a cold day in the middle of January and the Camino is still a far-off dream. It doesn’t feel real.

I think about the days I will be spending, walking through a hot summer in Spain, and I can start to feel the heat of the sun and the burn in my legs, the weight on my back and the plates of food I’ll devour at night. I think about why I’ve decided to do this, why these images are in my head. And for the beginning of a blog, I can’t see a better place to start with than at why.

Reason #1 for walking this Camino is a big one: lots and lots of walking. I’m doing this Camino so I can walk. Walk every day, walk for hours, walk across a country. I love to walk and I love to hike. I don’t have a lot of hiking experience- I’m not a backpacker and don’t even have hiking boots. I don’t really know that much: nothing about elevation or gear or trail etiquette. But maybe that’s why I love hiking: you don’t need to know or have much to go for a walk in the woods.

It’s not just the woods, either. Most days, I throw on some sneakers and head out my door to take a 30 minute walk through my neighborhood. I walk the same streets, day after day. I pass the same houses and the same neighbors, the same dogs who bound through their yard as I approach. I wave to the same mailman and jump over the same small puddle on the days when it’s rained. I thought I would have gotten bored years ago, but I haven’t. There is something therapeutic about being able to walk through a place I know so well, to know what my exact steps will be, to know where my legs will carry me.

The Camino is going to be a different path every day, but I have a feeling there will be some consistency and routine in the walking. At the very least, there will be the routine of waking every morning, putting on my shoes, and stepping outside for a walk.

Walking clears my head and it clears my lungs. I think when I walk, and I zone out when I walk. I listen to music, I listen to nothing, sometimes I listen to my own voice as I talk out loud. I nearly always feel better after I’ve gone on a walk or a hike. I feel alive and invigorated, but also settled and calm. Good, good feelings.

If Not Now, When?

January 15, 2014

I’d been thinking of walking the Camino this summer for the past few months, but it’s only been in the last 3-4 weeks that I’ve been giving it “serious” thought. As soon as I said to myself, “I might be able to do it in the summer of 2014,” I began to read everything I could about the Camino. I started with blogs, for day-by-day accounts of pilgrims who have walked in the past year or two. Then I started checking books out from the library (as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t make it through Shirley MacLaine’s account of her Camino). Then I went on forums, studying the questions that people were asking: learning about equipment, foot care, budgeting. I’ve probably overwhelmed myself with information, but to me, this is a fun stage to be in: before anything is real, before I’ve told anyone (with any certainty) that I AM going to do this; before any training or booking a flight; before taking any footsteps. It’s all fun and exciting and ideal.

But when, exactly, do I move from the pre-planning stage to the actual planning stage? I think it’s as soon as I say the words, “I am going to walk the Camino this summer.” Whenever I talk about my plans, the words ‘maybe’ and ‘if’ and ‘I’m thinking about it’ always come out of my mouth.

What am I waiting for? Well, there are some questions. The first one being: is this how I want to spend my summer? I work in a school and have two months off, from mid June to mid August. Most years, I take short trips, visit family and friends, and otherwise relax and lounge around. Not a bad way to spend a summer, by any means. But last year, I spent an incredible three weeks in southern France, and it reawakened a strong desire for travel and experience. With so many places I want to see, not to mention wishing that I could repeatedly return to France, do I want to spend my summer walking through Spain?

And then there is the question of money, and it’s what has stopped me from big summer traveling in the past. I never thought that I had enough, and the practical side of me heard warning bells every time I thought about spending the money I saved up during the year on month(s) long European travel.

Money needs to be a consideration, but so does the question: “If not now, when?” I may never again have two months of my life when I have nothing tying me down, when I do not have to work, when I am healthy and able, when I have the desire and willingness. I may never have this time again. So if that means scrimping and saving throughout the year, sacrificing other things so I don’t have to sacrifice this, then I know that I can afford to travel. Besides, I’ll be traveling like a pilgrim: sleeping on mattresses or bunk beds with dozens or even hundreds of others in the same room, and cooking my own meals or eating off of the inexpensive Pilgrim’s menu.

My plans are still hazy, but as my desire to walk the Camino grows every day, my vision of this becomes clearer. I’d like to give myself about 6 weeks in Europe, which should be more than enough time to walk from St. Jean Pied-de-Port to Santiago. It allows for a few travel days and rest days, and maybe even a return to southern France for a week, or the chance to spend a few days in Paris or Barcelona.

And as these plans become clearer, the questions begin to be answered. I will have enough money to do this. I do want to spend 5-6 weeks walking through Spain. Slowly, I am moving into the planning stage of this journey. I have a lot I want to do: talk with people who have done this before, walk and walk and walk and then do some practice hikes, learn some basic Spanish, buy a backpack and shoes and everything else. I don’t really need to do any of this (except for acquiring the backpack and shoes), but I can only do anything remotely adventurous with a lot of preparation.

So. I am going to walk the Camino this summer. Let the planning begin.

A Single Step

January 2, 2014

A single step feels both enormous and insignificant. Whether it’s an actual footstep, the beginning action of something, a small part of a process or even a decision to start; it’s one step. It takes stringing the steps together, putting one foot in front of the other over and over again, day in and day out- often tirelessly- to get somewhere. To create something. To change one thing in your life. To change your entire life.

This isn’t easy. Playing the piano or speaking French. Running 3 miles or writing a book. Falling in love or building a relationship. It is not enough to begin, you need to keep going every day. Continue to do the work and keep taking steps.

It’s so easy to slow down, or to take a day off. Then a week off. Just like that, it’s too cold outside to run. I think that I’ll have more energy tomorrow. And suddenly, it feels easier to imagine writing than it does to actually write, because writing means having something to say. And what if I have nothing to say?

And sometimes, life gets in the way. Situations we don’t plan for, unexpected changes, endings and beginnings.

I feel like I’ve had a lot of endings and beginnings in the last several years. Times when I ask myself, “Now what?”

I’m at one of those times now, and not just because it’s a new year. I’m still in my apartment, in my town, in my job. But the direction I thought my life was taking suddenly veered off course, and I’m left with needing to figure out not only a new plan, but a new direction for my future.

The only answer I can come up with to the question of- “How do you figure out your life direction when you don’t know where to go?” is: start taking steps.

I want to string together enough steps so I can get myself somewhere, even if, right now, I’m not sure where that should be. Once I start moving, I think I might find some answers.

After the vagueness about taking steps and life changes and finding direction, here is something concrete: I want to take a walk this summer. A 500 mile walk.

There is a network of ancient pilgrimage routes leading to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain; these routes are called El Camino de Santiago, or, The Way of St. James. The most popular route is the Camino Francés, beginning in France and stretching 780 km to Santiago.

People walk for many reasons: a religious or spiritual journey, a test of physical endurance, a mental and emotional challenge, a great adventure. Some walk only parts of the route, some bike, some (a few) even bring donkeys.

I don’t know what the Camino will look like for me, and I don’t even know if I will be able to do it. Not only is there a question of time and money, but there’s a question of whether I can walk 6-10 hours a day for 30-40 days. Can my body handle the steps it takes to walk 500 miles? Can my mind handle it?

These are questions I want to try to answer. I’m asking myself a lot of questions lately, and I’m seeking direction. Maybe I’m even seeking my path, and the Camino feels like a good place to begin.

And even though I’m not on the path yet, I’m taking my first steps now. I want to talk about the idea of this journey- the reasons I want to walk and the planning it will require, the obstacles I’ll face and the adventure of it all. Maybe throughout this I’ll find my direction. At the very least, I hope I find a few good stories.

All my bags are packed

August 8, 2013

On my last morning in Labastide, I headed up for one last trek to Le Roc, which had become “my spot”. As I hiked up the rocky trail past the church, I saw John coming down towards me (John and his wife Kerry are owners and hosts of La Muse). He slowed for only a few steps and said, simply, “It’s a perfect day.”

I got up to Le Roc and immediately understood what he meant: it was the clearest morning of my three weeks in Labastide. I could see far into the valley below me and beyond, to the clear outlines of the Pyrenees and their still snow capped peaks. For weeks, my eyes would strain and only make out hazy outlines of the Pyrenees; and now, suddenly, here they were. It felt like a message, but whether that message was “hello” or “goodbye” I’m not sure.

In any case, it was perfect. I had lots of perfect days in Labastide, and many in my last week. I intended to blog so much more while on my trip: funny and strange details about the people I interacted with, relearning and remembering how to speak French, my daily hiking adventures. And I still might tell those stories.

But for now, the end.

The day before I left, I woke up at 6am so I could hike to Le Roc to see the sunrise (even though the mountains blocked most of the view). I headed out of La Muse and Homer, John and Kerry’s dog, ran up to me. Normally, Homer would accompany residents on their hikes and walks, but at the beginning of our retreat Homer got sick, and his daily jaunts were restricted. For three weeks I would head out for a hike and Homer would stare at me with sad eyes, begging to come along.

I don’t know what he was doing outside so early, it was almost as if he was waiting for me. He bounded over, gave me a quick look, and then took off, sprinting, out of the village. He wasn’t missing this walk.

I headed towards Le Roc, with Homer leading the way. We made it up to my spot and sat together and watched the morning for awhile.

Homer at Le Roc

The rest of the day was a blur: lingering at lunch, a last hike, a pizza dinner with the entire group, starting a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle at 10pm. I woke up the next morning, not quite packed, not quite prepared to navigate Paris, not quite ready to leave. I sat on the terrace and ate my breakfast with Jean-Christophe and other residents filed in and out, everyone up earlier than normal that day.

I sat at Le Roc and stared at the Pyrenees for as long as I could, and then raced back to La Muse to throw things in my suitcase and write an entry in the guestbook and give away the extra food in my cupboard and say goodbye to La Muse and Labastide.

We drove away in the jeep, only Diane and I leaving that morning (Glenn and Julia came along for the ride and a trip to the grocery store; both had figured out a way to stay in Labastide for another week). As we drove away from the village, someone started singing, “All my bags are packed I’m ready to go, I’m standing here outside your door…” and we all joined in. It’s the slightly corny kind of thing you’d see in a movie, but for us, and in that moment, it worked. It was bittersweet and beautiful.

So many people who go to La Muse end up going back, and I understand why. Already, there was lots of talk about reuniting next summer. I think I knew, on my first day there, that I would want to go back, and that feeling only intensified throughout my stay.

But if I never make it back, it’s okay. It’s the kind of experience that stays with a person forever, and I got more out of it than I ever imagined I would.

Nadine at Le Roc, Labastide, France

Last days in Labastide

July 29, 2013

I only have two days left in Labastide, and it’s not enough time. When I first arrived, I thought, “Three weeks will be plenty of time to do everything I want to do”, but now it feels like it’s not nearly enough. I don’t know what happens to the days here: I start my mornings on the terrace and before I know it I’m back there, eating dinner by candlelight. Time moves fast.

Part of the problem (though it’s not really a problem at all) is that I can’t walk through the village anymore without running into someone I know. In the first weeks I would just smile and wave, now I stop and talk.

People know my routines. If they see a blanket in my hand they will say, “You must be going to the rock.” At the end of the day, someone will ask, “Where did you hike to today?” The residents make an effort to gather together for lunch and dinner, and the other girls and I schedule time to sit in the library and talk.

I write in the mornings and take, sometimes, a hundred photos during the day. I’ve explored this village and the mountains around it inside and out, and yet there’s always more to see. Just yesterday, a villager told me about yet another trail with a great view of the village. I added it to my list of things to do in my last few days, but the list just gets longer and longer.

My days are filled with simple and wonderful things: a hike through the mountains with Filou, a village dog. One of the best cheeseburgers I’ve ever had at a cafe in Carcassonne. A village fête where we ate giant sausages and listened to the villagers singing French songs late into the night. Pointing out constellations on a clear night, as we sit on the terrace and see hundreds of stars.

Labastide village

House on Hill, Labastide Esparbairenque

Filou and Chapel, Labastide Esparbairenque

detail berries, Labastide Esparbairenque

Terrace #2

Arts and crafts

Village fête

Sleeping with spiders

July 24, 2013

I’m sitting at my desk, trying to get some writing done, but I keep resting my cheek against the palm of my hand and closing my eyes. So I turn up my music and take another sip of coffee and try to stay awake.

It’s only 8:30am.

I haven’t been getting enough sleep. Every night I intend to get to bed early- asleep by 11- but it never quite works out. We have late dinners and the sky doesn’t darken until after 10 and Diane always makes coffee. When I do get into bed at a decent hour, my mind spins with the things I did and saw during the day, and all the things I want to do tomorrow. It takes me forever to fall asleep.

I wake up every morning a little after 7, and am nearly always the first one up in the house. Sometimes Jean Christophe beats me downstairs, but he always drinks his tea on the library steps and I eat my breakfast on the terrace table; we can both enjoy the peace and quiet of the morning and not bother each other. It’s a good arrangement.

Last night was movie night: Susan downloaded Impromptu (a movie about George Sand and Chopin and a bunch of artists and writers who gather in the south of France) on her computer and we set up in the library. A storm rolled through late yesterday afternoon, dropping the temperatures by at least 20 degrees, so Artis and I tried to build a fire in the wood stove. She threw pages from her notebook into the stove to burn, but they wouldn’t catch; the fire was short lived, so we all bundled up in blankets, drinking tea and eating shortbread cookies instead.

The church bell was striking one by the time I was in bed and drifting off to sleep. Less than four hours later, I was awake again. Something had interrupted my dream and woken me up- I lay in bed, listening carefully. Just as I was closing my eyes I heard the noise again- there was something moving around near the armchair in my room.

I crept out of bed, turned on the light, and glanced around my room, staring at the armchair where I thought I heard the noise coming from. At first nothing, and then, slowly, a big black thing crawled out onto the t-shirt I had draped over the back of the chair.

A few days ago, Artis (who has been to La Muse several times before) was telling us about the giant spiders she’d found hiding between the bed and wall of her room. “You guys haven’t seen the spiders yet??” she asked. That night it had taken me over an hour to fall asleep.

So my first thought, when I saw this huge black thing in my room, was that it was one of Artis’ spiders. I stared at it; presumably, it stared back at me. I stood at the foot of my bed, he stood on my armchair, neither of us moved. The showdown lasted at least 10 minutes, as I tried to figure out what to do. There was no way I was going to be able to fall asleep with the thing still in my room, and there was no way I was going to try to kill it.

Finally I decided that the best solution would be to creep over to my window and open it, then drag the armchair to the window, and attempt to get the spider, or whatever it was, outside.

I moved slowly, quietly, the thing moving its head a bit, but otherwise remaining motionless. I opened my windows and then tentatively gave the armchair a little shake, to see if the thing would dart away. It didn’t move.

Inch by inch I slid the armchair across the floor, its weight dragging on the tiles, making a lot of noise. Once the armchair was positioned under the window, I reached out and grabbed the edge of my t-shirt. I took a deep breath, counted to three, and then flung the t-shirt out the window. It fluttered down to the terrace below, laying in a heap beneath my window. The black thing- maybe a strangely shaped spider, maybe a little bat?- went with it.

A few hours later I woke up and went downstairs to have breakfast, finding my t-shirt neatly folded on the table in the library. Someone, probably Jean Christophe, must have found it. I vaguely wondered what went through his head when he saw the t-shirt on the terrace. I figure I’ll explain later. After my nap.

Bon appétit

July 21, 2013

Yesterday was my trip down the mountain and it came not a day too soon. My shelf in the kitchen was looking grim: one very ripe and mushy banana, a can of tuna fish, a handful of golden grahams. I’d finished my bread that morning, and ate the last yogurt. All in all I planned my meals well, and could have done even better if the promised ‘épicerie (grocery) truck’ that delivers to the village once a week hadn’t been on holiday. For my last dinner before the great shopping trip, I had an egg scramble: a couple eggs mixed in with whatever veggies I had left in the fridge. Sprinkle on some herbs de provence and it was a success.

Glenn, on the other hand, was a different story. He had a similar idea for his last supper, and went to the cabinets and fridge to pull out his remaining food. As everyone else cooked their meals, we’d occasionally look over at Glenn to see what he was doing. Slicing some bread… no problem. Cutting chunks of cheese… fine. Then he pulled out herring. And pâté. And Pringles. And something pink that I still haven’t been able to identify.

“Glenn, what are you doing??” someone asked.

“Making dinner!” he replied.

Glenn's dinner

(The second plate in the photo is a meal of salmon and veggies, which another resident offered to him out of pity).

The trip to the supermarché was an all day outing. It began with a few hours in Carcassonne (the “newer” part of the city, not the fortified town); my first reaction after being dropped off at the train station was: “There’s too much going on! Too much noise and too many people!” It was a sharp contrast to the quiet and solitude of Labastide. Five minutes later, however, Julia, Artis and I were like kids in a candy shop, pointing at the stores and cafés, oohing and ahhing. The other two went off to do some clothes shopping (it’s ‘soldes’ time in France, big sales!), I walked around to explore.

It was my first time in a French town in over 10 years, and it brought back so many memories of being in Toulouse (even though I’ve been in France now for 10 days, village life is a brand new experience). This felt like the France I knew. The pharmacies recognizable by their green crosses, the crédit agricole banks, even a sandwich shop chain I loved to go to in Toulouse.

After walking around for an hour, I met Julia and Artis in the town’s square. A five piece band was playing beautiful music, kids were running around the fountain, cafés set out dozens of umbrella-ed tables. We picked a café called ‘Artichaut’, and lingered through lunch, soaking in the atmosphere of the square and the luxury of being served a meal.

From Carcassonne we went on to the supermarché, where I loaded up my cart and spent more on food in one trip than I ever have in my life (meat! cheese! fruits! veggies! wine! coffee!). Then more stops: an organic store, a boulangerie for a couple of fresh baguettes, a craft store so Julia could buy some canvases, and an impromptu stop for some ‘road cheese’. We even convinced John (our host and driver for the day) to stop for a “five minute” café. I ordered a petit crème: a tiny glass of espresso with steamed milk and a spoonful of foam.

On our way back up the mountain we ran into a storm, and arrived at La Muse to a power outage that lasted four hours (the biggest worry was not that there were no lights or internet service, but that our food could go bad). But the power returned, clouds rolled through the mountains, and we sat down to enjoy dinner on the terrace. Bon appétit, indeed.

Terrace after storm

Mysterious Woman of the Rock

July 18, 2013

I’ve discovered a spot where I like to go and write, read, journal, or just sit and stare at the mountains. I came across it on my second day at La Muse, when I continued on the path past the church and cemetery. I hiked up an incline to where the path met a track, and after following this for a few minutes, saw a plaque that read “La Croix de Viallele”. Sure enough, there was a cross on top of a pile of rocks. I climbed up and took in the view, snapped a few photos, and vowed to go back.

And I have, nearly every day. It’s a great spot to work- usually cooler and windier than in the village, and completely quiet and isolated. At least I thought it was. I was sitting up there a few days ago, with my notebook in my lap, when all of a sudden a little dog appears from behind the rock and runs over to me. He’s friendly: his entire body shakes when he sees me, and he runs all around, finally settling beneath my legs. I pet him for a few minutes, and as soon as I start to wonder where he came from, he runs off.

Five minutes later I hear a voice calling out (in English): “Megan! Meg Meg! Where are you?” The voice moves closer and then I see a man standing on the rocks to my right, peering out over the valley. He hasn’t seen me yet so I take the opportunity to call over to him, “Excuse me, did you lose your dog?” I nearly startled the man straight off the mountain.

We spoke for a minute, and then he went off to keep looking for Megan. About five minutes after this I hear his voice, this time calling out to me, “Hello, mysterious woman of the rock!” He is more settled now that he’s found his dog, and asks where I came from. I talk about La Muse, he talks about living in the village. He tells me that I have found his very favorite spot in the world. “I never see anyone up here, so you can imagine my surprise when I heard you call out to me.”

Megan runs off again, so the villager follows, calling over his shoulder that I should come down to his cottage, meet his wife, and enjoy a lemonade or apéritif.

I think about how I’ve stumbled onto someone’s very favorite place in the world. I can see why he likes it so much- after all, I saw it once and decided to go back every day.

Do you have a favorite place? Somewhere that you go back to, time and time again?

Le Roc

work spot- le roc

view from le roc

A dinner party

July 16, 2013

I’d heard rumors earlier in the day that we were going to be having a fête to celebrate Bastille Day. Residents often try to eat dinner together, but people cook for themselves and the eating tends to go in shifts. Tonight’s dinner would be a collective effort, with everyone contributing a dish.

Judith, the opera singer, came knocking on my door around 5. “Did you hear about tonight’s dinner?” she asked. “I’m bringing meatballs.”

“I wish I could make something,” I replied. “But I don’t have much food left.”

Diane, Glenn and I, the only new residents, laugh a little everyday about our food situation. We were given shopping suggestions before arriving, and I had made a list and was prepared to buy more than I thought I needed. But the actual grocery store experience was completely surreal and overwhelming. I had just been picked up in Carcassonne, rode in a jeep with four strangers for 10 minutes, and then was deposited at the grocery store. We wheeled our carts aimlessly through the store, going our separate ways, studying the shelves and searching for the food items on our lists. After nearly an hour passed I started to panic, because it had been a long time since I’d seen anyone I recognized. I began moving quickly through the aisles, sometimes grabbing food at random, sometimes putting items back on the shelves.

Finally I ran into Diane, and she sighed with relief. “I thought I was the last one!” Soon afterwards we saw Glenn, with barely anything in his cart, looking a bit dazed. “I’m not much of a cook,” he said. We helped each other find the last, missing items: coffee filters, sugar, laundry detergent, and then checked out, satisfied that we’d done a good job.

But almost as soon as we arrived at La Muse later that evening and saw what the other residents had to eat, did we realize that none of us had bought enough. Everyday we put our heads together and talk about what we’re going to eat, giving each other ideas and sharing food. One day, Glenn brought out a can of Pringles saying, “You can each have three.” Diane shared her turkey, I shared my eggs. We have an excess of yogurt and stale bread. Glenn has started walking to the next village to eat at their cafe.

So when Judith appeared at my door, talking about meatballs, I looked at her with a bit of dismay. “I’ll bring a bottle of wine,” I said, “And next time I’ll cook something.”

The windows of my room look out onto the back of the house, and down to the bottom of the village. Around 7:00 I heard movement on the terrace, and leaned out my window to look down.

La Muse terrace

The table was set and Homer, the dog, was resting nearby (no doubt waiting for the food to be served). One by one the residents gathered, opening bottles of wine, finding candles for the table, plating the food.

La Muse Terrace

dinner table centerpiece

Once the wine was poured and the 11 of us were seated around the table, Judith picked up her glass and cried, “Vive la France!” We echoed her toast, and someone launched into La Marseillaise. The first course began with hors d’oeuvres: roasted red peppers, little bites of sausages, slices of cucumbers and pears, tomatoes and mozzarella. A potato and egg frittata, Caesar salad, quinoa, meatballs, and beet risotto dishes followed.

Artis, Jean-Christophe and I cleared off plates and retreated to the kitchen. Artis began to heat water for tea, asking if it would be okay to serve tea with the cheese. “Sure!” we said. Seconds later she came back inside with the mugs. “I was told that the cheese must come first!”

Outside there was laughter and singing. Throughout dinner, Alain had been freely pouring wine and refilling glasses, often when no one was looking. We lit candles, Homer cleaned up forgotten scraps of food, we discovered snails devouring a plate of nuts.

Jeff and Susan invited us over to their cottage on Tuesday night, for another group dinner. We smiled and gladly accepted. Glenn looked around the table. “I’ll bring the Pringles.”

Homer

snails eating plate of nuts

candlelit dinner

A walk through the village

July 14, 2013

I’ve noticed there’s something that happens every time I walk outside here. Whether it’s to the source to fill up my bottle with fresh spring water, to wander around and explore the village, or to go on a hike- every time I step outside, I end up going somewhere I hadn’t intended.

This is what happens: I don’t know my way around yet. It’s a very small village, yet there are winding streets and alleys with staircases and hidden paths and little bridges everywhere you look. So I set out in one direction, and then wander off because something catches my eye, and this continues to happen until I’m much further from where I intended to be. But the result is incredible beauty. And discovery. And surprise. And delight.

I’ve been to many places that I consider beautiful, but this is by far the most beautiful yet. It’s magical. It’s wild and overgrown and decaying and alive.

I took a lot of photos today. I headed off to the source, at the bottom of the village, with a couple of empty water bottles and my camera. As soon as I left the gate of La Muse, I turned right instead of the usual left, to check out what was at the bottom of the path. I found this:

Labastide village

I wound my way back to the “main” street, and took a road I hadn’t been on. It led me through the village, past houses and people eating on terraces, onto a path leading to the gardens. Days before, I’d noticed a zigzagging pattern on the hillside next to Labastide, with stone walls cutting vertically across, separating plots of land. I’d been wondering how to get over there.

garden path, Labastide

I started walking down the trail, further and further until I realized that my sandals were holding me back, and I’d have to put on better shoes for more exploring. So I came back into the village, filled my water bottles, and started slowly heading back to La Muse. The details are everywhere, and they are stunning:

Labastide wildflowers

I ran into a couple of cats, they were picturesque as well. (This one posed for me, like he knew I had a camera):

I took over 60 photos on that little walk, and I easily could have taken 60 more. Later in the day I ventured out again with my film camera, to the farmhouse ruins to take more photos. Each day I find a place that I want to return to, as well as a new place to explore or path to take. Cross your fingers for a rainy day, because it might be the only way for me to get any writing done.

Settling in

July 13, 2013

I’m sitting at the desk in my room, windows open, cool(ish) morning air, mountain view, House Martins flying around and chirping incessantly. There are fresh flowers on my desk, a mug of coffee within reach, some notebooks scattered around. A single church bell chimes, signaling half past the hour.

Though this was only my third morning here, I’ve already fallen into somewhat of a routine. Wake before 8, go down to the kitchen to brew coffee and gather some food (yogurt, fruit, BREAD), say hi to Jean-Christophe and Artis, the other two residents who are always up at the same time, and take my breakfast onto the terrace. This morning went just a bit different: Alain, who arrived last night, brought a little espresso machine with him. My enthusiasm was obvious. I helped him set it up this morning, and tried the first cup. C’est bon. We talked about how the fancy new technology of the espresso machine is at odds with the old and simple ways of the village. And then I enjoyed every single sip of my espresso.

There is too much to describe of my first days here, too many details, too many new experiences. The friendly villagers who all say ‘bonjour’ and give you the biggest smile, the winding paths of this tiny village set on the slope of a mountain, the opera-singing resident whose voice fills the little chapel and spills into the streets, buying fresh baguettes from the truck that drives into the village twice a week, sampling wines from a local vineyard… it goes on and on.

There are also funny things and mishaps and mistakes. Trying to shop for a week of groceries directly after being picked up in Carcassonne and not having slept for over 24 hours (myself and the two other new residents are now strategizing on how to make our food last), getting into the wrong car on the train in Paris, deciphering the hand drawn trail map and walking miles in the opposite direction of where I intended to go, navigating the personalities of the other residents, remembering the best technique for using a French shower… this goes on and on as well.

I’m beginning to feel settled in. It was nearly impossible to sit and focus for the first few days; all I could do was stare out the window and want to get outside and explore. So I did. There is still so much to discover and routines that I need to fully settle into, but I’m getting there. Thank goodness I have three weeks.

directional sign on tree, Labastide