Nadine Walks

stories of trekking and travel

No Stones in My Pack: Day 4 on the Camino del Norte (Luarca to Tapia, 42 km)

Just before Beatrice left our hotel room in the morning (Day 4), she said, “I hope it doesn’t feel like there’s a stone in my backpack today.”

I understood exactly what she meant- on the Camino, sometimes your pack feels perfect. It’s not too heavy, everything is sitting perfectly, it’s just like an extension of your back. But on other days, and sometimes inexplicably, the pack is heavy. It pulls away from you, it feels like it hangs low, there is an extra, very heavy stone inside.

When I left Luarca that morning, a little after Beatrice, I began walking up the steep pavement that led out of the city. Up and up it climbs, and for the very first time since coming to Spain, it felt like I did not have a stone in my backpack. And that’s when I realized that not only had it felt like I’d been carrying a stone, it felt like I’d been carrying a great big bag of rocks for the past week. Suddenly, the weight had lifted, it was gone. I powered up the hill, it felt easy. Then the path flattened out and I walked away from town with the sun rising aginst my back, the light of the sky pale and soft in front of me, and I felt the Camino. I remembered what it was like to walk with the rising sun, what it was like to walk and not think of how difficult it was to walk… to walk and just be. 


I marveled at how good I felt. And before too long, I passed my first group of pilgrims, the first time I’ve done that on this trip. I didn’t know how long this feeling would last, but it felt good to be back. So good.

I flew across Spain that day, and I wanted to dance down the trail. I didn’t feel one hundred percent better, but man, was this an improvement. Everything looked more beautiful, too- the light was gorgeous, the fields seemed to glow. Even the barking dogs sounded friendly, and not menacing.

I stopped for a cafe con leche and orange juice and tortilla and sat outside a bar amongst other pilgrims. I still didn’t really know anyone, but I felt a little less alone, just being surrounded by pilgrims. And as the day continued, I began saying more than hi- I asked where people were from, when they started, where they were going. Basic Camino language, but for the past week it was almost like I’d forgotten how to speak it.

After a stop in a grocery store to buy a few lunch supplies, I sat outside on a bench with an American girl and German guy. They reported that the Norte was very full, and that they were reserving ahead whenever possible. We split a bag of Doritos Roulette (one in every 7, or something, is hot and spicy), and I thought about what they had said about reservations. Nothing has really changed about this for me- I still don’t like calling ahead to reserve a bed on the Camino. I think that part of what I love so much about walking a Camino is the ability to just be in the moment, to not have to plan, to follow your feelings. I knew that I’d already run into some trouble and couldn’t stay in the albergues I’d planned to, but I was going to continue to trust that if I showed up to a town and really needed a bed, something would come through. Or that I would figure something out.

I ended up walking 42 kilometers that day (I can just hear you all now: “Nadine!” you’re saying. “Didn’t you just drag your sick self through a 15km day??”) But I have to say, I felt good for all of those 42 kilometers, though my feet were a bit sore at the end. I wouldn’t have gone so far if I hadn’t been feeling so good, and in the end, my destination was more than worth it. It was, hands down, the best albergue I’ve ever stayed in. The actual albergue was only so-so; not very new, two floors of rather rusty bunks, a “kitchen” that was a microwave and a few dishes (no knife, grr). But the view, oh, the view. The building was smack up against a wooden barrier that overlooked the water. We were right on the coast, we were practically on a cliff.


There were three beds left when I arrived at 5:00, and before I could do anything, Beatrice was ushering me into town to find the tourism office so that we could get our keys for the albergue (things at albergues have been a bit weird, I’ve yet to see a hospitalero on sight when I’ve arrived, and at this place you sign in and then go find a key, which we never ended up needing, so who knows). As we were walking there I ducked into an ice cream place for a few scoops, and in the grocery store picked up a coke and chips, along with salad stuff to share with Beatrice. This is significant only because it really meant that my appetite was coming back- the first ice cream of the trip! (Still no vino tinto since I’ve been sick though- is it really a Camino if I don’t have a glass- or 2 or 3- of vino tinto? I don’t have an answer to that yet…)

And once back at the albergue I barely budged from my spot overlooking the water. The wind was cool so Beatrice and I sat against the stone wall that had been warmed all day by the sun, and we ate our salad and later drank from mugs of tea, all the while listening to the sound of the waves. I recognized a few people in the albergue- a Spanish girl and guy who walk fast with their clacking poles, Yoko from the albergue in Cadavedo, the young girl from Madrid who’d been at the same albergue.


I didn’t feel like such a stranger on the Camino anymore. I felt like I was back, that the Camino was back- though really it had never left. I had just needed to find it again. 

The Last Bad Day; Day 3 on the Camino Del Norte (Cadavedo to Luarca, 15km)

I’m now several days behind on posting, so because I know what happens in the next few days and you don’t, yet, I’ll give you just this little preview: things get better. I say that because this is going to be another sort of downer of a post. And before anyone starts thinking that I’m having a no-good, horrible, unfortunate Camino, have no fear. Things start looking up, and soon.

But lets go back to Day 3 of the Norte. In the comments of my last post (thank you, by the way; your words of understanding and encouragement were such a needed booster), a few Camino friends urged me to stop in Luarca. A charming port town only fifteen kilometers from Cadavedo, it would make for an easy day giving me plenty of time to rest and explore and eat ice cream.

Oh, Camino.

The day started out overcast, and a light rain began to fall around 9am. It was just enough to be a nuicance, but by the time I got to Luarca it was falling heavier and I was a wet pilgrim mess when I entered a warm and cozy looking bar. But, no matter: the walk still hadn’t felt easy (my pack continued to feel heavy and my legs like lead, my sickness was zapping all my energy), but it hadn’t been long. I ordered a cafe con leche and orange juice and settled into a table. It was eleven thirty, the albergue would open at noon, I was in no hurry. The day’s walk was done.

But then I heard the urgent tone of a frantic pilgrim. “The albergue is already full. People have called ahead and reserved.” He was talking to two pilgrims at another table, and they, too, had looks of panic on their faces. “And everything else is booked in this town,” he continued. “You can try the albergue and see if they have suggestions, or maybe the information center in town.”

I sat back in my seat, feeling rather defeated. The last thing I wanted to do was scramble all over town, trying to find a place to sleep. The next albergue listed in the guidebook had closed, and the albergue after that was… far. And it was raining.

(A note on the shortage of beds: the best I can guess is that this is a bad stretch of the Norte for albergues. I’d run into this problem once last year, aroud Llanes, and had to stay in a pension. From what I’ve heard, there are currently a lot of pilgrims on the Norte, and to make matters worse, this is high tourist season, so it’s difficult to find a free bed in a hotel or pension. And when you do, often the prices are a lot highter than they’d normally be).

So I went over to the pilgrims to talk over what I had just heard, but didn’t come up with any solutions (one of the pilgrims had injured his foot and proclaimed this to be “the worst day ever”). I went back to my table, and finished my drinks. For some reason- maybe I was just tired of things not working out- I wasn’t too worried. Because for as much as things didn’t seem to be working out well, I had a feeling that I’d figure out a plan. I was in a large town, I wasn’t isolated. I could always just take a bus or a train… somewhere. Further ahead on the Norte, or maybe just all the way to Finisterre where I could find a room and stay for a week and recuperate and write. That plan was starting to sound better and better.

I weaved my arms through the wet sleeves of my raincoat, hoisted my drippping pack onto my back, and headed back out. I made my way over to the albergue to see what the scene was like, and the only one around was a female pilgrim in a long, draping skirt. She called to me from across the street, “Albergue is full! But come over here, we’ll figure something out.”

Enter: my Camino angel. Beatrice, from Sweden. 

She has more energy than nearly every other person I’ve ever met, and I would find out later that she averages at least 40 km days on the Camino, always. She did the San Salvador in 3 days, the Primitivo in 8, the Frances in 23. Her “not walking” energy is high, too. We ducked into a hotel across the street, found out it was full, but used the shelter of their lobby to look for other options. She whipped through her guidebook, called a number, and in muddled Spanish managed to secure us a double room for 60 euros, coming out to 30 a piece. I’ve been spending a lot on this Camino with all the unexpected private rooms, but standing there in Luarca, all I could feel was relieved that I had a place to spend the night.

We spent the rest of the day together- luxurating under the powerful water pressure of our shower, wandering through town in the rain to find a place to eat, holing up in a cafe for tea and pastries. I was happy to have some long overdue company, but I was also exhausted, and it was hard to keep up with Beatrice. I should have just told her that I wanted to go back to the hotel and take a nap, but this was the first sustained human contact I’d had in awhile, and besides, I also needed to eat, and find a grocery store (and on the plus side of things, I realized that my appetite was slowly starting to return. I was craving a plate of calamari, and it felt good to be craving something other than orange juice or Sunny D or Fanta).


But I coughed all through the afternoon and the evening, and for as much as I wanted to be attentive to Beatrice and participate in the conversation, I knew I was only half there. It didn’t seem to matter though, and I was relieved for that, too. Beatrice just kept talking and telling me stories, and even though I was essentially sharing this day and this hotel room with a stranger, the Camino makes things like this easier. 

But I went to bed thinking that this Camino wasn’t much fun, not much fun at all. And the question that had been lingering for the past few days continued to burn through my thoughts: Should I stop doing this? Should I just stop walking?

The things we carry; Day Two on the Camino de San Salvador, (La Robla to Poladura; 25km)

My thoughts, at the moment: My pack is heavy. I’m alone in the albergue. My forehead hurts because I was stung by a bee.

But lets go back to last night. Turns out I wasn’t alone after all; a Spanish biker showed up, then a Spanish walker, then two more Spanish bikers. The guy who walked could speak English, but otherwise I was just gesturing and smiling at the others. And I didn’t spend much time with them; I had just started cooking dinner when the first arrived, and had finished by the time the others showed up. One by one they all left to head into town to find something to eat, and I was in bed, asleep, whenever they made it back.

So I’m not counting on being alone in this albergue, it’s very possible that other bikers will show up, and maybe the guy from yesterday (who seemed quite surprised that I had walked so fast- even though yesterday didn’t feel very fast to me). And there may be others- two men just walked up, they look like pilgrims and at the very least are hikers, and I can hear them sitting outside and talking to a few villagers but it’s all in Spanish, of course, so I can’t understand a thing.

The next two days are going to have some hard hiking, but I have to say, the most difficult thing about this Camino is not being able to speak Spanish. I sort of felt that on the Norte, a bit, and that was mostly because villagers wanted to talk to me as I passed through, and it was frustrating to not be able to have a conversation. But there were always other pilgrims who spoke English so it never felt too isolating.

I actually don’t mind how isolated this Camino is, but the Spanish I really need is the kind that can communicate some basic needs. I’ve managed to understand what I need to, but it just makes things a bit complicated. Like, yesterday, the hospitalero told me that if I wanted to eat dinner in the only place that sold food in Poladura (where I am now), I’d have to call in the morning the next day to let them know I was coming. 

That’s well and good, but I don’t speak the language and even if I did it wouldn’t matter, my phone doesn’t have international calling. So I strategized, and in the only town I passed through today that had any facilities, I tracked down a pay phone, and attempted to call. A woman answered, I asked if she spoke English, she said, “No.” So then I did my best to throw out enough Spanish words that might make sense… like “pilgrim”, “dinner”, “reservation”, “tonight”. She spoke back, real fast, and I didn’t understand a thing. So I just sort of repeated myself a few times and then I heard some clicking on the phone and the line cut off and I didn’t have any more change.

Unsure if I had actually communicated that I hoped to have dinner tonight, I walked around Pola de Gordon in search of a supermarket, figuring that even though I was carrying food with me, I could buy a couple more things in case I didn’t have any dinner options. I found two supermarkets, both were closed. I didn’t want to wait around until they opened- who knows when they would open- so I went into a bar that had a line of the biggest, airiest croissants I had ever seen. I asked for one to take with me, and then the man disappeared into the back for awhile. When he finally reappeared, he set down an utterly pretty package: the croissant was on a gold plate and then two cardboard arcs crisscrossed over it so that the paper wouldn’t press against the sugar on top and it was all wrapped up in brown string. 

My backpack was filled to the gills; I’d had to get creative about how to string clothing off the back so that I could fit my extra water bottle inside. There was no way I was going to be able to find a spot for the croissant, so that meant that the pretty package dangled from my hand as I walked up a mountain.

  

The last ten kilometers of the day were stunning. I’ve now moved into the mountains and there was a stretch when I stopped about every minute to take another photo. The climb wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t awful either. I can feel how strong my legs are from all that hiking in France, but my heavy pack and the hot sun threatened to do me in. But I just took it slow and it didn’t seem to take so long to reach the top (where I had my victory croissant). 

  
  
  

Then a not-so steep descent, and then a path that wound gently around a mountainside. Despite the heat and some soreness in my feet, I was feeling happy and energized- I stopped to take a photo and heard a buzzing around my head, and when I moved I must have hit the bee (or whatever it was), because all of a sudden he swooped down and stung me on the forehead. What a way to end the day, it felt like someone jabbed a very sharp needle straight into my head, which needless to say is not a welcome feeling.

But despite bee stings and croissants and loaded packs, I made it. The walk today was about 25 kilometers, and it was just enough. I arrived in Poladura, a small village of houses, a church, this albergue, and a small inn (which is where I hoped to find food). A tractor rolled through the streets, a black dog jumped to put his front paws on the fountain so he could take a drink, a kid rode a bike down an alley. Otherwise it was totally quiet, but the albergue door was open, so I went inside. I did my best to read all the signs, I took off my shoes and left them downstairs, then I put my things on a bed and took a shower. 

  

The normal Camino routines, but it feels strange to do them in a place where I haven’t checked in with anyone, haven’t spoken to anyone. But before too long a woman and man showed up, with two kids on bikes. The woman was Maria, the hospitalera, and she spoke a bit of English. I realized then how relieved I was to be able to confirm things with someone, to ask about whether I could get dinner or not (she called to the inn and it turns out that I had communicated well enough that they were prepared to cook for me). She had the keys to the church and she said she has to open it once a day, because it gets so musty inside. I walked in with her- the chapels and churches along the Camino are nearly always locked, so it’s rare to be able to go inside one- and her 6-year old neice, Celia, trailed along behind me, staying close and giggling because I couldn’t speak any Spanish. I think she thought it was both the strangest thing, and the best thing ever. 

I also confirmed with Maria about a sign I’d seen on the door to the albergue… that the albergue in the next town I’d planned to stop in was closed (as of today, of course, it’s having “some problems”). This is the most remote area of the San Salvador so there aren’t many villages or places to stay, but I still have two options: turn my planned 15 kilometer day (not much but it’s a very challenging 15km!) into a 30km day, or stay in a room above the bar in Pajares, the village with the closed albergue. Maria didn’t seem to have much information about it but I figure I’ll try for the room at the bar, or at least see what the situation is like. If not, then I keep walking… One way or another, and even if it’s not easy, I’m sure I’ll find a place to sleep.

In these last two days I’ve mostly just felt like I was hiking through Spain, and not on a Camino. But then there are these moments that remind me of the particular nature of the trail I’m on, that there is so much significance and history of this route. Every once in awhile I’ll pass a small altar, usually set up in the branches of a tree. There is always a bench or a chair underneath and I’ve been stopping and taking a rest, welcoming the comfort and feeling like I’ve found something special. 

  

And then yesterday, I passed by a little pilgrim oasis. I was about 18km out of Leon and the last 10 of those kilometers had been climbing up and down an often rocky path, and whenever I was in the shade small flies would swarm around my head. I didn’t have my back up water supply yet and I was just at the point where I was trying to conserve the water I did have but wishing I weren’t because I was awfully thirsty, when the oasis appeared. It was set to the side of the trail under a small grove of trees. There was a wide picnic table, a trash can, a metal container that held a pilgrim registry and a basket full of blister-healing supplies, and- the best yet- a fountain pouring out fresh, cold water.

  

And today, just when I entered the last village before heading into the mountains, two men passed me. “Una peragrina!” one said to the other, sounding excited. I turned and tried to answer his questions, and soon switched to French when I realized that he knew some. “It’s a beautiful day to be in the mountains,” he said. I smiled and then he wished me a Buen Camino and my smile became wider. Every time I hear it, it’s like I have an extra charge in my steps. “Have a good way,” they’re saying, and it’s said with such genuine care that I believe it, every time. 

  

You Can Always Come Back: Blue Skies and Final Days

Yesterday, I was thinking about how long it had been since I’d seen a cloud in the sky. It feels a bit as though my entire time here has been under a perfect blue sky, and that is nearly true. But then I remember the last thing I posted here, how the weather was chilly, and I remember that yes, there were clouds. There was wind, there was a cool stretch.

It feels so long ago, that first week when I was settling back into life in a small French village in the mountains, remembering how things are done, relearning how to do them, discovering that some things aren’t the same at all. I finally felt settled, another week passed, and now here we are, almost at the end.

  
How is it possible that my time at La Muse is almost over? It makes me feel a little panicked, and I think, “There’s so much I haven’t done.” It makes me feel a little sad, and I think, “When will I come back again? Will I ever come back again?”

I even thought about canceling my Camino, and just staying here. But it’s impossible- the rooms are all booked, which is great news for La Muse and probably the right kind of news for me, too. As much as I want to stay here and never leave, I also want to settle into the next thing… which happens to be Spain and tapas and lots of walking.

I still have four solid days here, and in addition to my regular brainstorming sessions at Le Roc, the long hikes, the chats with the other residents, we also have an “excursion” down to the ruins of a Cathar Castle (we’re tacking on a lunch in a Michelin starred restaurant, too!), and a concert and all-village fête on Saturday night. Tomorrow Vera leaves, so tonight we’re all meeting on the terrace for a goodbye drink. Last night we had a reading, two nights before we had more goodbye drinks for Kelly. 

  
There’s a really good group of residents here, though I have a feeling I might say that about nearly any group that spends time at La Muse; everyone here is creative, and serious about their creativity. But then you have a great and unpredictable mix of the rest of our personalities: introverts and extroverts, loud and quiet, soft and hard, vibrant and calm. On a few nights I’ve stayed up until the bitter end, talking and singing and laughing with those who remain on the terrace, long past the time when the stars have appeared in the sky. Usually I’m in the “second wave”, not leaving first, not staying until the end. But some nights I slip out as soon as my dinner is finished, the last sips of wine drunk. I sneak cookies upstairs- we’re not supposed to have food in the rooms- and I read a book or write in my journal or work on my story. 

The work I’ve gotten done here has been difficult to measure. The bulk of my book is written, I think, but it is so very rough, and I’m still struggling to decide what, exactly, I’m trying to stay. So there is still an awful lot left to be done, but I’m feeing good about it. I’ve had the space here to really delve into the heart of this story, and to my surprise, I discovered that I might not want to really share too much about certain parts, and that I have a whole lot to say about others. And just like last time, the most important work seems to have happened away from my desk, away from the computer. I take the 10 minute path up to the top of the mountain and sit on my large, flat rock and stare off into the valley- the Pyrenees lining the horizon- and after an hour sometimes I just know in my gut what I need to do, what I need to write.

I went on an epic hike today; I wanted to get one full, long day of walking in, a sort of “Camino” training day (because in less than a week, I’ll be on a Camino! Hard to imagine right now….). Lets just say that maybe it was a bit too much. I headed for Latourette, which is just another village tucked away in these mountains, though it is not close. Last time I was here I’d seen signs for it, trails that led there, but it always seemed impossibly far away. But now that I have hiking experience, Camino experience, it seemed doable. The first half was great- up and down and through these mountains, stumbing on tiny villages that weren’t much more than a few houses and a really old church along with some crumbling stone ruins.

  
I made it to Latourette and sat on a bench and ate some snacks and rested my feet. Then I continued on, following a path that I assumed would sort of take me in a big circle and back to Labastide, but the further I walked, the more I realized that it might not have been so smart to follow an unknown trail. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going, and even though I was always on a marked trail, I had a bad feeling that it was taking me away from where I wanted to go.

  
I kept walking though, hoping that the trees would open up and I could take a look at the landscape and get my bearings. The sun was hot, the air was humid, it was getting later, I was feeling more and more unsettled. Finally I turned around, walked back to Latourette, and followed a road that I knew would lead me to a village that was not far from Labastide.

I stumbled back into the village, my legs feeling like jelly, just as dark clouds gathered in the sky and a little rain began to spit down. It’s still overcast now, the first not-blue sky I’ve seen in what feels like weeks and weeks. The kind of sky that makes it easier to sit inside and get some writing done.

Already I can feel myself begin to move away from this experience, my thoughts starting to turn towards Spain, and the Camino. But I’m still here for a few more days and I want to really sink into these last moments: write what I can, wander through the village, sit up at Le Roc, hang out with Homer the dog. And I tell myself the same thing that I did three years ago, as I was preparing to leave: you can always come back.

  
  

  

Walking through Fields of Thorns

It took me several days, but I’ve finally gone hiking. I thought it would be the very first thing I’d do, that I’d settle into my room at La Muse, look out the window, and promtply run out to the green hills.


And I wanted to- oh believe me, I wanted to- but for nearly all of this first week at the retreat, I’ve been fighting a cold. At first I thought this was a good thing, that it would give me more time to write, but mostly it’s just been frustrating. I want the energy to write and to go hiking.

My energy has been coming back, and so for the last two days, I’ve gone out to explore the mountains that I fell in love with three years ago.

Like so much else here, the memories come flooding back, and it almost amazes me what I can remember. As I hiked up the steep, rocky hill on what I call the “Lastours view” hike, it hits me with such a strong sense of knowing: there’s a spot coming up where I like to stop and rest. The spot with the tree that’s just tall enough to provide some shade, the one that casts its shadow over a rocky wall that’s the perfect height to rest against- ah yes, there it is. I’m out of breath, and like I always did, like I probably always will, I stop here and drink some water.


After that first hike I began to think that I wouldn’t exactly be having adventures out here this time around; that I’ve already done all of the hikes, that I know this terrain. But then I found myself setting out yesterday, not exactly sure where I wanted to go. I stopped by the source at the bottom of the village to fill up my water bottles (I love that there’s a place to get water that’s actually called ‘the source’ and it’s the first thing that people say to you when you arrive here: “Have you been to the source yet?”). Then, since I’m already down here, I decide to follow a nearby path that winds up and out of the village, the one that heads towards the lake.

I don’t want to walk all the way to the lake today (I haven’t been yet and there’s talk of a group going later in the week), but I know that the path will connect me to a track that can take me over the mountain. So I venture off, gradually making my way up and up on this shaded and narrow trail through the woods.

Almost immediately, I’m not having much fun. There are trees and bushes on either side of me and spiders have cast their webs across the trail and with nearly every other step, I’m walking staight through the stringy webs. I wipe against my arms and legs constantly, trying to rid myself of the invisible strings.

Soon the path curves and opens up and I remember this from last time: it’s a wide and grassy path, hot in the sun. This time, too, it’s hot in the sun and the path is rather wide and grassy, but it looks like it hasn’t been maintained in the three years since I’ve been here last. Wildflowers and weeds shoot up from the ground and take over the trail almost to the point where it’s hard to know if you’re still on a trail or not. And really, this wouldn’t be so bad if there weren’t stalks of thorns, too. Fields of thorns, as I came to call them, endless fields of thorns.


To be fair, I’d been warned. Another resident, the film editor, has been hiking a lot. He’d arrived a few days before the rest of us and only stayed a week- he’s already gone. But on his last full day he hiked up to the lake, taking the same trail out of the village that I was on now. I asked him about the hike and he gave me some tips, adding, “Oh, if you have long pants, you might want to wear them.”

He said his legs got a little cut up but he really didn’t mind, and that was it. I didn’t think much of it, just assumed that there were a few overgrown sections, that it probably wasn’t that bad.

Let me just say: I should have worn long pants. By the time I got out of the field of thorns, there were scrapes and cuts all over the bottom half of my legs. I’d been careful, too, moving slowly, stepping high, knocking branches away with the end of my stick. But it didn’t matter, the thorns were everywhere. Little nettles were, too, their tiny sharp ends wedging into my socks and shoes and jabbing against my ankles.

“Never again,” I muttered to myself as the path finally joined the road and I walked on towards the mountain top.

But then the longer I walked, the higher I climbed up towards the ridge of the mountain, the dryer the air felt, the stronger the wind- the annoyance and pain of the first part of the hike vanished. All I was left with was that incredible feeling of freedom and space, the kind of strength you feel when you’ve made it to the top of something.

 Hiking route in Labastide, France

I love being back here. I ended my hike hot and sweaty and had to pluck a tiny needle of a thorn from the heel of my foot- but I love it. I’m trying hard to spend time inside, at my desk, but I also can’t resist what is sitting outside my window. Already a week of the retreat is gone- a week!- but I still have two more. And I have a feeling that there are several more adventures waiting for me.

To Summer, To Travel, To Time

The great summer trip of 2016 begins in less than a week, so I thought it was about time that I check back in here with an update. And the only update I really have has already been said: I leave in less than a week!

Does time seem to be moving fast for anyone else? Like, really really fast? Until only a few days ago I was convinced that it was still May, that I had over a month to plan and prepare for my trip, that the days are continuing to lengthen, that summer was still far off.

But all of a sudden it was summer, and work had ended for the year, and the only thing that was looming before me was my big trip. I should be used to this by now, it’s been my pattern for the last three years: work ends around the middle of June, and I promptly hop on a plane for Europe.

So why does it feel like this trip is still weeks and weeks away? Last year, on the first day of summer, I was doing this:

I’d already been walking on the Camino for a few days, life at home felt like it was another world away.

My trip begins a bit later than usual this year, maybe that’s part of it. Or maybe it’s just that life is speeding by so fast that I yearn to hit a pause button, and give myself some time to catch up.

But there’s no stopping time so here we go. I think that finally, in these last few days, I’ve accepted that summer is here. I’ve gone to a baseball game and drank a coke slushey and had a dish of ice cream and spent a day at the beach. I’ve stretched in the lounge chair on my porch with my feet in the sun and read a book that I was too busy to finish months ago. Two days ago I went on a 10-mile hike; tomorrow I’ll try for 12-miles. This is the most hiking I’ve done in a long, long time, and well, it’s about time.

And then next week, I’ll leave for Europe. My first stop is England, something I don’t think I even mentioned in my Summer 2016 blog post. It sort of got lost in the shuffle of my mind, and stayed lost until just a couple days ago. But- oh yeah!- I decided to fly into London because it’s been a solid 15 years since I’ve been there and I thought it could be nice to do something a little new.

This photo is from my last trip to England, all those years ago:

My friend reminded me that our original plan was to spend a few days in London, then head to Stonehenge. But in 2001, Stonehenge was closed for 5 1/2 weeks because of foot-and-mouth disease, so we went to Liverpool instead (and honestly, this was probably my vote all along… Long Live Ringo!).

It’s a bit crazy to think back to that trip- parts of it that feel like a lifetime ago, other parts that are so recent in my memory I could swear that I was just there. Wasn’t I just there? Leaving notes for our friends on scraps of paper at the hotel lobby because this was just before any of us had a cell phone; crossing the street at the wrong end of Abbey Road (and causing quite the pile up of traffic in order to get a photo); battling a cold on the train to London and the endless cups of tea to soothe my throat; noticing that a small magnolia tree was growing in the front yard of the house where George Harrison grew up.

These memories are creeping in because I finally sat down and planned some things for my three days in England. I focus on these details for a moment- there’s a Jane Austen Centre in Bath! I can finally make it to Stonehenge!- but then an email pulls me into another part of the trip. It’s from the writer’s retreat in southern France- our host has forwarded a suggested shopping list so that we’re not overwhelmed when we arrive and are whisked off to the grocery store. And then I think back to my time there three years ago, and how I was overwhelmed, and didn’t buy quite enough food. Will that happen again? What will the village be like- will it be just as I remembered, or will there be changes?

And what am I like, this time? Three years wasn’t all that long ago, and yet, I know that I am different. And certainly, I’m different than I was 15 years ago, on that first trip to London and Liverpool.

Different, and yet… still me. Always me.

There’s more, too: another Amazon package arrived at my door, it’s a guide to walking the West Highland Way. And then I need to push the days in England and the writer’s retreat from my mind, and focus on Scotland. Scotland! I know nothing about Scotland! Shouldn’t I learn something, shouldn’t I do some research? A friend warns me about the haggis, and I wonder if I will try it.

And then, finally, in the very back corner of my mind, I remember that I’m also walking a Camino. That I’m returning to Spain. I’ve barely given it any thought, because this is the thing that feels the most familiar, the most comfortable. Other than breaking in a new pair of shoes, I haven’t done much in preparation. I have all my gear, I know where I’m going; this is the thing that I don’t have to plan for.

But remember just two years ago? My fretting and my fear in the weeks before I left for Spain that first time? Wasn’t I just memorizing the Spanish words for ‘I’m allergic to nuts’ and wondering how, exactly, I was to go about hand-washing my clothing?

Ah, time. I still don’t know what to make of it, of how quickly life is streaming past, yet of how far I’ve seemed to travel in what feels like very fleeting moments. I know that in August, I’m going to be back here at my computer, in my apartment, marveling over how fast the summer just went by.

Of course I will. But I’m not at the end yet, I’m only at the very beginning. So, here’s to summer! May it be the best one yet.

Solo Travel on the Camino

The school year is ending and summer is approaching and that means I’ve been asked, a lot, about my summer plans. I find myself explaining to a whole crop of new people that I’m going to walk the Camino. “What’s the Camino?” they ask.

It’s always the first question.

And the second question, once I’ve explained that it’s a long walk across Spain, is invariably this: “Who are you going with?”

But I had a strange experience the other day: I was talking to a principal at one of the schools I work at, he was telling me that he and his wife and kids are doing a big cross-country road trip this summer. He asked me what my plans were, and I started like I normally do. “Well, I’m going to Europe, to do a thing called the Camino de Santiago.”

His eyes lit up. “The Way? Seriously?”

Turns out he knew all about it, and we got into a long conversation about the outdoors and hiking and the beauty of moving yourself across a great distance.

But it wasn’t until I was driving home from work that I figured out what really struck me about the conversation, more than the fact that he actually knew what the Camino was. He didn’t ask one question about who I was going with, if I was doing it alone. It hadn’t even seemed to matter.

And I really loved that. I get why people want to know if I’m going alone or not, but sometimes I get a little tired of all the explaining I have to do. Like, “It’s actually really safe, you meet loads of other people, there’s always someone walking nearby.” Even with these explanations, people still sometimes give me a look. They’re confused, they feel sorry for me, they look at me as if I’m a bit strange for wanting to do something like this alone.

But after two 500-mile treks across Spain over these last couple of summers, I have to say, I’m beginning to think it would be difficult to walk with someone.

There are lots of benefits, certainly, to have a walking partner, or a small group to go with. Even I have to admit that sometimes, I’m a little envious of the friends that come to the Camino together. I’ll pass them, sitting tight around a table at lunchtime, bottles of wine and beer and baskets of bread and they’re laughing and joking. They get to share this great experience with someone who knows them really well. I think that would be a cool thing to do. And sometimes- even in a crowd (most especially in a crowd, perhaps)- the Camino can feel lonely. There were a few nights on my Norte last summer when I envied the pilgrims who never, ever had to worry about eating dinner alone, who always had a companion with them.

And there’s the safety issue, too. To be honest, I very, very rarely felt unsafe on either of my treks across Spain. Nervous, sometimes, when a dog barked loudly. Anxious when I hadn’t seen a yellow arrow for a long time. But never unsafe. That’s not to say that bad things can’t happen on the Camino, and as always (and especially as a woman), I needed to keep my wits about me, to be observant and aware, to do my best to not put myself in a compromising situation. And I continue to do that, any time I travel.

But these points aside, I really love my solo-Camino time. In some ways, it feels like one of the most special things I can give to myself at this time in my life, and I know how lucky I am that I can spend a month being totally and completely selfish. I walk when I want to walk, I stop when I want to stop, I can walk a 50+ kilometer day and I don’t have to try to convince anyone to do the same.

A solo-Camino might not be for everyone, but I think it’s a wonderful experience to have. Two summers ago, when I started walking away from St Jean Pied de Port, I was so scared. I’d barely slept the night before, I froze in my bunk because I was too nervous to get up to close the window because I thought I would disturb the person sleeping beneath me, the clothes I’d washed hadn’t dried, I wasn’t even really sure how to get out of the town and onto the path of the Camino. But then I started walking, and that first day still goes down as my absolute favorite Camino walk. It’s hard to describe the sense of achievement, bravery, energy, love, peace, pride, solidity that I felt as I moved myself across a mountain. Others who had come alone were already pairing off, walking in groups, finding their “Camino Families”, braving the Pyrenees together.

I walked alone.

I eventually made friends, and there were times- especially on the Camino Frances- when I felt like I wasn’t as alone as I would have liked. But here was the beauty of coming into this experience myself: at any time, whenever I wanted, I could separate myself. I could walk with others, I could walk alone. I could take a rest day, I could walk a great distance, I could eat french fries for twelve days in a row and no one had any idea.

And it wasn’t just being alone whenever I wanted, it was the ability to be with others. I still think that a solo-pilgrim on the Camino attracts others in a way that pilgrims in pairs or groups don’t. Many, many people approached me to say hi, to start a conversation, because I was alone. And I, in turn, approached others when I was feeling a bit alone. You’re going to meet people on the Camino regardless of whether you’re alone or in a group, but the opportunity for new friends increases, I think, when you’re solo.

People help you, too. They look out for you, they take care of you, when they know it’s just you (well, they help you if you’re in a group too- Camino angels help everyone). On the Frances, I had so many mothers and fathers out there. I even had a little sister and a little brother, and someone who reminded me of my own grandfather. People who asked me how I was doing whenever they saw me, asked if I was wearing my sunscreen, made sure I had a place to sleep, that I had enough to eat.

One time, on the Primitivo, a Spanish guy had been walking ahead of me. We’d left a cafe at the same time and he was fast, and soon he disappeared down the path. But a little later I saw him standing off to the side of the trail. He was waiting for me, and he explained that there was a large dog up ahead. “I didn’t want you to be afraid, so I waited for you, to help you pass,” he said. The same thing happened a few days later- a different guy, and this time, a cow.

I wish I could explain about all of this, when anyone seems concerned that I’m going off to Spain alone. I wish I could explain that I’m never really alone out there, that in fact, I think the Camino Frances is probably one of the safest places in the world for a female to travel solo. And I wish I could explain that going alone isn’t so bad, that actually, it’s quite wonderful. That sometimes it’s good to do things by ourselves, to learn what we’re capable of, to remember what we’re capable of.

I’ve got another Camino coming up- soon- and once again I’m going alone. One of these years I’d love to share this experience with someone, and I have no doubt that I will. But for now I’m solo, and I couldn’t be happier.

How we tell our stories (love on the Camino?)

A few days ago, I received an email from an online Camino friend. He was writing to tell me that he had just seen me in a movie.

“Ah,” I thought. “So they made the movie.” And then, “They included my part.” And then, “What in the world have I done??”

Let’s set the scene. I was 17km away from Santiago on the Camino Frances, two summers ago. I’d been walking with my Irish friend, and it was a long, hot day that seemed to never end. We’d had to walk much further than anticipated because all the albergues were full, but finally we found an albergue/pension on a quiet street just off the main path of the Camino.

You know who also found the albergue? A Swiss film crew. It was their last night on the Camino- they’d already been to Santiago, they’d finished filming, they were about to fly home. But then they heard that there was a couple staying in the albergue, and they didn’t have the love story angle for their film, and before I knew it, I was in a green plastic chair in front of billowing laundry and being asked questions about my Camino relationship.

Now, before I get to what I really want to write about, I need to set a few things straight. I was never in a “Camino relationship”, not really. I didn’t have a love story to share, I wasn’t even sure how I had ended up in front of a camera, but then again, that just seemed to be the sort of thing that happened on the Camino. And I remember that on that night, I was overwhelmed, and I probably thought to myself, “Well, why not just tack this onto the list of things that the Camino has thrown at me?”

This happens on the Camino, it’s something I continue to marvel at: how so much life is crammed into each and every day of the walk, how time seems to alter and bend. You meet people and after a couple days it feels like you’ve known them for years. You walk through ever changing scenery and you sleep in a different bed every night and there is just constant motion, constant community, constant stimulation.

And when I sat down for the interview with the Swiss film crew, I was so saturated with Camino experiences that I simply couldn’t keep up. I was still trying to process things that had happened to me weeks before, so I suppose I just sat down on the green chair and thought to myself, “The Camino provides?” and then started answering questions.

I think I’ve only ever told one person, maybe two, about this interview. Because once it was over, it was sort of tacked onto the list of “things that happened on my Camino that I don’t really have time to think about, or understand”. I was so close to Santiago at this point that all I really wanted to do was walk. I couldn’t really think about anything else. (And in fact, the crew asked if I could find them in the morning before I left, so that they could get a few shots of me walking. But when the morning came, I slipped out of the albergue quietly, and headed off towards Santiago).

And that leads me back to my reaction, when I found out about this movie: “What in the world have I done??” It’s not nearly as dramatic as that, I can’t imagine there’s much more than 30 seconds or a minute from me, or from my Irish friend (who was sitting next to me during the interview). But I have to laugh a little, and wonder what, exactly, I was portraying in that film. And what, exactly, the filmmakers wanted from us, how they chose to shape and edit words and images so that they could tell the story they wanted to tell.

They wanted a love story, or at least a piece of one. And my story wasn’t a love story, but I suppose that my Irish friend might have answered differently. And, as you readers of the blog will know, I was caught in my own eternal Camino question: be alone, or stay with others? Ultimately I began that Camino alone and I ended alone, but all along the way, it was a struggle. And I was still struggling with it, right up until the very end.

I remember one question that the interviewer asked us, he said something like, “So, I have to ask it: what happens next with you guys?” And my answer was something like this, “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll get married, or maybe we’ll never see each other again.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I was wondering where they came from. I knew I would never marry my Irish friend, but the thing is… hadn’t part of me wondered? Hadn’t part of me wondered at every person I met, every good-looking European guy (and there were so many on that Camino!) who stayed close to my side, who wanted to walk with me, who offered me a hunk of cheese? Love wasn’t exactly part of that Camino journey for me, and yet, it was also in nearly every step I took. There was a point when I had wondered about my Irish friend: “The Camino provides!” they say, over and over, and suddenly there’s a beautiful 6 foot 4 inch man who wants to walk with me, who listens to the same music as I do, who recites poetry, who buys me gummy candy. Maybe I could marry him, I thought.

And maybe that’s what you see, when you watch this film. Maybe that’s what I portrayed, when I answered the questions. Maybe that’s what the filmmakers want you to see and believe.

But that’s only one small part of the story, and it’s a part that’s not entirely- or even remotely- the truth of my Camino. In the past few days, I’ve thought about this a lot, I suppose I’ve been thinking about this all fall and winter, as I’ve worked on my book. What story am I choosing to share? What version of the truth am I deciding to put down on the page?

Once I was having a discussion (or was it a fight? I could never tell the difference) with my ex-boyfriend. I’d just explained my point of view on something, the way I was feeling, how I’d reacted to something he’d done or said. And he exploded, crying out, “But that’s only how you see it! That’s not what happened!!”

What? It was what happened, it was my experience of what happened, which makes it a version of reality.

There are a lot of different versions of the way things happen, the way we choose to remember something, they narrative threads we pick out from our lives, how we arrange things so that we can tell our stories. I think of how, somewhere out there, I’m a very small part of a Camino film, and how it’s telling some sort of story of my experience. One that I might not even agree with. And I think about how, right at this moment, I’m in the thick of writing another version of that story, a larger, more fleshed-out version. But already I wonder, “Is that really what happened? Did I really feel all of those things, say those things? Was that my experience?”

It was a blast being interviewed for a film. It captured something, some small part of my story- one that was reality or imagined I’m not sure. And it’s also been a blast writing this book. It’s been difficult and mind-numbing and even excruciating, but a blast. I’m capturing something. And it is my wildest dream that one day, you might be able to read my story, however I choose to tell it.

Because it just wouldn’t be right to talk all about a Camino film and not share details with you, here is some information: http://santiagoelcamino.com/dvd.html

 

The Luckiest Day; Cumberland Island Adventure Part 3

Have you ever had one of those days, a day that just goes so well that you think you must have been hit with a great big stroke of luck? I’ve had a few of these days, and whenever I find myself in one, I always think of that moment in Harry Potter when he drinks the potion Felix Felicis (otherwise known as ‘Liquid Luck’). Basically, the magical potion makes him lucky and successful in whatever he does. Not just a lucky moment, but an entire lucky day.

My second day on Cumberland Island felt like it was under the magic spell of Felix Felicis. It started with that beautiful sunrise: I’d stumbled out of my tent a little after seven and hoped that I hadn’t missed the sunrise. I walked quickly out to the beach, wandered down to the ocean, and looked up at the horizon. Within seconds, the first sliver of sun appeared. “What good timing!” I thought to myself.

This wasn’t the only good timing of the day, but that comes later. First, I made myself a cup of coffee, ate a pop-tart, loaded up my pack and then set out for an all-day hike of the island. I headed north, starting out on the Parallel Trail (a quiet path under the oaks that runs parallel to the main road) but at the first dune crossing moved over to the beach, where I walked for a mile or two. All along my beach walk, I was keeping my eyes peeled for sea glass (something I’ve been collecting since I was a kid). Somewhere I’d read that fabulous sea glass can be found on the island, but after a few miles of close and careful searching, nothing came up. And I’m a champion sea glass finder! I saw just about everything else- beautiful shells, star fish, what I believe was a washed-up hammerhead shark (!!), and more sand dollars than I could count.

When I finally gave up on my hunt for sea glass, I headed back across the dunes and onto Willow Pond Trail, where I walked east to west across the island. It was somewhere on this trail, in a bright patch of sunlight, when I saw something long and black move quickly in the tall grass. My eyes darted to the movement and the black thing slithered away. I tried to convince myself that it was a big lizard but the shape wasn’t right, the movement wasn’t right. It could only be a snake.

My mind began to play tricks on me as I continued to walk, and I jumped every time the wind blew. There may not be any bears on the island, but there were certainly snakes, and crocodiles, too (the park ranger pointed out a trail that led to a lake where I might be able to spot one, and I gave a fast “no thank you”). But that brief and harmless snake sighting proved to be the most nerve-racking experience during my time on the island; all things considered, that’s not too bad considering it was three days spent in the great wide open.

I continued on a network of trails, weaving across and up the island, my destination was Plum Orchard, one of the existing estates that Lucy Carnegie had built for one of her sons. And just before I reached Plum Orchard- when I was still on the trail but felt like I was miles away from anything- I heard another sound, saw something moving, but this time it wasn’t a snake. It was an elderly man on a motorized cart, wearing a wide brimmed hat and a light green polo shirt. I scooted off to the side of the trail to let him pass, but he stopped the cart and began to talk to me.

He seemed happy to learn that I was here for more than a day trip and that I was camping on the island. And then he seemed thrilled to hear that I was from Philadelphia.

“Philadelphia!” his voice lifted. “How in the world did you hear about us?”

We talked for a few more minutes, then I hesitantly asked, “Do you live on the island?”

He smiled before he replied. “No, but I’m part of the family who originally owned the island- the Carnegies- so I come here for a few weeks of the year with my kids and grandkids.”

It was now my turn to be thrilled. He told me that these were the 5 most beautiful days of the year in Georgia, that Plum Orchard was just up the road and I might be able to catch a tour of the property.

He gave me a firm handshake and then motored off down the tail, while I continued to walk. And within a few minutes, Plum Orchard came into view and, in yet another stroke of luck, as I walked up to the sprawling porch I saw that a group had gathered and a tour was just beginning.

The day had been about as perfect as you could get, but somehow- after breaks on the beach, hunting for sea glass, the tour of Plum Orchard, lunch at a picnic table in the shade- it was 3:30 and I still had to walk back to my campground. Supposedly, Plum Orchard was only 7 miles from SeaCamp, but I nearly doubled that distance with the winding, topsy-turvy route I’d taken on the way up. So I chose a more direct path on the way back, walking mostly on the Main Road (one more bit of almost incredible luck: just as I was wishing that there could be a side trail to take that would split up my time on the main road, a side trail appeared. What are the odds? I think it was called the Old River Trail, but it wasn’t on either of my maps, and by the look of the signposts, it seemed rather new. So I took it and it while it may have added just a bit of distance, it ran mostly parallel to the main road and was beautiful).

Despite the island being almost totally flat, the last few miles of my walk were exhausting. By the end of the day my phone was reporting that I had walked 28 miles. 28 miles!! When had that happened? I stumbled into my camp and nixed my plans of going back to the dock to watch the sunset. I ate dinner, crawled into my tent, read for a bit and was out by 9pm. And, thanks to the hours of fresh air and walking, I slept like a log- totally undisturbed by the lumpy ground or the rustling in the palmettos.

What a fine and lucky day.

Horses and Castles and Freeze-Dried Food; Cumberland Island Adventure Part 2

My first order of business- after arriving on Cumberland Island and setting up camp- was to explore my surroundings. Sea Camp (where I was staying) was at the southern end of the island; only a quick boardwalk stroll away from the beach, and about a mile and a half from the ruins of Dungeness, the old Carnegie estate.

The known history of Cumberland Island stretches back about 4,000 years ago, to indigenous peoples, the Native American Timucua group, Spanish missionaries, French pirates, English generals, Revolutionary War heroes. In the late 19th century, Thomas and Lucy Carnegie bought land on Cumberland Island (and eventually the Carnegie’s owned up to 90% of the island); they built a 59-room mansion called Dungeness, and later Lucy had other estates built for her children. The Carnegies left the island after the Great Depression and everything sat, abandoned and empty, for years. Dungeness burned in the 50’s, leaving only structural remains behind.

Dungeness was my destination for the day, and I planned a wide loop from my campsite: a walk on the beach to get down and over to Dungeness, and then a walk back up to the campsite on one of the many trails that ran through the island. During our ranger talk that morning, we were told that the loop from the Sea Camp dock, to the beach, to Dungeness and back was about 4-miles. By the day’s end, somehow, I had ended up walking 14 miles (and this would be a theme for me on Cumberland Island… I was seriously doubting the distances on their maps).

But did it matter that I walked much more than anticipated? On a place like Cumberland Island, walking around was one of the easiest things to do. The paths are all hard packed sand and just about totally flat. The weather for my three days on the island climbed from mid-60’s to mid-70’s and was nothing but sunny. If I walked on the trails, I was nearly always under the shade of the live oak trees, and if I walked on the beach, I was nearly always graced with a pleasant and cooling wind.

So I found myself wandering here and there, back and forth, exploring every nook and cranny.

And by the time I got to Dungeness, I was enthralled. Wild horses were everywhere: slow moving or standing still, in small packs of twos or threes. They stretched in a line across the great lawn of Dungeness, and it was an eerie and surreal sight: a water-less fountain, chimneys climbing to nowhere, the only thing that seemed alive were these horses, appearing and disappearing before my eyes.

Wild horses and Dungeness, Cumberland Island, Georgia

There were other people here, too, but not many: I’d read that only 300 people were permitted on Cumberland Island per day. This added to the serenity and deserted feel of the island; while more people were concentrated at the ruins and on the beach near the dune crossings, it never felt crowded or crazy or loud. There were no vendors, no tourist gimmicks, no large tour groups. Instead, it felt like I had somehow gained access to a place that not many people knew about, that not many people could get to.

And for a long time, this was the case on Cumberland Island. The Carnegies owned much of the island until the 1950’s, when they had the National Park Service come to check out the land. Over the next 20 years, there was some back and forth with plans for the island: efforts to designate it as a national seashore, then the interest of a developer, then another push to protect the land and keep it largely undeveloped. In the 70’s, the Carnegies sold it to the federal government and the National Parks Service, though there was a deal that allowed any living member of the Carnegie family in the 1970’s to retain their rights to the island through their lifetime. So now, the descendants of Andrew and Lucy Carnegie are still there (at least from time to time), and the island is also open to the public, but it remains a place of solitude, even wilderness.

And that was apparent with nearly every step I took- worn, wooden signs pointing towards crumbling cemeteries, armadillos scurried through the palmettos, miles and miles of sand and ocean without another soul in sight.

My day frittered away like this: crossing back and forth over the dunes, looking out over saltwater marshes, collecting firewood as I walked down a trail. When I’d first arrived and set up my campsite, I thought to myself, “The only limit on my time is the setting sun. I have all day to go anywhere, to do anything.” In a way, I had experienced this on the Camino de Santiago: time slowed there, and simplified. Here, too, there was a simplicity. Time didn’t matter so much, there was no schedule, there was no inside versus outside.

But to be honest, at first, the “no inside” thing was hard. That entire first evening, after exploring the island and returning to my campsite, I felt a little restless and off. My nerves returned: I worried that something would go wrong with my stove, that I would be cold at night (already, the early evening temperatures were down in the 50’s), that a wild horse would storm through my camp.

My stove worked fine (I’d bought a Jetboil Flash and it worked like a dream. My blogging friend Drew wrote up a great review, and just maybe it was his words that sold me on this particular model), the tip of my nose was cold while I slept, but my sleeping bag and sleeping pad and clothing layers all did the trick, quite nicely. And while I slept fitfully all night- tossing and turning and trying to find a comfortable position- as far as I knew, no animals had barged their way into my campsite.

I woke up early and wandered down to the beach just in time to see the sunrise, and I stood alone, no one in sight for miles, and watched as the sun peeked over the tip of the ocean, far off on the horizon. I thought about my first day and night of camping. They had been, for all accounts, a success. And as I watched the golden morning light shimmering over the water, I wondered what my second day would bring.

Sunrise over Atlantic Ocean, Cumberland Island, Georgia

 

 

Beware the raccoons!- Cumberland Island Camping Adventure, Part One

I’ve mentioned here before that I have next to no camping experience, but also that I got a tent for Christmas. One of my goals for 2016 was to take the tent out into the great unknown- “into the wild”- and use it, and I’m here to report that I survived my first ever, solo-camping trip.

I would almost go so far as to say that not only did I survive… I thrived. Though that might be pushing it a bit. Still, I’m racking my brain to think of something that went wrong, something I was woefully unprepared for, something that made me say, “I’m never going camping again!”

There was nothing. I wish sleeping on the ground had been a little more comfortable… and three days without a shower is a little much (there were cold water showers at my campsite, but I chickened out)… but this is camping. Being clean and sleeping comfortably are things I do in my every day life, and if a little dirt and discomfort were my biggest worries, then I’d say that my camping trip went pretty well.

But really, this trip ended up being about so much more than learning how to sleep and eat outdoors. It was elevated to another level by the location: Cumberland Island, a barrier island off the southern coast of the US state of Georgia. At 17.5 miles long, it has stretches of undeveloped beaches, salt marshes, maritime forest. It was designated a national seashore (and national park) in the 70’s, and is largely unspoiled and unpopulated. There is no bridge to the island- you need to take a ferry- no paved roads, no amenities. There are a handful of private homes but most of the island is designated as a wilderness area. There are birds and turtles and raccoons and armadillos and several hundred wild horses, that roam all through the island.


I’d anticipated that I would be blogging while I was there- that, since I was alone, I’d have nothing to do in the evenings and would use that time to write. But somehow, the days just slipped away and before I knew it, the sun had set and it was 8pm and I was ready to tuck into my tent with a cup of wine and cookies and my book (yeah, I brought a bottle of wine. I liked the idea of toasting my camping success each evening! So, not totally roughing it just yet).

Now I’m back, to my comfy and cozy apartment, and I imagine that I’ll devote a few blog posts to this trip. So here is part one: “Beware of the raccoons!”

I heard this warning multiple times- from a girl on the ferry ride over, from a park ranger giving us an orientation when we got to the island, from campers who had been there before.

“The raccoons are sneaky,” said an 11-year old girl on the ferry. “Last year, they took our pasta, and that was my favorite meal!”

I never got the name of the girl on the ferry, but she befriended me instantly (I always seem to make friends with the kids), and talked my ear-off on the 40 minute ride from St Mary’s to the island. She told me that this was the second year her family was camping on the island; she reported that last time, she’d pet both an armadillo and a horse (statements that I’m now questioning, considering how fast armadillos scurry away and by how many times we were warned to stay away from the horses). “I love this place,” she said, a slight southern accent to her voice, her blue eyes opened wide. “I hope we get campsite eleven again, that’s the one closest to the beach.”

As she talked, I found myself growing increasingly nervous. I’d felt the nervousness in the days leading up to my trip, and on the night before I began the long, 12-hour drive down to Georgia, I questioned what I was doing. Laying in a warm bed, four walls around me, a kitchen full of food and a bathroom with a hot shower, I wondered why on earth I was going to go camping for 3 days. This happens to me from time to time- I decide to do something and throw myself into the preparations, then just before it’s time to leave I get overwhelmed with the reality of what I’ve gotten myself into. I begin to think I was crazy to want to try something new, I begin to think that it would be so much easier to just stay home.

But that’s just fear talking: I hear it a lot, but I’m getting used to how it sounds. I’m also getting used to ignoring it, and then going and trying something new anyway.

By the time I was on the ferry my nervousness was mixed with excitement. Dozens of people were crammed in the cabin of the ferry- it was windy and cold outside, so we all squeezed inside, standing in the aisles. As the 11-year old continued to talk, I looked out the window: we were surrounded by blue water and strips of green land, deep colors with sunshine washing over everything.


Once the ferry docked at Cumberland Island and we all unloaded our stuff, the day-trippers went off to rent bikes, to trek over to the beach, or the ruins of the old Carnegie estate (more on that, later). The campers had to gather together for a quick talk from the park ranger, and then we were assigned campsites.

I felt a little awkward, sitting among groups of people: families who were loud and laughing, couples sitting close together with great, hulking backpacks. Everyone seemed surprised to find out that I was alone, and maybe moreover, that I was a girl and I was alone. But the woman next to me smiled and introduced me to her college-aged children, sitting behind us. And the 11 year old girl was in front of me, and gave me a high five and whispered, “Good luck” when I went to the front to get my campsite.

I chose the smallest site, and set off for the half mile walk to the campgrounds. I was loaded down with my stuff- my Camino pack on my back, a smaller backpack strapped to my front, a large duffel slung over my shoulder. But as soon as I moved away from the office building and began walking down the path, all of my fear left me, and I walked with a big smile on my face.

I was surrounded by so much beauty: a hard packed sand trail, bordered on both sides by a dense layer of palmettos- “little palms”- with their long, bright green leaves. Overhead were the twisting, gnarled branches of live oak trees, covered with draping Spanish moss, and the sunlight filtered through, giving off a shimmery, magical kind of light.


And once I got to the campgrounds, it was even better: those palms and the the Spanish moss were everywhere, creating natural borders between the sites, and a canopy of branches and moss casting shade over the ground. My campsite felt perfect- just the right size for one or two people- and I was able to set up my tent in a little area that was tucked away, totally invisible to anyone passing by on the path. I quickly stored all of my food in the food cage, and loaded up my pack with basic hiking/exploring supplies: lots of water, items for lunch, a first aid kit and a towel for lounging on the beach.

Just before I set off to explore part of the island I looked back: to my tent, hoping that I staked it down right, that a gust of wind wouldn’t knock it over. And to the food cage that held all of my food for the next three days, that I hoped was secure and raccoon proof. To the picnic table and the fire ring and the draping Spanish moss. This was home for the next few days, and I felt amazed and lucky that I had gotten myself there.


Stay tuned for more of my adventures (including some of those wild horses, a big black snake, and a Carnegie).

Daylight and Writer’s Block

I sat down at my kitchen table, just past 6:00 pm, my usual time. I poured a glass of wine and loaded up Ryan Adam’s ‘1989’ cover album onto Spotify and I pressed play.

This is how I write my book. It’s happening in very, very small increments, from day to day. My kitchen table, sometimes a glass of wine, always the Ryan Adams music.

But right now it’s a bit after 7:00 and I’ve written just a couple of really bad paragraphs, and mostly I’ve just stared out the window or I’ve gotten up a few times, and peeked at the bread that’s rising underneath a dish towel at the other end of the table.

Some days are just not good writing days, but this has been a particularly bad one, so I hopped over here, to the blog, instead.

Twice a year in the US we have daylight savings time: clocks one hour behind in the fall, one hour ahead in the spring. We sprung ahead last night, and while I don’t like losing an hour of my day, I love this time change. The days have already been stretching out, longer and longer, but now daylight will extend well into the evening and for me, this means a return to life.

I always hibernate a bit in the winter, and this winter was no exception. Despite the mild days and very little snow, I took advantage of the darkening late afternoons by coming home, hunkering in, and getting to work on my book. The progress has been slow but it’s also been steady, and right now, I have a pile of (virtual) pages, something that’s actually beginning to resemble a book. Well, probably I’m getting ahead of myself- mostly it’s just pages and some of it strings together but other parts just hang out alone, waiting for something to come along and connect them to the greater whole. I have a long way to go, but all of this winter writing has been getting me somewhere.

So I’m maybe all the more frustrated by the lack of focus tonight. I try really hard to guard my writing time, giving myself as many evenings as I can to sink into my routine and force out something onto the page. But in the past few weeks I’ve noticed a growing fear. It started sometime when the days began to lengthen and the sun began to shine a bit stronger, when the air felt warm on my skin. The fear whispered in my ear: “How are you going to stay inside and write when the world becomes beautiful again?”

Tree on the Delaware & Raritan Canal Towpath, New Jersey

The pattern of my life changes when winter starts to fold into spring- I go outside and stay outside, on long hikes and walks. I buy water ice and I spread out on a blanket in the grass. I plan things and see friends and show up more to the stuff that I tend to say ‘no’ to in the winter.

But what will this mean for my writing? What happens to the 6pm writing time, the mellow music and the glass of red wine, everything set up just so, so that I’m conditioned to sit down and work?

I’m not so worried yet, not really, but tonight hasn’t done me any favors. I know I’ll need to adjust my routines or find new ones, and I’m convinced that I will, because I’ve written too much of this book to stop now.

But in the meantime, I have to say, I’m so excited for warm weather and the slow approach to summer. My plans for July and August are all over the place- about every other day I come up with a new idea, and mostly, I want to do it all: another Camino. A writer’s retreat. A walk in France. A walk in England. A walk in Scotland. I fall further and further down the rabbit hole, collecting more information and ideas and items to add to my bucket list, and there are so many right now that I don’t know what to chose.

Not a bad problem to have. But before any of that, I have a mini-vacation coming up in a week, and I’ll be headed to Cumberland Island, a 17-mile stretch of land on the Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of the state of Georgia. Maybe this is why I’m worried about my writing- it’s my first trip in months, and will cause a serious disruption to my very rigid routine.

But I have to say, I’m so excited to be getting away. I’ll be camping on my own for the first time: three nights in my little tent, in a reserved campsite that’s a stone’s throw from running water and showers. So for now, a perfect scenario. It’s also a stone’s throw from quiet beaches and numerous hiking trails, and maybe most importantly, instead of black bears there are wild horses. (Lets hope the horses don’t come stomping into my campsite, but even if they do, I’ll be far less terrified of them than a visit from a bear).

I still have to practice setting up my tent, and I’ve got to gather up some food and see if I can work the little camp stove that I bought a few weeks ago. But all the planning aside, I can’t wait to explore a new place and to sleep outside and watch the sunset over the ocean. And I’m also excited to blog about the trip, so even if I don’t get much book writing done in the next few weeks, you can be sure to have some blog updates about this upcoming adventure.

One way or the other, I’m plugging along. Just continuing to plug along: my book, the blog, myself, my car (oh boy, my car!), my dreams. I hope you’re all plugging along as well, enjoying the extra daylight (if you’re in the same part of the world as me), and making exciting plans for the future. See you soon.

Shadow on Hedgerow Theater, Rose Valley, PA

Into the Wild: Fear and the Unknown

I got a tent for Christmas. It’s a small and simple thing, maybe the smallest and simplest kind of tent out there: long and narrow and fits a single person, white nylon and a sea-foam green colored rainfly. I had to learn what a rainfly was when I was researching tents, and I had to learn how to set up a tent, too. I opened the drawstring pouch and pulled out a mess of nylon and polyester and aluminum poles that, surprisingly, snapped into place with what seemed like a mind of their own. I tugged the material down at the edges and unzipped the large, semi-circle door and crawled inside. It smelled new and my socks squeaked against the floor as I slid them down the length of the tent and then laid there, all stretched out, with enough room to flex my toes. I was in my own little kingdom.

I haven’t taken the tent outside yet; it’s the middle of February and the coldest it’s been all winter. So it’s been sitting in my living room, all folded up and sometimes I think about taking it out and setting it up, just for practice. Because my plan is to use the tent a lot this year.

tent view, shenandoah national park, virginia

This is not my tent. But it is the tent I slept in on one of my very few camping experiences.

Before I walked my first Camino, I had a lot of fears (and to be honest, I was pretty nervous before my second Camino as well, even though I had a good idea of what to expect). I wrote a post, nearly two years ago now, about bravery and fear and what it meant to me to be afraid of something, but to do it anyway. It’s something I still think about a lot, the idea of fear, and how to move through it.

A friend that I met on my first Camino told me something that has stuck with me. He was talking about his own fears, and told me the story of how he went into a forest and slept out in the open. He was so afraid of being alone and unprotected in the wilderness- afraid of wild animals, afraid of a wild man, afraid to be vulnerable.

So he decided to face the fear, and went out in the woods with only a sleeping bag and he stayed there overnight.

“Were you scared?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said, laughing. “I jumped every time I heard a branch snap. I barely slept at all.”

But when it was over, he found that he didn’t have the same kind of fear about being out in the wild as he did before.

A lot of people have stories like this, how we are afraid of something and then we face it and even if some fear lingers, it’s not as bad as it was before. Because we need to have the experience to know that we can do it, to know that it is not as bad as we might imagine. And when we do something again and again, sometimes the fear goes away almost completely.

Until a few years ago, I hadn’t ever given much thought to camping or backpacking or being out in the wild, at all. Despite having been drawn to survival stories for nearly as long as I can remember (I was captivated by the book The Hatchet when I was in elementary school, and I’m one of the few people who is still watching the television series ‘Survivor’), I was never really interested in spending a significant amount of time out in the woods.

campsite, shenandoah national park, virginia

And for a very long time, I just assumed that it was something that I wasn’t into- it wasn’t me.

But it turns out that there’s a big difference between never being exposed to something, and not liking it. Just because you’ve never done something before doesn’t mean that you won’t like it, or be good at it, or couldn’t learn to love it.

Three summers ago I went to France and stayed in the mountains in the south and hiked every day. It opened up something in me- the possibility that I might love the outdoors, and climbing things, and pushing myself. I might not even mind a little dirt and a little sweat.

Then I walked the Camino and it solidified the feeling I’d had in France, the summer before: I did love being outside. I did love pushing myself and doing something physically challenging. I loved hiking and walking and trekking. I loved the mountains.

cows and mountains, camino del norte, spain

Cows and Mountains, on the Camino del Norte

So you’d think after these experiences I wouldn’t question myself so much anymore, that I would throw myself into all things outdoors, right? And people have asked me about this, time and time again: “So, when are you going to hike the Appalachian Trail?”

And every time I would laugh and say, “Oh, maybe I’d do a few days of it sometime. But I really like having a bed to sleep in at night, and coffee breaks during my hike, and a bottle of wine in the evenings, etc, etc.”

And I do like those things. But I was also assuming that I wouldn’t like camping and roughing it and not showering and sleeping on the ground and strange sounds in the night. I wasn’t thinking about the other parts, though: the challenge of carrying everything I need to survive on my back, of setting up a little home every night, of the satisfaction of cooking my own simple meals and falling asleep under the stars and waking up to a sunrise, and all of that fresh, dewy air.

sunset, shenandoah national park, virginia

Sunset in Shenandoah National Park, Virginia

Here’s the thing: I’m still not sure if I’m going to like camping, or backpacking. I have a lot of fear about it. Fear that I’m going to be too uncomfortable or cold, that I won’t be able to figure out how to use a camping stove, that I won’t set up my tent properly. That my backpack will be too heavy or that I won’t like being dirty. Bears. Or that, after all these years and after challenging so many of the assumptions I have about myself, I still don’t think I’m the kind of person who does this kind of thing. I’m not an outdoorsy person. I don’t camp. I’m not a hiker. I’m not a backpacker.

But whenever I start to think like this and the worries and the fears creep in, I tell myself to remember the Camino. Remember the Camino! The lessons come back to me in a rush. When I started out, I didn’t know a thing. I didn’t own one piece of trekking gear. I didn’t know if I could do it. I was so afraid, and then I walked 500 miles, and I came home, so confident in my ability to just figure things out. I felt capable.

So I’m facing a fear this year- I’m going to go out “into the wild” (or maybe just down a trail) with my tent and I’m going to sleep outside and I’m going to do it alone. I’ll do it with others, too, if the opportunity comes up, but I also think it’s important that I do some of this by myself.

I’ve been researching places where I can go camping, and I’ll probably start out with car camping first, then maybe I’ll look for a bigger backpack and try out a couple days on a trail somewhere. Baby steps, single steps- I’m a big fan of them as you know. Maybe it will all lead up to something bigger, or maybe it won’t.

But none of that really matters right now. Now, it only matters that I’m going to try. I hope to write about my experiences of going out into the wild, and share them here. I have a little spring break coming up in March, and some ideas brewing, so stayed tuned!

Camping at dusk, Shenandoah National Park, Virginia

Camino Frances vs Camino del Norte: which is “better”?

“Which Camino did you like better- the Frances or the Norte?”

It’s a question I started to get a lot as this year’s Camino was ending, and oh boy, what a question. But people want to know, they want to know how these Caminos compare to each other, which I liked better, what I preferred about each of them, how they are different.

And it was too difficult to figure out an easy way to answer. Eventually, I began to answer like this- “I’m so glad that I walked the Frances first.”

But I don’t think that’s much of an answer at all. How can I compare? Both Caminos were wonderful, and in very different ways. I’m not sure that I would have loved each as much had I not done them in the order I did (and I wonder how the timing would have affected my experience, had I let more time go by in between the two walks).

This is how I look at these two Caminos: it was all, actually, just one big pilgrimage. When I arrived in Santiago at the end of the Camino Frances, all I could think was that I wanted to keep walking. I wanted to walk for at least another month, for another 500-miles. I felt like I was just beginning to reach deeper into the experience of my pilgrimage, just starting to identify the lessons that the journey was showing me, just starting to practice some things that I suspected I’ve long needed to practice. I felt like I needed to go back.

The Camino Frances, for me, was sort of like the guidebook for how to do a pilgrimage. It was the start, it’s what I needed to do first. It showed me a little (sometimes a lot) of everything: a physical challenge, social interaction, time alone, art and culture, religion and history. I was thrown into it all, and I sort of waltzed through: this dizzying, swirling, laughing dance down a long trail. I moved through the Frances with so much energy, and overall I felt like I had incredible good luck- a charmed experience, in a way.

But the meat of my pilgrimage? I think I got that this summer, on the Norte and Primitivo. I certainly got bits and pieces of it on the Frances, but it was almost like I needed the lessons of the Frances in order to be able to practice them on the Norte. And that experience- feeling like I was able to quickly settle into a ‘meaty’ pilgrimage and have hundreds of miles to walk and think and face challenging situations and practice being strong and independent- that made my 2nd Camino beautiful. It made it so, so special to me, in a different way than the Frances was special. I felt like I shared the Camino Frances with a hundred other friends; I felt like the Norte and Primitivo were all for me.

However, had I started with the Norte, I think I would have had a completely different kind of experience. I’m certain that I would have loved the scenery and the walks along the coast. I would have loved the interactions with other pilgrims. And if I had signed up for this Camino thing in order to have a long walk- a trek across a country- the Norte would have satisfied that expectation completely.

But I decided to do the Camino for a little more than that. I wanted the spiritual journey as much as I wanted to trek across a country, and in some ways, I think I needed to walk the Frances first. The Frances is the Camino, and I could feel the mystique surrounding it: words like ‘magic’ and ‘aura’ and ‘fate’ and ‘angels’ kept popping up. So many people connected to and noticed the magic of the Camino, and the more we talked about it, the more we experienced it. Every day had this energy to it, this feeling that anything was possible, anything could happen. It was a spiritual journey for me: I stopped in churches, I said little prayers, I thought a lot about what it would mean to arrive in Santiago.

Madonna in the Pyrenees, Camino de Santiago; the Frances or the Norte?

The Norte and the Primitivo were somehow more… real. Immediate. Grittier. Dirtier. More painful. I felt like I was trekking, in a different way than I did the year before. My friend Elissa and I noticed this instantly, after the first few days of walking. “This is not the Camino Frances,” we said to each other. While on the Frances I had gone to bed thinking, “What magic will await me tomorrow?”, on the Norte, my bedtime thoughts were either, “Will my blister feel better tomorrow?” or “When will the walking start to feel easier?”

This was a true physical journey for me, with rain and blisters and very long days of walking. And it was an isolated journey- I walked alone and stayed alone for so much of the Camino. I treasured this time, especially the entire days when I wouldn’t encounter a single other pilgrim. It made the pilgrimage feel like mine- it made it both more beautiful, and more challenging.

Walk to Pendueles, Camino del Norte

But after saying all of this, I understand that everyone’s experience is so unique: many, many people get into the meaty stuff of the pilgrimage on the Frances. In the end, I think I needed a good, solid 1,000 miles for the pilgrimage experience I’d hoped to have, but for many, 500-miles is more than enough. 100-miles is more than enough.

So to answer which I liked better- the Frances or the Norte? I don’t have an answer, not a real one. And they are so difficult to compare, but I will say this: both were incredibly beautiful. I just spent a minute looking through my photos from my walk out of St Jean Pied de Port and through the Pyrenees, and I marveled, all over again, and how majestic that day was. And then I look through some of those coastal shots I took on the Norte. Is one route more beautiful than the other? Is one route better than the other? They are impossible to compare.

Orisson, Pyrenees, Camino de Santiago

Coastal route, Camino del Norte; the Frances or the Norte?

For others who have walked multiple Caminos- what are your thoughts? The Frances or the Norte? Do others ask you which route you preferred? Do you prefer one route to another?

Don’t Stop Me Now; Thoughts on Strength and the Camino

I was surprised the other day when I looked at a calendar and realized that I’d been home from the Camino for a month. A month already! It doesn’t quite seem right, especially since I just started working again, but even these work days aren’t “normal” yet. My days, for now, are spent working from home: sitting on a couch, or lounged out on my porch with my legs in the sun, or maybe spread out on a blanket in the park. I take breaks to walk to the library, to jog around my neighborhood, to drink more coffee. These are the slow, easy, waning days of summer. After Labor Day things will return to normal and maybe then I’ll feel like the Camino is far, far away. For now, it feels as though I only just stopped walking.

A few of my friends have commented on how I look exactly the same. “Sometimes I think that I should look at you and see some sort of difference,” one says. “Show me your calf muscles!” another says. But there’s nothing much to see: my body, that felt so very strong in the last few weeks of my Camino, looks the same as it ever did. Maybe the muscles that grew and strengthened on the Camino are still there- I suspect they are- but they’re hidden. They might even be slowly fading away. They must be; after all, it has been a month since I’ve done much long-distance walking.

These days I’m running instead, and when I say ‘running’, I mean ‘jogging’. And whatever jogging I’m doing is of the very, very slowest variety. But it’s a different motion than walking, and uses different muscles, and I can feel my body working, hard, to figure this out. And despite never enjoying running and despite still being convinced that this won’t last very long, I like the feeling of my body working hard once again.

I learned this on the Camino Frances, last year, but I really learned it this year. For those of you who followed my blog while I was on the Camino del Norte/Primitivo this year, you’ll know that I walked some very long days, especially at the end. I’m still a little surprised when I jot down the distances and add up the kilometers and see the amount I covered in my last week of walking. It wasn’t something I had planned on doing- at least, not until a day or two before- and I didn’t feel like I had anything to prove. I just wanted to walk. And to be very honest, I suppose I loved feeling strong.

A Camino conversation that I see come up from time to time- in facebook groups and on message boards- is “the pilgrim who walks really fast”. Sometimes there’s criticism and judgement around this topic; inevitably, someone will say, “I don’t understand why anyone would want to walk so fast. You miss so much of the beauty of the walk! This is not a race- why move so fast to get to a destination only to have to wait several hours for the albergue to open? Or, why walk huge distances only to arrive in the evening and then have to go to bed and do it all over again the next day?”

I understand these comments, sort of, but they always make me a little uncomfortable to read. Because I’m one of the fast walkers (though I had my days this year when I was the slowest in a group). Sometimes, when I’m walking fast, I worry that others will see me and think these same things- that I’m just flying through the experience, not stopping to smell the roses, not slowing down to enjoy the journey.

But it’s not true, and at some point along the way, I stopped worrying about what anyone else might think.

I love the way I walked my Camino, especially this year’s Camino. It took me a solid 10 days to find my footing and to rediscover my Camino legs, and even once I did, I still had a few very difficult walking days when I felt sluggish and tired. But something happened to me in my last two weeks of walking: I felt strong. Really strong. Stronger, maybe, than I did last year. The Norte and Primitivo were more challenging routes than the Frances, and this year I had to cope with a large blister and walk through pain (plus, walk through a few days of bad weather). But once the blister was gone and my legs started to get used to those hills, I often felt like nothing could stop me.

And it’s so hard to describe this feeling, but this is what I felt when I was moving so fast down the trail: I felt a bit like I was flying, like my mind was almost detached from my body and I didn’t have to really think or work to move my legs and my feet. The walking became automatic and almost effortless- even, at times, when I was climbing up hills. And when I felt like this, I didn’t want to stop, sometimes I think I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to: I just powered on, usually under a hot sun, sometimes with music blasting in my ears, feeling free and strong.

It’s why I walked so many of those long days, in the end- I felt so good that I didn’t want to stop. And why stop if I was still feeling so good? So I kept going. My last day, the 52 kilometer day, that was maybe a little bit about proving something to myself, proving that I could walk a longer distance than I ever had in my life. I was curious- could I do something like this? What were the limits of my strength? And even on this last Camino day I continued to experience and learn new things: that my body could walk 52 kilometers, but it wasn’t effortless. My strength was waning, the steps were not automatic, I wasn’t smiling and dancing and laughing down the trail. I was trudging down the path, moving slowly, pulling myself up small hills, focusing- in the end- on what I had told myself from the very beginning: one step at a time.

I needed a break after that 52 kilometer day- and the multiple 40km days that preceded it. For a good two weeks after my Camino ended, I didn’t feel a strong need to walk. I still did walk, a bit, but not like I tried to last year. This year, I was happy to let my body rest.

But I love remembering how strong I felt, and I’m beginning to really miss that feeling. I’ve talked a little about how I might not feel a need to rush back and do another Camino next summer, but that doesn’t change the fact that I miss the walking: those entire days of walking, the flow I felt when my legs were strong, the joy of moving myself across a vast space.

And I have these moments, lately, when I take a break to go for a short walk around my neighborhood, and I listen to the music that I played on my Camino. Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” begins to play and I swear I can start to feel the Camino again. I start to feel my legs grow stronger and I begin to move a little faster. And suddenly, before I know it, I’m flying.

Crossing water on the Camino del NorteHappy and free, Camino del Norte

In the footsteps of Monet and Hemingway; Day Two in Paris, and the end of my Camino

I’ve been trying to write a post about the last day in Paris and the end of my trip, and I’m reminded of why I loved writing in the moment so much: writing about something that happened several weeks ago is a completely different experience than writing about it when the memories are fresh, when they’re all around you.

So I’ll start how I often do, with what’s around me in the moment: it’s just after 8am and I have a half finished cup of really strong coffee on the table next to me. I’m in my living room and despite the early hour it’s dark in here; the skies are a thick grey and rain drizzles and pours through the trees, onto the stone porch that’s just outside my door.

I’ve had a disjointed and crazy and wonderful few weeks since I’ve been home: a day in my apartment, a week on the road. A few days home again and a few days back out. Back and forth, home and away, over and over. I have one week left of vacation before I return to work, and at the start of the summer, I was tempted to pack in as much as possible: go to Europe, walk the Camino, come home and travel south for a wedding and to see friends. Then take off again- maybe California, maybe Maine, maybe an impromptu backpacking trip in the woods. I realized I was totally unprepared to do any of this, and what’s more, I didn’t want to do anything big. I wanted to sit still for awhile- and even though I’ve been back and forth and continuing to move, there’s also been so much calm in the past few weeks.

I moved so much on my Camino. We all do- anyone who walks a Camino- and I certainly moved last year, but this time? I was running, sailing, gliding through Spain. I could feel it- even in the early days of pain and fatigue and blisters, I pushed on, I pushed harder, I made myself move. And by the end, I felt like I was flying. I’ll write more- hopefully- about how I did this walk, why I decided to walk those long days and what I got out of it- but what I’m thinking about now is my mental state, especially at the end of the Camino.

My mind was strong. It was solid and confident and settled. I was so present in my moments on the Camino, but towards the end, I was also aware of what would happen when I returned home, aware of how I felt when I returned home last year. I’d thought about this as I walked, I thought about this during my conversation with Andrea, on my last night in Santiago: the Camino begins when the walking ends.

And I thought about this on my last day in Paris. I did a small day trip out to Giverny, the home and gardens where Monet spent the end of his life, and where he did some of his most famous work. I lingered over this trip- I could have rushed to the Gare du Nord and made it on the first train out to Vernon (a town near Giverny), I could have hopped on a bus that would take me with the first wave of tourists into the property, I could have tried to enjoy the gardens and the pond before the crowds would arrive. But instead, I lingered over my MIJE breakfast, I slowly wandered through the streets of my quartier and over to the nearest metro. When I arrived at the train station I learned that the next train to Vernon wasn’t for nearly two hours, so I walked through the streets around the Gare du Nord, and found a café near a church. It was on a bustling street corner but inside the café was quiet. I drank a café crème and wrote in my journal and chatted with a man delivering gallons of milk.

I’d become confident with my French- or, at least, confident in attempting to speak- and the attempts paid off. The delivery man laughed with me, tried to teach me a few words, told me I had a beautiful smile. On my way out, I passed a waiter who was standing alongside the bar, and dancing slightly to some pop music that was coming from the stereo. When he saw me he grinned, “Il faut dancer!” he declared. I shook my head, laughing. “I’m not good at dancing,” I told him.

I waved goodbye, and the waiter, the woman who served me my drink, the delivery man- they all stood together and smiled and waved at me and wished me a good day.

It was strange- in a way- to experience something like that in Paris. I love Paris, but Parisians are often rushed and reserved and formal and they just don’t seem to smile so much. Not at tourists, not at people they don’t know. But those moments in the café were different, and I thought about this as I rode the train out of the station and into the countryside: I could have sat quietly at my table and not engaged with the man delivering the milk. I could have smiled politely and not tried to speak. I could have kept to myself, and remained to myself, as I so often do. But I thought of my conversation with Andrea, the Italian, and I thought of what I resolved to myself, just two nights before: that I want to keep the energy of the Camino with me. I want it to shine through and into my life. Maybe I was already practicing this.

When I arrived in Vernon, a town about 5 kilometers away from Giverny, there were buses lined up outside of the station to deliver tourists to Monet’s home. But I chose to walk. Of course I did! There is a flat walking path that runs behind houses and past fields, leading straight from Vernon to Giverny. Most took the bus and several rented bicycles but a few others, like me, chose to walk. And when I arrived in Giverny, an hour later, instead of going to see the gardens, I first sat down to a long lunch. I’d heard great reviews about the restaurant which is part of the Hotel Baudy- just down the street from Monet’s residence- so I found a table on the terrace and ate like a queen: a glass of Bordeaux and slices of fresh baguette. Salad with goat cheese, salmon, broiled tomatoes, crème brûlée.

When I finally made it to Monet’s home, it was packed with people. The gardens were beautiful but so crowded. I walked up and down the rows, admiring the flowers, but I didn’t feel particularly overwhelmed with the beauty or inspired by the setting. But then I walked through a small underground passageway and over to the Japanese water garden and when I saw the weeping willows and wisteria covered bridges and the pond full of water lilies- all of that green- for a moment, it took my breath away.

On my return to Paris I felt full of a quiet energy and inspiration. Those feelings followed me to Shakespeare and Company, an independent bookstore on the Left Bank. I’ve been there before- maybe I’ve been there every time I travel to Paris- it’s my favorite bookstore in the world. As I walked through the stacks of fiction I saw a pile of slim paperbacks, a black and white photo on the cover of a man standing in front of a building. I picked up the book- it was Hemingway’s ‘A Movable Feast’, and I promptly took it over to the register and handed over some euros. My dad had just mentioned this book, when he was driving me to the airport before my Camino. “Have you ever read Hemingway?” he’d asked. “You would like ‘A Movable Feast’, it’s the memoir of his early days as an ex-pat in Paris.”

I’d had no idea. For as many times as Hemingway has ‘appeared’ in my travels these past two years, I’ve never read a thing by him. And yet, ever since I walked into Café Iruna last year in Pamplona, with Ibai and Mirra and Ji-Woo, I’ve felt some sort of small connection with Hemingway. I think maybe it had to do with being a foreigner in Spain- out on this strange adventure, stepping through towns where he spent so much of his time. When I was in Venice, this past winter, I discovered a bar where Hemingway had spent his time, stationed at a corner table in the cold winter months, working on a book. It was Harry’s Bar, and I made a point to walk inside. I’m not sure why, but suddenly it seemed like if I happened to be in the same places where Hemingway used to be, I should try to track down his favorite spots. Maybe I was trying to capture those same feelings that I had when I was gazing over the water lilies at Giverny: that quiet, energizing inspiration.

And this year, on my Camino, there were the words from a local, as I was sitting in a bar, writing: “Hemingway started like this, you know.”

I started reading ‘A Movable Feast’ right away- that night on the stiff, narrow mattress in my hostel room, the next morning, leaning against the concrete wall in the underground of the metro, waiting for my train that would take me to the airport. Twenty pages in and he writes about Shakespeare and Company, how he was shy and poor and had to ask to borrow books. I ate up his words as I read, and I realized- amazed though I probably shouldn’t have been- that I really like the way he writes.

And this is how my time in Paris ended, these are the feelings that I carried back with me from my trip this summer: feeling strong, feeling peaceful, feeling quietly energized, feeling ready to come home, feeling ready to write, feeling ready to figure out how to keep walking my Camino.

café crème, ParisJapanese bridge, Giverny, FranceFlowers and pond, Giverny, FranceJapanese water garden, Giverny, FranceShakespeare and Company bookstore, Paris, France

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