beauty Archives - Nadine Walks

One Week to Go

June 11, 2018

One week. One week!! You’d think after all these years of planning summer adventures and long walks and reunions with friends and writer’s retreats in the hills of France, I wouldn’t feel the same kind of excitement or nerves that I always do.

But thank goodness this hasn’t gotten old yet. I’m a week away from this year’s long summer journey and I’m feeling that exact same mix of thrill and anxiety that I always do. I write about it every year, too: here are ruminations from 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017.

This year’s “check-in before the big adventure” feels most similar to what I was feeling before my very first Camino, which is a little strange. I’m worried about my gear and the weight of my pack and the fear that I haven’t trained nearly enough.

So let’s rewind just a little, and fill you in on what’s been happening in the past month in regards to my trip.

I’m starting off in England, with a plan to walk 15-days on the Pennine Way, beginning to end. Here’s a map from my guidebook that might give you a bit of context as to where the Pennine Way is, and the route it takes:

My plan for the Pennine Way was to stay in a mix of bunkhouses and hostels and B&B’s, much like I did on both the West Highland Way and Hadrian’s Wall Path. In fact, I found an itinerary for a Pennine Way walk that allows a walker to stay almost exclusively in bunkhouses and hostels, and so I planned for this route, hoping to save some money.

The only flaw in this plan was that, even months in advance, some places were fully booked, including several large youth hostels (though, as my mom pointed out, these are youth hostels that are most likely being used by the youth of this world. As hard as it is for me to admit, my days of being considered a ‘youth’ are probably long behind me. So I should graciously take a step back for the Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts and youth groups who are taking up the beds in the hostels). But then I discovered it wasn’t just the hostels; B&B’s were booked too, and it’s all boiled down to this:

I’m going to camp on the Pennine Way.

Well, sort of. I’m bringing a tent and any other accompanying gear I might need, but I’ll probably only camp a couple nights (at established campsites with showers and toilets and a nearby pub with warm food). It’s a long and complicated story of how I can’t find any accommodation for one night on the trail, and I honestly can’t come up with a better solution than to bring a tent.

And part of me is really excited about this: I get to add a new element to this year’s walk, I get to push and challenge myself, I might fall in love with backpacking and sleeping outdoors, etc.

But the real problem is this: I’m adding an awful lot of weight to my (new) pack for just a couple nights of sleeping outdoors. Yesterday I loaded up my pack with everything I plan to take and the pack was a whopping 26 pounds and I really have no idea if this is reasonable or not. What I do know is that it is nearly twice as much weight as I started with on my first Camino (though, for the record, I packed so little for that first Camino that I ended up buying things along the way). I think I’ve averaged around 15-18 pounds on my other walks, and while an increase of 8 pounds might not seem like a ton, I felt every ounce of it as I walked yesterday.

And this is why I feel like I did before my first Camino. I’ve been researching gear and making multiple trips to REI and buying things and returning things and I’ve been trying to go on as many hikes as I can. A few weeks ago I threw a bunch of books in my pack and hiked with about 20-21 pounds and I was getting used to that, but the addition of another 5 might as well have been akin to adding a boulder to my pack.

I’m going to weed through my stuff and get rid of whatever I can, and then, well, hope for the best.

I can do this, right? Right. Right! As ever, I hope to blog a bit while I’m walking, but in an effort to shed weight I’m not going to bring a keyboard or iPad, so any writing that happens is going to be my thumbs on an iPhone screen (but once I arrive at my writer’s retreat I’ll have proper writing tools, have no fear). So there may be short updates here, but I’m also planning to update photos on Instagram, and maybe even on Facebook. You’re welcome to friend/follow/sign up/stalk/whatever it is we do these days on social media; as ever, I’m so happy to be able to share parts of my experience with all of you.

There are so many other wonderful and amazing parts of this trip: Paris and Sète and La Muse and more walking somewhere and reuniting with old friends and I’m excited about every single part of it. I still feel so grateful that I have the kind of life where I can do something like this, and so grateful that, despite the very hard, hard things in this world, I can find this pocket of beauty and freedom and adventure and joy.

So I think this is where my mind is this year, as I prepare to head off to Europe again: I’m nervous and excited about the physical challenge ahead, but I’m also seeking abundant beauty and joy.

It’s my wish for all of you as well, in these months ahead: pockets of freedom and adventure, moments of abundant beauty and joy.

More soon.

Paris of My Dreams

August 4, 2017

I arrived in Paris in my hiking clothes: long green pants that zip off at the knee, a t-shirt over a tank top, my good socks, my sturdy and quite worn in shoes. I wore my pack, too, and over my right shoulder was a small duffel bag, all the extra clothes and items I’d needed for the writer’s retreat I’d just left.

I felt just a little strange, and nervous. My walking stick, which I’d carried for the last 34 days, had been left behind at La Muse; tucked away in the corner of a basement room where, hopefully, I might be able to find it again. My loaded pack felt heavy, though it was a weight that I had gotten used to just weeks before, as I hiked through the Chemin du Puy. Already, I was out of practice.

But I wasn’t in Paris to be a hiker or a walker, was I? I thought that maybe I was here to continue my writer’s retreat but I wasn’t sure about that, either.

All I knew were, well, three things:

1. I missed those full days of walking, and part of me wished that instead of a week in Paris, I had organized a week long trek somewhere new and exciting.

2. I missed La Muse. I missed Homer and the way he would bound up to me and then bound away, dancing in a circle when he knew we were going for a hike. I missed, already, my room with the big window and the view of the mountains, I missed the friends that I’d made, the little writer’s community we’d formed.

3. I love Paris. I really, really love Paris.

But why was I spending a week in the city, alone? What was I going to accomplish here? I already know Paris, at least I know the things that tourists know: where to get a hot crêpe and what the view from the top of Notre Dame looks like, how to find the room with the Van Gogh’s in the Musée d’Orsay and how to open the door of a car on the metro.

I’d spent time in Paris at least a half dozen times during the year I studied abroad in Toulouse, and in the last 4 years, have spent between 1-4 days in Paris every summer. It’s become a regular thing, a mandatory swing through Paris when I’m in Europe. Sometimes all I have to do is buy a baguette and walk down the streets of the Île de St Louis and come upon Notre Dame and stare up in wonder.

Now I was in Paris and I had an entire week and I wondered: am I going to continue to be in love with this city? Am I going to become restless? Will I wish I were somewhere else?

Here are the answers: Yes. No. No.

My days in Paris didn’t exactly have a routine, though I suppose in some ways, little ways, they did. I’d wake up between 7 and 8am, though sometimes if I was awake in the 6 o’clock hour I’d roll out of bed and walk onto my balcony to see if there was a good sunrise. Several times, there was.

Once I was up for good I’d spoon some coffee into the little stove top expresso maker and then take a shower, toweling off just as the coffee was ready. There was a small fridge in the “kitchen” of my place and on my first day I’d stocked it with some essentials: yogurt, fruit, cheese, meat. I’d have a small bowl of yogurt with my coffee and flip through a guidebook and come up with ideas for the day.

Around 9, sometimes earlier, I would set out. The city is quiet in the morning, even at 9 many places are just beginning to think about opening, the tables start to go out in front of the cafes, brooms sweep leaves and trash off the pavement and sometimes I’d pass men or women hosing off the sidewalk in front of their shops. Trash trucks drove up and down the streets, bottles would crash and shatter as recycling bins were emptied.

Usually, the first thing I’d do was stop for another coffee, or a croissant. I found a few cafés that weren’t traditionally French but featured pretty decent coffee, and a few cafés with mediocre coffee and a lot of French charm.

After coffee I would always head off somewhere, walking through the streets, never using the metro (not in the morning, anyway). I went to art museums: the Musée d’Orsay, Espace Dali, the Musée de l’Orangerie, the Musée Rodin. I explored the arrondissements, the neighborhoods: the 5th, the 3rd, the 14th, the 17th, the 6th and 7th, the 3rd and 4th, the 20th. The Latin Quarter, St-Germain, Montparnasse, the Marais, Montmartre.

And more. I walked everywhere. I almost don’t want to write this because it seems absurd, but on two separate days I walked 20km through the city. 20km! Around and around and around.

But I used the metro, too, I love the metro. Even in the summer when it is hot down there in those winding corridors, when the smell is so distinct, it’s a smell that screams to me: “This is Paris. THIS is Paris.” But the metro can take you anywhere, and on the streets you will always find one, there seems to be one at every other turn.

I went to bookshops, and I bought books. I read books, too, in back rooms of the cafés, with a noisette or a flat white (the coffee that is taking over Paris, apparently), and I’d sit and arrange myself on a wooden stool and I would open my book and read.

A few times, I met up with friends: for dinner in a bistrot, for a picnic by the Seine, for a glass of champagne to celebrate my birthday. We shopped for picnic supplies in La Grande Epicerie, a place I’d never been to before and I went back two days later to pick up food for lunches or dinners on my balcony: double crème brie, eggplant and yogurt dip, octopus and prawns and mussels marinated in olive oil, crispy baguettes, fresh raspberries.

I discovered new places: a covered market where I bought hot fries in a newspaper cone, a street market that I walked up and down three times, just to watch the vendors and listen to the sounds. I bought a bottle of wine from a little shop, a chunk of cheese from another.

Parks and cemeteries and canals and squares: I spent a lot of time in outdoor spaces. Jardin du Luxembourg (twice, because it was a 15 minute walk from my apartment), Père Lachaise (twice, because the first time I got turned around and had to leave to meet a friend before I could find Oscar Wilde’s grave. I’ve seen it before- two or three times at least- but it’s like a visit I have to make whenever I’m in Paris. I’m not even sure why, because I’m not a particular fan of Oscar Wilde… I just know that I have to do it). And what else? The Canal Saint-Martin and the Promenade Plantée, the Place des Vosges and the Place de la Contrescarpe. Parc de Belleville.

So many things, all of this and more. But I also spent time in that little apartment of mine- for afternoon catnaps and a glass of wine in the evening, sitting on my balcony and looking out over the rooftops. At 10pm, and again at 11 and again at midnight, thousands of lights on the Eiffel Tower flash and blink, the tower sparkles for 5 minutes and I could see it from my balcony and every night I was home I would stand outside and watch.

Home. That apartment and even Paris, a little bit, began to feel like home. My friend Alex, an Australian writer I’d met at La Muse last summer, moved to Paris in March. She signed a 6-month lease but always intended to stay for at least a year, and when I talked with her about it, her eyes started to shine. “If I can swing it, I want to stay for at least 2 years, maybe 3.”

I asked her a lot of questions about what it had been like to move to Paris, to live in Paris, if the language barrier was a problem, if the cultural barrier was a problem. She told me about a French course she took, how she connected with other expats, her favorite things to do, the site she used to find her apartment.

And I began to dream. What if I could do this? I have an entire life somewhere else but the thing is, I’ve been dreaming about Paris ever since I was 20, from the moment I first laid eyes on the city. And Paris, after all this time, is still a beautiful dream. It’s the city of my dreams.

7 different people asked me for directions during my week in Paris; some of them were tourists but some were French, one- an old lady- might even have been a Parisian. I could only give an answer to one of them, a French guy, and I answered with a smile and with an assurance. I’d understood his question, I knew where we were and where he wanted to go, and I could give a response, in French.

After a week in the city I was beginning to feel like I knew where I was, where I was going. Could I ever have more time like this? More than just a few days, more than a week? Could I live here for a few months, half a year? An entire year?

In my dreams, yes. And if I continue to write and work and aim high and big, if I take chances and with a little (or a lot) of luck, I might just be able to live out my dreams.

But, that’s one of my castles in the air and it’s a beautiful one but for now I’ll be grateful for what is right in front of me: the magical week I just spent in a city that I love, the work it took to get myself there, the chances that I’ve already taken in life, the persistance of my dreams for where they’ve already taken me.

And Paris will always be there. Whether for a few days or a week or a month, a year or a lifetime; it will always be there.

Drinks on a beach with Austrians; Day 8 on the Camino del Norte, Pobena to Islares

June 28, 2015

I’m sitting at a table outside of a bar in Islares. It’s a weird place- not really a town at all, just a few long streets of houses, a big camping area, a few bars/restaurants and then a small beach. It’s basic and rustic, very down to earth and almost a little gritty. But it’s okay, it’s good, actually, and this continues the trend of every day being very different here.

The albergue is small, with 16 beds and an area in the back full of tents, where overflow pilgrims can camp. Thank goodness I was the 5th one here- I’m not against camping if I have to, and I love that some albergues provide this option, but I like having a mattress to sleep on.

And speaking of mattresses to sleep on… it’s finally happened. I’m on the top bunk of a tier of three. A triple bunk bed! I immediately jumped at the chance to take the very top bunk. I took one by a window, and once I climbed up and looked out, I realized that I had a view of the sea. So even though the albergue is… basic… (one shower, we wash our clothes in the bathroom sink), I like my sleeping situation.

A few minutes ago I was writing in my journal, and the guy at the table across from me called over. “Are you writing a book?” he asked. I think he’s a local, I’m not sure. In any case, I remember being asked this last year, too, when I was writing at San Nicolas. I can’t remember how I answered then, but this time I said, “Maybe. But right now I’m just writing in my journal.”

The guy nodded, and then a minute later said, “This is how Ernest Hemingway started.”

I liked that he said this- last year I felt sort of connected to Hemingway after passing through Zubiri and Pamplona. Later in the year when I was in Venice, I tracked down a cafe where he used to write. Spending all of this time in Europe, lately, makes me think a little of the expat artists who spent time here: to be inspired, to write, to paint.

And man, is this area inspiring. On my walk this morning I passed through Onton (I think), and it was just this winding street with old houses and overflowing gardens. Just before the houses I had stopped by a small “beach”, but really just this rocky little inlet. I walked around it for a few minutes collecting tiny pieces of green sea glass, and the area was deserted except for one man who passed by me, dragging a kayak.

Later, when I walked up through the streets, an old woman had just pulled leaves of lettuce from her garden. Her arms were full of vegetables as she was slowly walking back to her house, and when I passed she wished me a ‘Buen Camino’. Then she began speaking, in Spanish, giving me directions for the Camino. From what I could understand, there were two different ways I could walk, and she was trying to tell me which route was better.

As I walked away I thought about what it could be like to stay there, just for a month: if there could be a spare room in one of the houses, where I could spend my days writing and sitting on that little beach, kayaking around the water. I saw a food truck stopping by the homes, to deliver groceries. Maybe a fresh loaf of bread could be delivered to my door every day.

So those were a few of my thoughts as I walked today. I loved so much of the walk: right along the coast, winding around curves and bends, staying close to the water. There were a few pilgrims ahead of me and one behind me, but we were so far spaced out that I felt very alone. It was a good morning walk.

I passed by a second beach today, this one was a little larger but at 10:30, only a few people were out. I walked over the stones and down to the sand, where I took off my backpack and peeled off my socks and shoes. Two Austrian pilgrims were just behind me, and when they saw that I was taking off my shoes to walk in the water, they did the same. They took a photo of me and I took a photo of them, and then later, when we were drying off our feet we talked about where we were from and how many days we had been walking.

They were continuing on to Islares, and I told them about the blister on the bottom of my foot and wanting to walk further, but most likely needing to do a short day. They nodded in sympathy, and then went off to retrieve their packs.

Just as I was about to leave, one of them came over. “My name is Herman,” he said, “and here is something for the pain.” He held out his hand, in it was the cap of a bottle, filled with a clear liquid. In his other hand was the bottle, a flask of alcohol. He was offering me a shot.

I laughed and accepted the drink, and the other Austrian pulled out his camera to take a photo of me with the drink. I held the cap up high and then swallowed the liquid quickly, hoping it would spread through me and down to my feet, where it could work it’s magic and heal my blister.

My blister hurt throughout the day, but here’s what I do know: that drink helped. It was one moment- out of a dozen moments- of kindness and generosity. I’d taken a shot of alcohol from two Austrians on some tiny beach on the north coast of Spain. Just over a week ago, this kind of situation was so, so far out of my reality. But here, things like this can happen all the time. It still amazes me how kind and open people are: Christine gave me her bottle of foot cream last night, Nicole gave me an extra needle and thread (for that blister, iiieeee!), Annalisa gave me half of her banana at breakfast this morning. And the Austrians gave me that drink.

Last night and for so much of the day today, I felt the Camino. I felt it so strongly: recognizing pilgrims in Castro-Urdiales (the big town before Islares), going over and sitting with them and having a coffee, talking about making a meal together in the albergue tonight, planning out stages and talking about blisters. Walking alone, walking a bit with Christine, feeling comfortable here, finally settled into the routine.

I didn’t do my small day after all; I totally missed the albergue I wanted to stay in, I was in Castro-Urdiales before I knew it, and decided to just push on another few kilometers to Islares.

I still haven’t seen my other friends, my “Camino famly”- Iria and Richard and Amy and Misako. I think they are probably at least a day behind me, and while I wish they could be here, now, I also see the beauty in this: a town behind, a town ahead, the town I’m in: I know people in all of these places. I think I can always find time alone, but I also know that my friends are all around me. And if I stop in a place where I don’t know anyone, I will make a new friend. I really felt the community of the Camino today- last night and today- and it’s made me so happy.

So, that’s Day 8, the start of my second week on the Camino del Norte. A big blister (which I doctored up this afternoon so hopefully it will be better tomorrow), lots of community and friendship and kindness. And beaches! It’s good to be back on the coast.

Previous Post: Day 7 on the Camino del Norte

Next Post: Day 9 on the Camino del Norte

“Like a Rolling Stone”; Day One on the Camino del Norte, Irun to San Sebastián, 27.6 km

June 19, 2015

So I think I left off saying that I would be back with photos from the gorgeous views that I was bound to get from the first day’s walk on the Norte. I’d been checking the weather for a week, and Friday in Irun and San Sebastián looked sunny and clear. The perfect weather to start a Camino!
Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong. I walked in rain for the entire day- it started as a mist and then became a steady rain, and it was worse- way worse- than anything I walked in last year. I think every inch of me was wet by the time I hobbled into the hostel in San Sebastián.

Buen Camino, and welcome to the Norte!

I arrived in Hendaye, France yesterday evening, and after I walked out of the train station I wandered towards a bridge that would take me across to Irun, Spain. I could have stayed on the train and gotten off in Irun, making the trip just a bit shorter and getting to the albergue easier but the thing was, I wanted to walk into Spain.

Having been up for over 24 hours, I was exhausted. I knew that adding a couple kilometers to the end of my travel day probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but I ignored reason and started walking across a bridge. I kept my eyes peeled for the marker that indicated the line between France and Spain, but I didn’t see one, and suddenly I was in Spain. And I started seeing yellow arrows.

Oh man, to see those yellow arrows again! I had a big grin on my face as I started to follow them, as I once again walked through a beautiful Spanish town. I had a spring in my step, I was snapping photos left and right, I no longer felt tired.

But then I realized that I wasn’t sure where I was going. I was following the arrows, but the arrows weren’t taking me to the albergue. They were taking me, I suspected, straight out of town, heading west. It took me awhile to figure out where I was and to find the albergue but I made it.

Walking into the albergue was strange. All of last night was pretty strange, in fact. I felt overwhelmed and flustered, and shy and uncertain. I was back on the Camino (well, almost), but it didn’t feel like the Camino yet. And I didn’t like that. Maybe I expected a continuation of my journey from last year, that I would step into Spain and step right back into my first Camino experience.

As soon as I walked into the albergue I ran into Elissa, a fellow Camino blogger whose writing I’ve been following. She walked the Frances last summer and, like me, was gearing up to do the Norte this year. About a month ago we realized that we would be starting the Norte on the same day, and so we knew to look for each other in Irun. And seeing her was also strange- great but strange. Because here’s this person that I kind of know, but don’t actually know, another American, meeting her in Spain. It was a lot to wrap my mind around, and my mind was tired.

The hospitalero put us into a double room when she realized we knew each other (a double room! What luck!!) and I sat on the floor and opened my pack and took out some things and just stared at it all. I wasn’t sure what to do. The routines weren’t back yet. Do I set up my bed? Do I shower? Do I try to meet people? Do I find wi-fi and check in with family?

I sorted myself out but there were a few moments when I wondered what I was doing. I was sitting in a bar around the corner from the albergue, a tinto de verano in front of me and local men playing cards at the table next to me. It was a scene out of last year’s Camino but it was different. I didn’t feel comfortable, not like I did last year. I wondered if maybe I was wrong, if maybe the Camino magic really only happens once, if the Frances was where I belonged.

But then Bob Dylan’s ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ started playing in the bar: “How does it feel? To be on your own, with no direction home, a complete unknown?” This song was like an anthem to me when I studied abroad in France all those years ago. And I felt the lyrics deeply this time, too. How does it feel? Honestly? Even though I’ve already done this once, it feels a little scary. A little crazy. A little exciting. A little freeing.

So lets jump to today’s walk, while I still have time before we go out for pintxos in San Sebastián tonight. All at once, the Camino came back to me. And of course it came back in almost the instant that I started to walk. Out of the city and past farms with grazing sheep and ponies. Uphill, following the yellow arrows. I passed a Spanish girl who was putting on her rain coat and she said, “I feel like I’m home” and I could understand what she meant. It felt familiar again. It felt good to be walking.

So, walking in the rain. Oh boy. Lets just say it was a completely different experience than anything I had last year. On the way to Finisterre I walked in rain, but this was a different kind of rain. At times it was a driving rain, a soaking rain. I chose to do the ‘high’, alternate route, which I’m pretty sure everyone would have done if it was a clear day. But as it was, other than three Irish guys who passed me while I was wringing out a pair of socks, I didn’t see a soul. I could barely see in front of me, and at times I wondered how wise the decision was to take this path. Up, up, up a mountain and then along a ridge, every once in awhile stone ruins would suddenly appear, practically on top of me. Sheep appeared too, and cows, blocking my path. I would hear their bells before I could see them.

When I stood on the summit of the mountain, the rain blew into my face, the wind pushed back the hood of my raincoat. And I felt so free and so alive. In that moment I didn’t care that it was raining, I only marveled that I was able to get myself back here, back to this place where I could walk for hours everyday, surrounded by beauty, feeling energized.

And then I started the descent, and things went downhill (ha!). I realized that my socks were soaked, I could feel the water squishing out of them with each step I took. I was walking slowly, nervous about slipping on the wet rocks or sliding in the mud. I planned to stop in a town before San Sebastián, making this day a short one, and all I could think about was getting there as fast as I could and getting out of my wet clothing.

When arriving in this town (my guidebook’s not on me and I’m forgetting it’s name), I saw that the albergue didn’t open for another 5 hours. Pilgrims were gathered in a bar and everyone decided to keep walking. I drank a large cafe con leche and ate a slice of tortilla and I felt my energy coming back. The walk into San Sebastián was stunning, and that’s WITH fog and rain and grey skies. I think I’m going to love walking by the water.

The last hour of my walk was with Amy, from London. It felt a little like meeting Mirra, last year- falling into step with someone at the end of my first day of walking. We stopped for a coffee in the center of town and then walked together to the youth hostel. It seems like most pilgrims are here, already I’m recognizing faces. I’m still very curious how the social part of this year’s walk will compare to last year, and it’s hard to put my finger on it, but it seems like it’s going to be very different. We’ll see.

But for now that doesn’t really matter. Now, I’m showered and clean and dry. I’m finishing up this blog post and sitting at the table with me is Eva, from Germany, who’s writing in her journal. Elissa is here, too, and so is Amy and a French guy whose name I don’t know, and in an hour we’re heading into the city for some pintxos (what tapas are called in this region).

It was a good day one. Very challenging, lots of up and down (and the ascent when I started the alternate route? Lets just say that at one point, I turned around, looked at what I had just hiked up, and said to myself, “Nadine, there’s no way you can climb back down that without sliding or falling in the mud.”) Squishy shoes. Wet underwear. Pants so weighed down by the rain that I was afraid they would fall off.

But also so much beauty, so much energy, so much excitement for what’s to come. It’s good to be back, Camino, it’s good to be back.

Next Post: Day 2 on the Camino del Norte

I Found Myself in Paradise: Hiking and Relaxing on the Islas Cies

February 8, 2015

This post is taking us back to late July 2014, in the days after I finished my Camino and arrived in Santiago. I spent several days exploring Galicia before continuing on to Finisterre; the first post about my time in A Coruna is here, and read on to hear about how I found myself on a beautiful island.

It was when I was still on the Camino that I first heard about the Islas Cies, an archipelago off the coast of Vigo in Galicia. I’d been asking Ibai if he had any recommendations for me during my gap of time between arriving in Santiago and leaving for Finisterre. I’d been thinking about dipping down to Portugal but paused when Ibai started talking about these islands. “It is the most beautiful place, you won’t find a more beautiful beach in Spain.” The thought of hanging out on an island and resting my weary feet was very, very appealing.

So weeks later, after I’d explored the northwestern city of A Coruna, I took a train down to Vigo. When I arrived in the city my first stop was the tourism office, and the woman working behind the desk said, “If you hurry, you can catch the next ferry to the islands.” I bought a ticket and with maps and brochures in my hand I went running to dock, and before I knew it was on a large ferry heading off for the Islas Cies.

There are technically three islands in this archipelago: the south island- San Martino, the north island- Monteagudo, and the middle island-do Faro, which is linked to Monteagudo by a stretch of sand known as Rodas beach (which, in 2007, was named as the world’s most beautiful beach by The Guardian).

I was headed for the small dock at Monteagudo, and after the 45-minute ferry ride I disembarked with crowds of Galician families toting small children and giant coolers and umbrellas. It was a beautiful day and Rodas beach was already packed with sunbathers. I headed off to the right, and after consulting a large map at the information booth, picked a trail that headed up to a lookout. These two islands have four walking trails, and being fresh off of the Camino, I wasn’t too interested in spending my entire day being still.

These islands were given a National Park status in 2002, which has helped preserve the landscape and ecosystem by restricting the affects of human activity on the land. And thank goodness. After hiking for ten minutes, I was far removed from the crowds at the beach and I felt like I had the island to myself. When I arrived at my first destination- Alto do Principe- I shared the lookout with several other groups, but it was in no way crowded. I stood at the top of a flat rock and looked out over the island and couldn’t believe that I was in a place like this. Only a month before I had been crossing the mountains from France into Spain, and after walking myself across the country, I was standing on this beautiful island. It was incredible.

From this first trail I connected to another, and walked across the north island until I couldn’t walk any further. I’m not sure about exact distances, but I think I walked about 3 miles between the first trail and this second one (so it would be about 6 miles, round-trip, from the information booth). This trail was even more isolated than the first; just me and the seagulls.

As I’d been hiking I had noticed several little inlets, and on my way back towards the dock I decided to explore a bit. What I found felt like paradise: a tiny beach that I had all to myself. I kicked off my shoes and wished that that I was better prepared for a beach day. I rummaged through my Camino pack and pulled out my sleeping bag, which I stretched out over the sand. I propped my head against my pack and my Icelandair pillow (I finally got to use it!!) and stared out to the water.

I think I could have spent days exploring these islands and lounging on the beach. There is a camping option and if I ever return to this area I would definitely reserve a campsite and spend the night sleeping by the ocean (there are sites were you can pitch your own tent, or, for an extra fee, you can rent one of the tents already on the site). There’s a restaurant near the campsite, along with restrooms and showers, but other than these buildings and a small snack shop near the dock, the island is unspoiled.

My day on the Islas Cies was one of those magical travel moments: when nothing was planned but everything worked out better than I ever could have imagined. It was just what I needed after my pilgrimage on the Camino: a day of peace and quiet in a beautiful setting, with a little walking and a little relaxing. After this day, I felt ready to return to Santiago and begin my walk to Finisterre.

A Date with Venice

January 14, 2015

Within moments of stepping off the train and facing the city of Venice, I knew that I would need to return.

This is going to start to become a problem, at some point: every new place I travel to has me wanting to come back. And then there’s France, which seems to call me back every time. I’m beginning to wonder when I’m going to have the time in my life to do all of the traveling I feel like I need to do.

But back to Venice. My mistake- and it feels like a big one- was that I didn’t bring a good camera. I’ve said it already about this Italy trip: this was not ‘typical traveling’ (if ‘typical traveling’ can even be defined). I knew I would get to see Italy on this trip, but my focus was so far away from the touristy stuff. I did just a bit of research about Florence, and even less for Venice, and figured that I would just learn things on the way.

And that was the benefit of being with an Italian on my trip, I didn’t have to worry about transportation or finding my way around the cities. I had someone to point out the highlights and make sure I saw the “must-see” things for a first-time traveler to Venice and Florence.

But the drawback of traveling this way was that I didn’t prepare like I might have. I debated about bringing a good camera, and really considered lugging around my film camera and a half dozen rolls of black and white film, but I decided against it. I just couldn’t quite get into the spirit of sight-seeing on this trip (at least, not in the days before I left, when I was deciding what to bring).

In the end, of course, my very first thought when I was in Venice was, “I need to come back here with my camera and take some black and white photos.”

Venice, in some ways, was even better than I’d always imagined it to be. It was a place that I always suspected I’d get to, and it held an almost mystic-power in my mind. Maybe because the city is so incredibly unique: a network of canals and dead-ends and no cars and stairs that lead straight into dark water. And when I was there, it felt mystical, especially at night. I loved walking around the streets and ending up in what felt like forgotten corners of the city, far away from the crowds of tourists. It was eerie and spooky and I felt like I stepped back in time.

Even the New Year’s celebration felt other-worldly. Sure, there were masses of people, most who had been drinking, a lot who were acting foolish. There were tourists and people holding out their cameras to take selfies (me included) at every opportunity. There were discarded champagne bottles underfoot, lost gloves littering the square, elbows jabbing into my back.

But it was also magical. A dozen different languages were spoken around me, people ran arm in arm through the streets, many wearing masks covered in gold, covered in feathers. I saw a cat pass by, later a zebra. I was delighted by it, and also spooked. A mask conceals what is really there and it added to the mystery. Whose eyes were staring at me? I can only imagine what Carnavale is like, the annual festival held just before the Lent.

We were sitting in a small bar drinking a café on New Year’s morning (well, a doppio for me), at a table in front of a window that gave us a full view of the canal outside. Every few minutes, a gondola would float past. I know that this is how Venice works: outside that bar’s window was a straight drop to the water. No sidewalk, no street, just water. The building is sitting on a wooden platform held up by wooden planks driven into the ground, all submerged under the water. I understood this before I went, but it was another thing to see. It was pretty incredible- Venice really is a floating city. (I almost floated right along with the city when, in an attempt to take a photo, I slipped a bit on the wet stone of a stair that led into the canal. Otherwise, no close calls with the water).

For me (and I would imagine, countless others), the best thing about this city was to simply wander around the streets and climb over bridges and notice the small details and get a little lost. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a city where I’ve been so inspired to take photographs (well, maybe Paris, but even so, that is saying something).

So I’m not done with Venice, not by a long shot. We have a date (time, to be determined): me, the city, and my camera.

The toughest, the prettiest, the luckiest.

September 15, 2014

I’ve been thinking about this blog post- the one I’m about to write- for weeks. It started to form in my mind as I was doing all of my post-Camino processing: thinking about the things I experienced, the people I met, the lessons I learned. Some of what kept coming back to me were the things people said to me while I was on the Camino, things they said at the end. And things that I told myself on the Camino, things I told myself at the end.

This could be a long post.

I was called, several times, three different things on the Camino: tough, pretty, and lucky. Someone called me the prettiest. Someone called me the luckiest. No one called me the toughest but sometimes it was implied that I was one of the toughest.

And I was a bit uncomfortable each time I heard these words.

And I often denied it. “No no,” I’d protest. “I’m not that tough. Really. I’m not sure why I’m handling this walk so well, but it’s not because I’m tough.” I didn’t even know what to say about being called pretty. And lucky? Well, maybe I agreed with that one a bit. But it was always about more than just luck.

You’ve probably gathered, through reading my posts while on the Camino, that I didn’t struggle with this walk in the physical sense. I had some aches and pains, but they were minor. I sailed through the majority of the walking, not feeling the pain in my body like the majority of pilgrims do. I was always, from day one, a fast walker. I must have sometimes been an amusing sight- this somewhat petite, compact girl swooshing up the hills, her socks swinging wildly on the back of her pack. I would often get into a rhythm and just go, my mind far off, zoned out, in some sort of semi-flow state. It became a bit of a joke by the end that I somehow always missed stuff. At the end of the day people would talk about the things they’d seen on the day’s walk, and I had no idea what they were talking about. Sometimes it was just about a grove of trees, or things growing in a garden, but later it was the bigger stuff. Did you see that cathedral? they’d ask. What cathedral? I’d say. Somehow I missed the official 100 kilometer marker- I have a photo with a 100 kilometer marker but it’s not the “real” one, as I later found out. I missed the ‘Santiago de Compostela’ sign as I entered into the city (don’t ask me how, I walked right past it). I missed the first glimpse of the ocean as I walked to Finisterre.

People- myself included- thought this was hilarious. It’s not like I wasn’t taking in the space that I was walking through, because I was. In a big way. But sometimes I would just get into a zone and I could only see right in front of me. Or I could only see what was far beyond. In any case, when I got in these zones I was a walking machine. I could plow through kilometer after kilometer and even at the end of the day, I’d felt like I could just keep going and going. I loved the walking.

But does that make me tough? I think some people thought so. The Korean boys all joked that it was impossible to catch me, and sometimes they tried. I walked the Dragonte route- three big mountains- and every time someone heard that I did this they had a big reaction. “Wow, you’re tough,” they’d say. Is it because I’m a woman? Is it because I’m not that big? Is it because I was out there alone? Is it because I never fully attached myself to anyone, and insisted on doing this by myself?

And isn’t this tough, in some ways? Shouldn’t I be able to say that traveling alone to a foreign place to walk 500 miles across the country is tough? That, at least in some part, it requires a bit of toughness?

Because it does. It does for everyone that completed this walk, everyone who attempted this walk, everyone who walked even just one little portion of this walk. It takes some toughness.

But I’m not the toughest. People were battling out there. You can’t call me tougher than that 75 year old Frenchwoman I met. Or tougher than the mothers and fathers out there with their children. Or, for that matter, tougher than the children. In fact, I think I could probably go through just about every single person I met on the Camino and find a reason that they were tougher than I was.

And yet, that’s not what this is about. I wasn’t the toughest person on the Camino, but the truth is, I was tough to do that. I’m tough. It’s a hard thing for me to say, but there it is: I’m tough.

And here’s the next one: I’m pretty. This one is also so hard for me to say. Always- growing up, in my regular life, on the Camino- I see so much beauty in people. So many pretty girls and women all around me. Women who have it all together: the hair and the makeup and the clothing and the demeanor. All of it.

I’ve never had that. I make sure that I’m at least satisfied with my appearance, that I can appear in public and not be embarrassed (although, quite frankly, there have been a few close calls), but that’s about it. I don’t often try to make myself look very pretty, and I prefer to just blend into the background. Not to be noticed.

But on the Camino, people noticed. I was walking- fast- down a rocky hill one day and came upon two Frenchmen. The older one turned around when he heard me approaching and called out to his friend: “Attention! La jolie fille nous passe.” The pretty girl is passing us. It made me smile (and I think I startled them by responding with, “Ah, merci beaucoup!”), but it also caught me by surprise. I was just referred to as ‘the pretty girl’? Really?

The day after I arrived in Santiago I ran into two people I’d seen time and time again on the Camino, a Spanish girl and her brother. They were probably both around my age, and neither spoke much English. On the Camino I always gave them a big wave and a bright smile, and they always smiled back. That was the extent of our interactions, until we saw each other in Santiago. On that day, in Santiago, I spoke for a few minutes with the girl- saying hello, saying goodbye. I was about to walk away when she said to me, “There is one thing I must tell you. We think,” and here she pointed to her brother, “that you are the prettiest girl on the whole Camino.”

I had no idea what to say, and I think I just stared at her, mutely shaking my head. “Yes,” she continued, “you are! Even my brother thinks so, so it is true.” Her brother was staring off into space, probably not understanding a word of the conversation but most likely would have been mortified if he knew what we were saying. “We refer to you as the pretty American, with the pretty smile and the pretty eyes.”

I still didn’t know what to say, and probably just protested for awhile and then said goodbye. But this, too, surprised me. The prettiest? Not by a long shot. There were some very, very pretty girls on the Camino.

But this was another Camino lesson for me, just like needing to be able to admit to being tough. I am pretty. I’m not the prettiest, just like I’m not the toughest. But I am pretty. On the Camino, my hair wasn’t always clean, I had an extremely uneven tan, I wore the same dirty clothing every day… but I was pretty. I almost always wore a smile, my face was usually bright and shining. And I think there was probably some beauty in that.

I’ve already written about being lucky, maybe the luckiest. I don’t know. Once, on the Dragonte route where it had been raining off and on, I said aloud that I just wished the sun would appear. Less than a minute later there was a small break in the clouds and warm sunshine poured down on us. Vicool turned around, gave me a look and said, “Angel asks for sunshine, Angel gets sunshine.”

Luck? Coincidence? Maybe. But I think it goes a bit beyond luck. I already talked about the Camino providing and I still believe that’s true, but it’s also more than that. I prayed to God while I was on the Camino, and as I moved closer to Santiago I had more and more conversations. I was provided with what I needed- by the Camino, by God, by a few guardian angels I suspect I have working for me. I was lucky, and I’ve asked myself time and time again why, but really it doesn’t matter. I tried to never take my luck or my walk or each day or any of the trip for granted. I tried to appreciate as many moments as I could while I was on the Camino, I tried to practice gratitude. And maybe that’s why I sailed through the kilometers, or had a shining, happy face. Maybe that’s why I felt like so much good was coming to me. Maybe.

So, the toughest, the prettiest, the luckiest? No, not really. But I am tough, and I am pretty. And I was so, so lucky.

A walk through the village

July 14, 2013

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

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

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

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

Labastide village

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

garden path, Labastide

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

Labastide wildflowers

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

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