Nadine Walks

stories of trekking and travel

The Last, Perfect Camino Day; Day 9 on the Camino del Norte (Miraz to Sobrado dos Monxes, 25km)

Warning: this is a long post. I think this is what happens when I write after the Camino ends, when I’ve had time to think about my days and reflect on all that happened. So maybe grab a cup of coffee or a glass of good Spanish wine and read about my last day on the Camino.

It seems like each time I do a Camino, I have one perfect day. Or, a day that’s just all-around so good and I feel so happy that I don’t want to even think about it too much- I just want to be in the day, in each moment of it, soaking it all up. On the Camino Frances it was the day I walked into Burgos; last year, it was the day on the Primitivo when my friends and I cobbled together some food and ate in the garden of the albergue under a setting sun.

And this year, it was my very last day on the Camino. How beautiful is that? It seemed like good Camino symmetry, that I’d had a rather difficult and isolated time overall, until the very end. And the very end felt magical.

All three of these ‘perfect days’ have something in common: I spent them with people whose company I truly enjoyed, people who I felt connected to. This makes me laugh, because I spend so much time alone on these Camino journeys; walking alone is important to me, facing challenges alone makes me grow, being happy and content with my own company is something I admire about myself.

But in the end, I need people. I think we all do.

My last post left off in the albergue of Miraz, where I’d eaten a hearty pasta dinner cooked by an Italian woman and eaten with a table full of new friends. I woke in the morning knowing I wouldn’t get an early start- the hospitaleros prepared a simple breakfast for us that they began to serve at 7am, so after a couple cups of strong coffee and a large stack of jellied toast, I didn’t set off until well after 7:30.

From my seat at the table in the albergue kitchen, I had watched the light change out the window. At first a dark, almost navy blue that slowly shifted and thinned, turning pale and then pink and orange tinged at the horizon and it was a perfectly clear, pastel colored sky.

I sat watching this sky in the albergue, wanting to be out there, walking, but at the same time content to sip my coffee and crunch into another piece of toast and make groggy conversation with the pilgrim sitting across from me. I almost felt like I was beginning to master something on this Camino (though in reality I’ve probably still got lots of work to do): I was able to just be in the moment, letting go of expectation and control of how I thought things should go or how I wanted them to go. I had learned to let go of worry or stress, and to just sort of take each day for what it was going to give me. I’m still frustrated that I got sick on my Camino, but if there was one take away, it was that everything felt so much easier once I started to feel better. And that I was reminded that feeling and being healthy is maybe the thing I’m most grateful for; if I have my health then I’m able to walk, I’m able to enjoy the food on the table in front of me, I’m able to smile and talk to a stranger. I’m able to be alive in the world.

So for the end of my Camino, I felt so settled into my days, accepting of whatever they would look like: if I would be alone, if I would make a new friend, if I would fly through the walk or if I would feel the burn in my legs. I had no need to make my last day into anything- to frantically fill it with all my favorite things, to make sure I drank Rioja wine or to have a cafe con leche break, to ensure that I would walk alone, to walk to a beautiful sunrise, to arrive at an albergue at any given time. Maybe I’d have these things and maybe I wouldn’t; it was okay.

This is a long way to open a post about my last day, but I’m reflecting on it now because I think my attitude probably contributed to how beautiful this day turned out to be (and it’s a reminder of how I try to keep living, back at home… it’s awfully hard but I’m trying).

When I did finally leave the albergue, full of coffee and bread and the warmth of the hopsitaleros and my new friends, the walk was beautiful. The day was beautiful: it was barely 60 degrees and a strong wind was blowing and the world around me felt a little wild, and free. And by extension, I felt a little wild, and free. I was alone for most of my walk, facing forward but also turning around to catch the sun reaching over the peaks of distance hills. The light was golden and cast long, deep shadows across the reddish dirt and rough stone. I walked, sometimes feeling like I was gliding, being pushed along by the wind.

And as I approached my destination, Sobrado dos Monxes (after a 25km walk), I didn’t feel sad or anxious to try to capture the last steps of this year’s Camino, to savor each one. I just felt… good.

Just before the small town of Sobrado is a small lake, and sitting off to the side along a stone wall was a big group of Spanish teenagers and a few young adults. One of them flagged me down, and began speaking quickly. When I told them I spoke English, another came over to translate. “Do you know where we are?” he asked. They wanted to know where I had come from- they were walking in the opposite direction, not on the Camino exactly, but maybe on a scouting/camping trip. I mentioned the names of towns I’d seen as I walked, and pulled out my guidebook and pointed at a map, to help them orient themselves.

I walked away feeling satisfied that someone had asked me for direction, knowing that I felt sure about where I was, what was behind me, where I was going. I walked a few more steps and saw two pilgrims sitting on a small dock at the water’s edge. They were two English guys who I’d seen a couple times the day before; we chatted for a few minutes- they were killing time because apparently the albergue in Sobrado didn’t open until 4pm. It was almost 1:30 at this point but I didn’t want to linger too long, I wanted to get into the town and find a restaurant where I could get a good meal. One of the guys nodded and said, “Natalie passed by about 15 minutes ago, so she’s just ahead of you.”

I grinned as I walked away, pleased that this pilgrim had linked me together with Natalie, even though I’d only met her yesterday. And I was pleased that she wasn’t far ahead of me. I’d known that just about everyone I’d been in the albergue with the night before was planning to stay in Sobrado- the albergue is in an old monastery and there were over 100 beds available for pilgrims. So I continued walking and I arrived at the monastery to read a sign posted on the door: the albergue had been open until 1:30, and would reopen at 4:00. I checked my phone for the time- it was 1:38. I had just missed a chance to drop off my pack and claim a bed, but in keeping with the theme of the day, I wasn’t bothered by it. I noticed a German man who I’d met briefly the morning before, and for some reason- even though he hadn’t stayed in the Miraz albergue with us and I didn’t even know his name- I considered him part of our group of solo walkers. I grinned and shrugged at our bad luck and said, “Lets go find some lunch.”

We went back to the main square of the town, looked around, and I picked a bar that had a large black board propped against the wall, listing some items from the day’s menu. After using translators on our phones to decipher the food choices, we ordered and took glasses of wine to a table outside. No sooner had we settled in than Natalie, Silvia, Michael and Matthias walked up (they had made it into the albergue before 1:30). They laughed and cheered when they saw us, and we all crowded around the table, then moved inside when the wind started blowing over chairs and knocking over glasses.

My food came out first, and it was then that we realized we had stumbled onto something great. This wasn’t just another Spanish bar with bland lettuce and watery tomatoes, fried slabs of meat, hunks of white bread. I’m sure there are restaurants like this in larger cities on the Camino (I’ve even been to a few good ones), but this was a hidden gem in a small, dusty town. On the outside and on the inside, it looked like any other bar, maybe a touch more modern, a touch more clean. But the food! The guy bringing out our dishes was the chef, and he owned this restaurant. He was young and full of energy and ideas. He could speak some English (which I hadn’t encountered much), and explained that his menu evolved; he aimed to use the freshest, most local ingredients, and so he cooked with whatever was available and in season.

And it was evident in the food that we ordered. My salad wasn’t a normal ‘ensalada mixta’: the lettuce looked like it had been picked sometime in the last hour (and maybe it had; it took awhile for the food to get to us). The tomatoes were the right color of red, there were thin slices of radish and a broiled cheese that I couldn’t identify but the flavors burst on my tongue and I scraped up every last bit. My next dish was mounds of smoked salmon piled on top of an avocado mousse and layered on thick toast and there was so much I could only finish it because it was so good.

I’m not totally sure of what everyone else was eating because I was so absorbed in own meal, all I know is that everyone was raving over the quality of the food. I saw some sort of pulled pork, and long plates of deep green padron peppers. We drank glasses of wine, and then more glasses of wine. When the chef came to ask us if we wanted dessert, we rubbed our stomachs, looked at each other, and asked what he was making.

I ordered his personal recommendation, in English he called it “cream cheese with jelly”, but even he knew that this description didn’t do the dish justice. “Just try it,” he said. “It’s made with ingredients unique to Galicia, and it is the very best.”

And it was. After dessert we ordered coffee, because there’s nothing like a strong shot of espresso to end a really long and really good meal. We thanked the chef countless times and raved over his food and he urged us to come back later that night. (I’m kicking myself for not noting the name of this restaurant; my google searches are bringing up nothing).

Just as we were leaving, I noticed the two English guys I had passed on my way into Sobrado. One of them- the handsome, blond one with long hair pulled back into a knot at the back of his head- was paying at the bar and I decided to walk over and talk to him. I did it without giving it much thought; he had caught my eye and I wanted to say hi. I was feeling good from the weight of the wine and the fullness of my meal, from the soft morning sunlight and the wild wind, from the freedom I’d felt as I walked and the confidence I had at the end of this journey through Spain.

We stood at the bar, talking, then moved outside to where his friend was sitting, then all walked together back to the monastery. We stood in line together and waited to check in, talking about the day’s walk, about where we lived, about our ideas for the future. I was so distracted by the conversation, by the English guy’s light blue eyes and his nice smile that it wasn’t until we were almost at the front of the line that I realized I had left my walking stick behind.

My stick! You guys know how much my walking sticks mean to me on these Caminos, and this year was no exception. I’d found the stick on my second day of the San Salvador and it was different than the sticks I’d carried on my other Caminos but I’d learned how to carry it so that it fit into my hand perfectly, I learned to love it. I couldn’t believe that I had gotten distracted by a guy and left it behind. I was about to turn around and go retrieve it, but then I realized that I didn’t need it anymore. My walking was done, the stick had fulfilled its purpose, I was going to leave it behind that day anyway. (I did go back later to look for the stick, but it was gone. And that, despite knowing I was going to leave it behind anyway, made me a little sad).

I’m amazed that I don’t have a good photo of this year’s walking stick. So here’s another shadow photo.

 

We got our beds and I showered and a French woman I’d never met before asked if I wanted to share the washing machine with her so I didn’t have to hand wash my clothes. While my clothes were washing I walked around, exploring the monastery. I couldn’t quite believe that I was staying here on my last day of Camino walking. It was my kind of place. Old and nearly abandoned, crumbling and decaying, vines growing through empty windowpanes, the flap of pigeon wings echoing around the vacant spaces. In many ways it was sad to see this beautiful, imposing building left to rot, left behind. But it was also quietly beautiful, more beautiful to me than so many of the gilded and ornate churches that dot the path of the Camino.


The rest of the afternoon and evening went by too fast, and I wanted more time. Time to run my errands and wander through the town. Time to write postcards to my friends and family, time to explore more of the monastery, time to talk to my new friends. I was able to do some of this, all of this, but I wanted just a bit more. More, and yet, what I had was enough. A big group of us did go back to the same restaurant where we’d had lunch, we ordered several bottles of wine and plates of tapas and stayed until just before 10:00, and then we had to rush back to the albergue before we got locked out.

At some point in the evening, Natalie asked me if I was sad that my Camino was over, that I couldn’t continue on to Santiago. And you know, I surprised myself a little that my answer was ‘no’. It would have been wonderful to continue on for two or three more days to Santiago, to try to stick with the group I’d found, and with the people I was continuing to meet. But a few days into the San Salvador I’d known that I couldn’t walk all the way to Santiago this year, and despite my recent connections, I was okay to say goodbye that night. The entire day had felt surrounded by a haze of that ol’ Camino magic- and I was happy. Content with the way I’d walked, excited about a new adventure to come, but mostly just focused on the beautiful place I was in at the moment, the beautiful people surrounding me.

Walking back to the albergue under a half moon and the fading light of the sky, my friends before me, I thought to myself, “This is the perfect end to a Camino. I don’t need anything else.”

On the Terrace, in the Sunshine

I’m writing this post from the terrace of La Muse, sitting on a bench in the sunshine. Sitting in the sun is the only way I can work outside today- it’s downright cold. 

Well, that’s probably an exaggeration. But the high today couldn’t have been much more than 60 degrees, but with the strong wind, it feels even cooler. The day has alternated between dark gray clouds, sprinkles of rain, periods of sun, always the strong wind. But it’s felt almost perfect to me: just what I needed to stay inside this morning to write, and just the right temperature to go for a small hike in the afternoon. And now, a blog post on the terrace in the sunshine. 

  
I’ve never really explained how things work here (have I?) and since I’m a solid 9 days in, I figure it’s about time. Most people, when I explain that I’m spending 3 weeks at a writer’s retreat in France, ask about the structure here. “Are there lectures or workshops, is there a teacher?” No, no, and no. It’s all pretty unstructured, it’s one of my favorite things about this place. You apply for a spot- a room, essentially- by sending in a resume and an explanation of your work. If there’s an open room and it seems as though you’re serious about your art, you’ll be offered a spot. But then the rest is up to you: La Muse provides the beautiful room and the stunning, almost magical scenery, and you work on your art.

There are now several places to stay in the village: The Big House (where I am, and the orginal home of La Muse), The Mews (the other half of the Big House that used to be the home of the owners of this whole thing), Cottage #1 and Cottage #2, each with two bedrooms. Right now every single room is booked, so there are 14 of us in total. Sometimes the residents all gather together, if we organize a communal meal, or do a reading, but mostly people are on their own to do whatever they want. 

Some people stay and work in their rooms for the entire day. Some (ahem) go off for long hikes. Some work on the terrace or hang out in the library, some work late into the evenings or early in the mornings. But often we come together for dinner, eating with whoever is around, and most of us eventually congregating on the terrace to finish the night.

  
Once a week you’re driven down the mountain for a bit of sight-seeing but mostly so you can hit a grocery store and stock up for the week. There’s a house in the village where you can buy fresh eggs, a constantly running water source with what might be the best water I’ve ever tasted, a truck that comes through the village two times a week selling bread and basic supply of fruits, veggies and canned goods. There are between 30-40 residents who live in this village, and many of them are well into their 80’s. But I see them out, all the time, tending to their gardens, walking slowly up and down the sloping streets. They congregate when the bread truck arrives, chatting as they wait, lingering as they stock up on supplies. For many, it’s the social highlight of the week.

  
I’ve found a good rhythm here, though it took me awhile. I wake early to eat breakfast on the terrace, then I go back to my room for several hours to work. I take a lot of breaks and do a lot of puttering around- it’s hard to sit still and write for hours on end. I break up my time by walking up to Le Roc-  a viewpoint at the top of the moutain- going on water runs to the source, hand washing laundry, straightening up the few possessions in my room, reading a book. If it’s a cloudy or rainy day (we’ve only had a few), I’ll stay in my room and write. But by mid-afternoon (at the latest!) I’m ready to get out and hike. There’s a network of trails that run through the village, so all I have to do is strap on my pack, walk out the door, and I’ve got several great paths to choose from. 

  
My family and friends have asked me: how’s the writing going? Are you getting much done? The answer is… it’s going okay. I’ve had some great stretches of writing and have started to work out some of the structural stuff for the book. But I’d by lying if I said that I was spending all day writing, getting a tremendous amount of work done. I can’t, or maybe it’s more that I choose not to. Just being here and soaking up this experience is so important to me; it’s good if I can get a lot of writing done, but what’s even better is what I’m remembering from last time: that I feel so inspired and creatively energized. After a week, my writing feels as strong as it’s ever been. I’m having great conversations about the creative process, today on my hike I memorized a poem. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that. 

Last night the residents all gathered in the library for a reading, to share some of what we’ve been working on. I read a short part from my book, something I wrote last week. It’s the first time I’ve ever done something like this, the first time I’ve shared anything from this book I’ve been working on. And it was scary. But it also felt good. The idea, the hope, is that eventually I can get something published and have lots and lots of people read my story. Sharing just a very small piece of it felt like a good start.

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.

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

A Camino Lesson, A Life Lesson: Loving and Letting Go

Harry looked at me from across the table. He wore round glasses with thick frames and a scarf was still draped around his neck. “I’m sure you’ve already answered this a lot today, but do you have plans for another Camino?”

There were about 12 of us seated around a long table, at a restaurant in Chestnut Hill. I was with the Philadelphia Area Camino group and we’d just been on a 5-mile walk, and now we were putting up our feet and grabbing a bite to eat, just like we’d do on the Camino.

I stabbed my fork through a tomato and looked back at Harry. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet.”

There had been a lot of travel talk that day, about past Caminos and future Caminos, about other places in the world we wanted to go, the things we wanted to do. These are things I think about a lot: the next place on my list, the next trail to walk.

In some ways- in many ways- it would be so easy to walk a third Camino this summer, and indeed, I might. But there are a few other things I want to do as well, one thing in particular that has been ‘on my list’ for nearly as long as I can remember: drive across the United States.

It was something my best friend and I talked about in high school. “When we graduate, lets do a cross-country trip!” We were serious about it, but not serious enough, and in any case, things changed and the plan never happened. But I’ve wanted to do it ever since. Sometimes I worry that my vision of the trip is too different, that it can no longer be the young, carefree, wide-eyed adventurous sort of trip that I’d always envisioned it would be. And of course, it can’t be, because I’m not 18 anymore, I’m not in my mid-twenties anymore either.

But the thing is, I still haven’t been to Nebraska. I still haven’t seen the Grand Canyon or followed in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s footsteps. Those were the things I wanted to do all those years ago, and I still want to do them. But now? I want so much more, because I know so much more. I want to hike and to camp and to spend time in as many National Parks as possible. And I want to drive far and wide to reach as many family and friends as I possibly can. When I was 18, nearly everyone that I knew lived in my town. Now, I have friends and family spread across the country.

(Just so you know, this is going to be a topsy-turvy, disjointed kind of post.)

I still hesitate about doing this cross-country trip for one reason: my car. I have an old car with a lot of miles on it and every single time I get inside to drive somewhere (even just a mile down the road to buy some groceries), I feel slightly stressed. I’m so alert and aware of every shudder and jerk, every creak or whirr from the engine. I’m sure it’s because I’ve recently had to have the car towed, twice in less than a month, and now I almost expect that it won’t start, or that it might stall.

Soon, it will be time for a new car. And if I’m being honest with myself, it was probably time for a new car two years ago, but for me, this is nothing new: it feels like I’ve always driven an old, slightly unreliable car.

I love the idea of taking this car (if it makes it to the summer), on this epic cross-country trip, and basically driving it until it dies on me. But that’s probably the worst idea in the world, given that I want to actually enjoy a trip like this and not be constantly stressed over the fact that the car might leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere.

The answer is, of course, to buy a new car. I started thinking about this last night, why it feels so difficult for me to say, “Okay, that’s enough, it’s time to buy something new.” My thoughts started going deeper and deeper and finally I came up with this, a statement so simple and true that I’m amazed it’s never occurred to me before:

I love things to pieces.

I’m sure I’ve known this about myself- I DO know this about myself. And yet, last night, it all seemed so remarkably clear, in a way that it never has before.

I’ve always been like this. When I was a toddler, I had this teddy bear and I loved her so much. She was already with me in my very earliest memories, I see her glued to my side in photos that I can’t remember. I carried her with me and slept with her for much, much longer than kids normally do. Her fur became matted and mangled, her nose fell off, she began to resemble something more similar to E.T. than a teddy bear. But she was so much a part of me, that she became something very real to me.

It’s not just stuffed bears, it’s other stuff too, everything: a scuffed pair of Doc Martens that I wore every day in high school and are- at this very moment- sitting underneath my bed. It’s the jobs I’ve held, the friendships and relationships I’ve had, the cars I’ve driven. I’ve watched things break down and fall apart and crumble around me, and that is how I finally walk away, because I have to. Just after I graduated high school I drove out to the parking lot across from the vacant movie theater where I used to work and watched as a wrecking ball smashed into its brick walls. I drove to a bridge just outside of Philly and parked my car and watched from a distance as The Vet- the stadium where I’d spent years watching Phillies games- imploded. I’ve owned two cars in my life and drove the first one into the ground. My mechanic handed me five twenty dollar bills. “This is how much the parts are worth.”

Others leave, I stay. I stay and I stay and I stay, and it’s because I have a deep connection to the people and places and things that I’ve learned to love. I don’t want to leave them, I don’t want to leave any of them.

And often, this quality of mine- my respect for tradition and ritual, my appreciation for the things I love, my commitment- it’s a wonderful thing. I have decades-long friendships that I cherish, an old apartment that I find beautiful and comfortable and so uniquely me, a connection to the students I work with that I recognize is very rare and special.

But there’s a problem here, too. Lately, I’ve been wanting to change some things in my life. I’m still working on what and how, but I’ve opened myself up to new opportunities and now I want more. I want to explore more, I want to do more, I want to learn more and see more. But change often requires that we let go of something, that we give up something that we’ve learned to love, and that really scares me.

I started practicing this on my first Camino- loving and letting go, loving and letting go- but I didn’t quite get the hang of it. It’s probably one reason that I went back for a second Camino, I just wanted more practice. Walking through a place and to a place and then packing up and leaving. Over and over again. Meeting people and getting to know people and feeling connected to people and leaving. Over and over again.

I got good at it on the Camino- it took me 1,000 miles, but I finally got the hang of it. But now I’m at home, and don’t they say- don’t I say- that the real journey starts when the walking ends? In the last year I’ve recognized that I am going to need to change a few things in my life if I want to ever try and go after some of my dreams. Eventually, I’ll have to leave this apartment. Eventually, I’ll have to quit my job. Eventually, I’ll have to buy a new car.

And I wonder if I could start there. If, rather than letting the car die on me a dozen more times, I could say, “I’m walking away from this now. It’s time for something new.” It’s something so small, so obvious to most people, but it feels really big to me.

I mean, maybe I’ll go back to Europe this summer and do another Camino and spend some time in France and hold onto my little clunker of a car for another year. It’s a fine option. But this weekend I spent a lot of time thinking about a different option, one where I let go of something I love in order to go after something new. I think it could be good for me.

Thanks for bearing with me, through this long, rambly post. This is one reason I love to write, even if the things I say don’t really come together well or are all about teddy bears and old cars. It just helps to get stuff out on the page, to make sense of my self and my thoughts- it helps to organize life, in a way. 🙂

Me and my car

Me and my car

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

You can sleep when you’re in the pencil case; Day 31 on the Camino, Muxia to Santiago (by bus)

(I wrote most of this post while I was still in Santiago, but I’m finally getting around to posting it just now, a full week later. I’m back in the States and this is sort of the last of the ‘live’ Camino posts, but there will be more to come! Including the saga of getting my walking stick home…)

It’s 6:00pm and I’m sitting at a cafe tucked around the corner from the cathedral in Santiago- at an outdoor table under a large white umbrella. I’m steps away from the main square of the cathedral but this tiny corner of the city is very tucked away, down a set of stairs that not many people notice. The day is chilly and the coffee is good and strong. I feel rested and relaxed. Satisfied.

I had another early start this morning, every morning has been an early start on the Camino. Even though I wasn’t walking I still had a 7:30am bus to catch back to Santiago, so I dragged myself out of bed and wondered, again, why in the world I had walked so much yesterday, why in the world I had stayed up so late drinking wine with Honza. But then I remembered something we’d talked about the night before, the expression, “You can sleep when you’re dead.” He told me about one that his girlfriend says, and I’m not sure if it’s a Czech thing or just his girlfriend’s thing, but in any case, it’s this: “You can sleep when you’re in the pencil case.” Same concept, but funnier and stranger. I might start using it.

So yes, I can sleep when I’m in the pencil case. And since I’m not there yet, I have no regrets about pushing myself really hard in this last week: the long, long days of walking, the late nights talking with friends, the early mornings when I sacrificed sleep in order to sit outside and drink coffee with Nicolas or Christine.

Besides, I found my rest today, almost against my will. On the bus ride back to Santiago I closed my eyes for a moment and then opened them to discover I was back in the city; this afternoon I took a nap (the first nap of my Camino! And on my first day of not walking in a month!).

This is my first rest day and my last day in Spain, tomorrow I fly to Paris. My experience of Santiago is so different than it was last year, but not in a bad way. I still feel like I belong here, I’m a pilgrim and I walked here and even though this year’s walk didn’t feel as much like a pilgrimage, Santiago was still, always, the destination. 

But like the rest of this year’s Camino, this final day in Santiago is calm and relaxed. But also filled with beautiful moments. I’d arranged to meet Moritz in the morning; I hadn’t seen him in about four days, since Castroverde. He took a slightly different route to get to Santiago and only arrived early this morning, planning to stop for an hour or two and then pass through and continue on towards Finisterre. When I realized that I could make it back from Muxia in time to see him, and that he would wait for me, I was so happy. It meant that I’d been able to say goodbye to the four people I’d grown closest with on this Camino: Christine, Guillemette, Nicolas and Moritz. And that was a special thing, considering we’d all parted and were arriving/leaving Santiago at different times.

So Moritz and I had coffee and filled each other in on what had happened since we’d last seen each other. We lingered, continuing to talk, already reminiscing on the days we had spent together. We said goodbye in exactly the same spot that Christine and I had parted, giving each other a strong hug and promising to keep in touch. I could feel a small lump in my throat as I watched him walk away, and I thought, once again, about how lucky and grateful I was for the people I met this year.

I stopped by the pension I’d stayed in on Thursday night to see if my room was ready, and it was. This time it all felt easy: I knew exactly where to go, I was given the same room, and when I walked inside I felt like I was back in my little home. After dropping off my pack and my stick I hurried over to the cathedral for the 12:00 mass, and stood quietly in the back of a very packed church. After about 10 minutes two men passed by and I realized I knew them- it was Jose and another Spanish man, the guys who had been at my dinner table in Bodenaya. It was a classic Santiago greeting: the looks of surprise and happiness on our faces, the hugs, the congratulations (all in hushed tones, since there was a service going on). I hadn’t seen them since the Hospitales route, the day that I tacked on an extra stage. Jose told me that they were the first to arrive in Santiago, the rest of the people we’d been with in Bodenaya were a day or two behind. 

I shook my head and joked, “No, I’m the first of the group to arrive!” He wagged his finger at me. “You’re in your own group.”

I had to smile at that, because maybe I AM in my own group, or maybe, actually, I’m in a lot of groups. I come and I go but always, it seemed as though I found people to be with.

Just as the mass ended and I was saying goodbye to Jose, I heard someone exclaim, “Nadine!!” I turned and it was Jill, an American girl from Chicago who I’d met at least two weeks ago in Pendueles (when I was still on the Norte). She threw her arms around me and gave me the longest, strongest hug I’ve maybe ever had in my life. I’d probably only ever talked to her for an hour but, again, this is the Camino: when you see people again, especially when you think it’s impossible, it’s a special thing. 

We’re going to meet for dinner tonight, maybe with a few others as well. I’m hoping I can run into other people I know- I’m still holding out hope that others from the Norte are here, as well- but even if I don’t find anyone else, it will be okay. In many ways I’ve been given more than enough on this Camino- more friends, more connections, more time alone, more time to feel pain, more time to feel alive- than I ever expected. It’s been a good, good month.

(later)…

I never did run into anyone else from the Norte; I’d arrived in Santiago too soon, they had more time to walk, or maybe they were somewhere in the city, and I just couldn’t find them. I did, however, run into one more person, one last Camino encounter that felt strange and special.

I was walking back to my pension after dinner, it was nearly 11:00, the night was dark but the city was still alive, with pilgrims streaming through the streets, eating and drinking and celebrating. Just before coming to the street that I would turn onto for my pension I saw someone familiar walking towards me: it was Andrea, the Italian man who I had helped in Arzua (he had been looking a little lost and I told him to come with me to find an albergue). We greeted each other and he was so pleased to see me. “Come have a beer with me,” he asked.

At first I declined. I was tired and I didn’t know Andrea at all. I’d spent a total of 15 minutes in his company, that day in Arzua, and in that moment, all I wanted was to return to my room and climb into bed and fall into a deep sleep. I felt like my pilgrimage, my Camino, was over.

But Andrea pleaded. “It wil be fast,” he said. “I wanted to buy you a beer in Arzua, after you helped me find a place to sleep, but I went to the pharmacy and then you were gone. But now here you are, and I am so glad.”

I heard his words and then I heard Honza’s words, from the night before: “You can sleep when you’re in the pencil case.”

So I agreed and Andrea and I found a place nearby- a small bar on the corner where we took a table outside and ordered beer and talked for an hour.

It’s hard to describe the conversation we had, but all I can say is that it was such a Camino conversation, and in some ways, the perfect way to end this trip. Andrea told me how much I had helped him, that day in Arzua. To me, I hadn’t thought much of it- he had looked tired and I also needed to find a place to sleep, so it made sense to have him come along with me. But Andrea had really been struggling: he had tendenitis and was in a lot of pain. He was tired and frustrated and feeling like his Camino might have to end, just 40 kilometers before Santiago.

But then I appeared, and he said that when he saw me, I had a smile on my face. That he could feel my positive energy, and that being able to follow me to an albergue helped his spirits and his outlook so much.

We talked about this, and about what the Camino can give you, about how it is really just one small part of a journey through life. How the real Camino begins when you go home. It’s something I’ve thought about before, but it’s been so much more on my mind during this trip. Last year, when I came home from the Camino Frances, I was upset that I wasn’t still on a Camino. I wanted to walk all day, I wanted to be outside all day, I wanted to be meeting people from all over the world, I wanted to feel free, all the time. 

It’s a big reason that I came back to do another Camino: I wanted those feelings again. I wanted to keep walking. But this year, at least right now, my feelings are different. I’d still love to walk all day and meet people and feel that freedom, but I don’t think I need it in the same way. So many of the friends I made on this year’s Camino have asked me: What will your next Camino be? When will it be? And I don’t really have answers, other than it will probably be somewhere in France, and it probably won’t be next summer.

Because I’m ready for other things, now. I think I will always want to be on a Camino, and I have no doubt that I will do another Camino (maybe many Caminos) in my life. But I’m also ready to really live my days, wherever I am. To try to be present with each day and not always be dreaming about my future, about what I want to do when I have time off. I want to say to myself, “I can sleep when I’m in the pencil case” a little more than I normally do in my regular life. When people walk up to me, I want them to see my smile, to feel my positive energy. I want to see what other parts of the world I can explore, what other things in life I can experience. I want to feel more alive and free in my day to day life, which I know is a challenge… but it’s something I want to try. 

So that last Camino conversation, with Andrea, it was perfect. Because it was all about this kind of stuff. He talked about how the Camino will always be with him, that he can carry it within him wherever he goes, in whatever he does. I thought this was a powerful message to hear on my last night in Santiago, and the words repeated in my head as I walked back to my pension, as I finally climbed into bed, as I drifted off into that much needed, very deep sleep. 

The Camino is always with me. 

   

You’ll never walk alone; Day 30 on the Camino, Vilaserio to Muxia

I learned something about myself today: 52 kilometers is a bit over my limit. But… I did it! 2 days from Santiago to Muxia. I would never do it again and maybe it was worse because I had three 40km days leading up to Santiago, which means I did just a tad more than 200 kilometers in 5 days (and I don’t know that I would recommend this to anyone)… but I’m happy to have done it.

Part of this crazy plan of walking really long days was so that I could try to do it all: make it from Irun to Santiago, then be able to walk to Muxia, and then make it back to Santiago and have a little time to try to find people that I’d met along the way. I didn’t realize that I would want to spend time in Santiago after a trip to Muxia until I realized that most of my friends were behind me, so when I began to consider doing Santiago to Muxia in two days, a big reason for that was so that I could have extra time in Santiago at the very end of this journey.

But also, I wanted to see if I could do a 50km day. Last year I’d wanted to break 40km, and I did, and it was plenty. But this year I happened to hang around with some young guys who loved to walk really big days, and the idea began to stir around in my head- maybe I could do it, too. I think it was Simon who said to me, “Don’t you want to go for 50km, to see if you can do it?”

So I did, and I can do it. But not well. You should have seen me on the last 10 kilometers of the walk today: I was literally dragging myself to Muxia. And wondering why in the world I ever thought this was a good idea. And wishing that these weren’t the very last kilometers of my Camino this year- spent in the rain, small pebbles rolling around in my shoes, mud slinging up on my calves, nearly every muscle of my body aching, my eyes heavy because I need more sleep. If there had been a bar 5km or even just 2km away from Muxia I would have stopped for some coffee, just something to power me through. But I powered myself through, ending with a small, steep hill up to the albergue. I stopped in the middle of the hill, partly because I was exhausted, and partly to take a moment to recognize the end of my Camino. Despite my fatigue, I said to myself, “This was a good Camino.” And it was. And, honestly, not a bad way to end this Camino. It started with a steep hill in the rain and was ending with a steep hill in the rain, but the in betweens had been glorious.

The day started really well. I had been the last to bed the night before but the first to wake up in the morning (and this is EXACTLY the reason for my heavy eyes today). I was ready to go in 25 minutes, which I think is a record for me. 5:30am I was on the (dark) road, walking. And even though I walked in the dark for an hour, I didn’t get lost once, or even momentarily confused. My guidebook had decent directions, and I was vigilant about shining my flashlight around to look for arrows and waymarkers. I walked until 7:00 and stopped at the first open bar for a cafe con leche and tostada, and took a few moments to watch the sunrise, something I haven’t seen much on this Camino.

The bar I’d stopped at was also an albergue, and the hospitaleros looked at me as I drank my coffee. “You didn’t stay here last night,” they said to me. “No,” I replied. When I’d entered the bar there were lots of other pilgrims around, getting ready to start their day. It felt kind of good to have already been on the road for 90 minutes. I felt kind of tough.

That feeling lasted for awhile- I walked for a few more hours then took another coffee break. I ran into a German guy I’d met very briefly the day before, and later, passed him on the trail. “Wow, you’re fast!” he told me. I looked at him over my shoulder as I walked away, “I’m fast now, but maybe not so fast later.”

Truer words have never been spoken. After another hour it started to rain, and then my body sort of said to me, “I’ve had enough.” I pushed myself through until I could find a bar, and soon after I arrived the German guy and an Australian girl came in. We all sat and ate sandwiches and the goofy barman tossed rubber eggs at us. I get so confused sometimes because I don’t understand Spanish, but I don’t think this was a language thing, I think the barman was just a bit odd. He had a couple of rubber eggs and I guess they were a joke but maybe I was too tired to really get it. And I WAS tired- too tired for the barman with the rubber eggs, too tired for the good looking German guy who was telling me that he just finished a degree in counseling. I could have handled this at the beginning of my Camino, I could have handled this a few days ago (even yesterday!), but today? All I wanted to do was lay my head on the table and fall asleep.

And then, as I continued to walk, any toughness I’d had in the past few days disappeared. I hobbled through the last kilometers to Muxia, arriving around 6pm, and told myself that I was glad to not have to walk tomorrow. I pulled off my shoes and socks to discover another small blister on the ball of my foot (something I suspected was forming during the last 10 kilometers of the day’s walk… and how’s this for a Camino message? The blister was perfectly formed in the shape of a little heart. Love and pain and all of that… lots of symbolism here- the Camino’s final mark on me was a heart, and I had to laugh when I saw it). I arranged my sleeping bag over my bunk and went to take a shower only to discover that the stalls didn’t have doors. Second time for me on the Camino, but this time I was not the only woman in the albergue. I was not amused but what can you do? At least the water was hot.

I took a walk through the town and over to the end of the little penisula, where I walked over the flat rocks to stand facing the water as it crashed against the shore. It was rough and a bit wild, windy with dark clouds swirling behind me. But ahead of me, far out over the water, the sun was shining (I think another metaphor, perhaps). And as I walked on the rocks and climbed up a hill around the church, the sky began to clear and the evening became beautiful.

Walking back to my albergue I didn’t recognize anyone (and really, the only people I would know in this town were the German and Australian I’d met that day). I wasn’t sure how I felt about being alone; part of me craved it, wanting to just cook up a nice meal and do some writing back at the albergue. But the other part of me was wistful and a little sad- knowing that I was completely finished with my Camino, having just walked over 50 kilometers, wanting to somehow celebrate it, wanting to not be alone. 

Back at the albergue I opened a bottle of wine and cut up some vegetables and settled in at a table to do some writing. Moments later, a guy walked downstairs and I squinted when I saw him. From where I was sitting, he looked an awful lot like Honza, the Czech guy from the night before. He looked at me, and then we both grinned and shook our heads. It was Honza, and I was really, really surprised to see him in Muxia.

“You didn’t walk the 50km today, did you?” I asked as he walked over.

“Oh yes, I did. And it was because of you, you put the idea in my head last night.”

I looked at him, worried about whether he hated me for putting the idea in his head.

He smiled. “And on the walk today I wanted to thank you, because I’m really happy I did it.”

So just like Simon had put the idea of a 50km into my head, I’d put the idea in Honza’s head. And as I stood talking to him, I realized that I wouldn’t be alone tonight after all. Honza was a new friend, but he was a friend who had also just walked 50 kilometers to get here. 

We made a meal together- pasta and a sauce with chorizo, bread, wine. After we finished eating we took the wine up to the second floor terrace of the albergue, where others were gathered to watch the sunset. As we’d been cooking we’d found two candles in one of the kitchen drawers- a 5 and a 0. While surely someone else had celebrated a milestone birthday, Honza noted that these candles were also meaningful for us. So we stuck the candles into the top of two bottles of wine and held out our cameras to take a photo- the ocean and the sunset in the background. A way to commemorate our 52 kilometer day.

We sat on the ledge of a stone wall, Italians next to us, some French in chairs below us. Drinking wine and talking with a new friend as the sun set and the stars came out, I couldn’t have predicted that this would be how I’d spend the night of my last day of walking the Camino Norte/Camino Primitivo. But, in some ways, of course this is how it would finish: I always struggled with whether I wanted to remain on my own or to be with others on this Camino, and in some ways, the Camino wouldn’t let me be alone. I knew it back on Day 4, when I walked away from my first Camino family, passed under that bridge and saw the graffitied words: “You’ll never walk alone.” 

And it was true, because even though I spent so much of the actual walking time alone on this Camino, the number of people I met and the short, but deep connections I made astounded me. I would walk ahead or behind but always, there were others just ahead or behind, as well. Nicolas or Honza, Guillemette or Christine. Moritz or Nicole or Richard or Elissa. And dozens of others. I never knew when I would run into my friends or run into someone new or keep walking alone but this is the Camino (and life, too): in the end, I think we never walk alone.  

           

A Bittersweet and Beautiful Walk; Day 29 on the Camino, Santiago to Vilaserio

My day started perfectly; maybe the whole day was perfect, in fact. 

I woke up, alone in my room in a pension in a quiet corner of Santiago- not needing to worry about my alarm bothering anyone, not needing to worry about making noise or keeping my things contained in a tight, small space. I could get changed in my room and not in a cramped bathroom stall, I could brush my teeth in peace. 

Packing my bag is now so routine that I can do it quickly; I was out the door and into the cathedral square in no time. The square was quiet, only a few pilgrims were standing there and looking up to the cathedral. I went to the far end of the square and took a seat against the wall and hoped that I hadn’t missed Christine. I was ready to head to Muxia, and I had a long 40km ahead of me. Already it was almost 8am and normally I would have already been walking for an hour. 

But trying to find Christine was worth the delayed start. And just when I thought I missed her she walked into the square. She came from the wrong direction- not on the Camino- and I knew she had already been to the square and had probably gotten her compostela. She was walking slowly, looking around, smiling at other pilgrims, still carrying that enormous green pack and her two very worn walking sticks. 

I walked over, reaching out to touch her arm. When she saw me she blinked and said, “Ce n’est pas vrai.” I’m sure she expected that I would be on my way to Muxia by now. We embraced and took a photo and went to find a bar to have breakfast. Our conversations have always been pretty basic, since my French isn’t so good, and this morning I wished so much that we could speak more easily. I had so many questions for her: what it felt like to be in Santiago, what it felt like to end this journey, was she happy or sad or overwhelmed or tired? We talked about some of this, and Christine seemed more subdued than usual. But in the end she told me that she was happy- she was in Santiago, she had seen me. We walked out of the bar and to a corner where we would head in different ways- we hugged again and I struggled to not get too emotional, to not start to cry. 

I felt full as I walked away, across the square in front of the cathedral and over to the Camino route; full of happiness and love and excitement for the next few days of walking. And just before I turned left to leave the square and walk out of the city, I saw a familiar figure standing against a wall- with his blue pack, gray cap, smoking a cigarette and holding a small styrofoam cup of coffee. It was Nicolas- of course it was, because it’s the Camino and things like this usually happen. I walked over and when he saw me he smiled. He had just walked through the night to get to Santiago, losing his friends somewhere along the way, losing himself somewhere along the way as well. 

“I walked- I don’t know- 60 or 80 kilometers.” He frowned, and squinted at the cathedral. He hadn’t been looking forward to Santiago, or the crowds- he and Pierre planned to walk from Santiago down to Portugal, and Santiago was never the destination for Nicolas. I could tell that he was dazed and tired and probably wishing he were some place else.

But still, I smiled at him, and gave him a big hug goodbye. Whether he was happy or not in that moment, I was happy. I’ve said it already, but it’s worth repeating: on the Camino you don’t often get to really say a goodbye. Last year we joked about the “Camino goodbye”, how you’d think you’d never see someone again, try to tell them goodbye, then see them a day or two later (or even a week or two later). But sometimes you don’t say goodbye, thinking it’s inevitable that you’ll run into them somewhere along the Camino, only to never see them again. It’s good practice for life- people come and go all of the time- but it’s always been hard for me to not have closure on the relationships that have been important to me.

So on this Camino, seeing Guillemette the night before, finding Christine this morning, and now seeing Nicolas, moments before I was about to walk out of the city… it meant something to me. Leaving is always hard, but a hug and a goodbye help to ease that bittersweet ache.

I walked out of the city feeling just that: a bittersweet kind of ache, which I think was exactly the way I wanted to feel. I WAS leaving something behind when I left Santiago- I was leaving people and connections I had made- but it was right to leave. This was the end, and leaving was always going to be hard.

But today’s walk? Oh man, it was great. It took me a little while to get going, and for a lot of the first 20 kilometers, I could feel the effort it took to walk up the hills, I could feel a constant hunger in my stomach (despite the multiple coffees, croissant, toast, banana that I had eaten). 

So after I arrived in Negreira, the typical first day stopping point for many pilgrims on the way to Finisterre/Muxia (and where I myself had stopped last year), I found a place to eat, and settled in for a nice, long lunch. Last year, my friend Sonal and I had eaten here- a bar/restaurant just across the street from our albergue, and I had been amazed at the quality of the food. It wasn’t typical for the bars I usually stopped at in Spain: inside, this one had a saloon type feel, with big wooden booths, a few pool tables in the back. Last year I’d eaten an amazing bocadillo (sandwich), and I ordered one again this year, along with a plate of fries. The food that was delivered to my table made my jaw drop: I’d only ordered half a sandwich but the thing that was placed before me was larger than most full sized bocadillos. I laughed at all of the food, the woman who brought out my food laughed with me, and then I dug in.

It had taken a long time for the food to come out so I was at that restaurant for nearly an hour- sitting at an outdoor table in the shade, my shoes and socks off, writing postcards, sipping my coke, munching on french fries. When I finally left, I felt so satisfied and energized, that I knew it would be no problem to keep walking.

Just as I was on my way out of the city, a young man stopped me. He looked like a pilgrim- one who had already checked into his albergue and showered- and he warned me that the municipal albergue was already full (this albergue was outside of the city, so I think he was trying to prevent me from walking out of the city only to have to come back and look for another place to stay).

His kindness made me smile, but I said to him, “Thank you, but I’m planning to keep walking.”

He looked doubtful. “The next town with an albergue is 13 kilometers away.”

I looked back at him. “Clearly, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”(No, I didn’t actually say this. What I really said was more like- “I know, but it’s no problem.”)

He laughed and shook his head a little, then wished me a Buen Camino.

And a buen camino it was. That sandwich and french fries and long break powered me through those 13 kilometers. It was a late day- when I left Negreira it was already 3:00, and on the very outskirts of the city was a marker that said Muxia was 65 kilometers away. I tried not to think too much about it- 65 kilometers was an awful lot to walk between now and tomorrow- and I pushed on. Once again the sun was out and the afternoon was hot, but when I arrived in Vilaserio, 13 kilometers away, I still felt good. 

A pilgrim sitting outside a bar waved me over and said I would need to go inside the bar to check into the private albergue, if I wanted to stay. I lingered there for a minute, and a few other pilgrims started talking to me. One was an American girl, the other a German guy. The German wanted to make it to Muxia tomorrow as well, and was considering walking further that day. The American girl was staying. I stood there, leaning on my stick, telling the others about the long days I had walked. “You’re crazy!” they said. I knew it was crazy, but I was still feeling good. And I wasn’t sure whether to keep walking or not. It was nearly 6pm, and I had another 7km to go before the next albergue. It could walk it tonight, arrive late, and only have about 40 kilometers to walk tomorrow… or I could stop now, shower and sit at this bar with these friendly pilgrims, and have 52 kilometers to walk tomorrow.

So I decided to stay. And I’m so glad I did, because it was a great Camino night. After settling into the albergue I sat at the bar with a drink and talked to Juliette, a woman from England. Together we walked over to a place just down the road that was offering food and drinks (it’s hard to describe this place; I’d actually stopped there last year for a break during my walk, and I think described it as a little oasis: it’s a family’s home, and they have this beautiful outdoor space for pilgrims: picnic tables and adirondack chairs and hammocks. They cook food in their kitchen and they told us, this year, that they hope to soon open their own albergue).

When we arrived the American girl, Meredith, was sitting there, along with a guy from the Czech Republic, Honza. I’d seen Honza on my walk that day- he’d left Santiago just before I had, and for most of the morning was just ahead of me. We settled into comfortable chairs on the outdoor terrace, and stayed there for hours: eating salad, soup, bread, their house-made wine (the owner of this place warned us about the wine: “Be careful,” she said, “It is strong!!”). Juliette wandered in and out, but Meredith, Honza and I stayed and talked. Like so many people you meet on the Camino, these two felt like my friends in no time. Eventually we were joined by a group of Italians, and a guy and girl from Denmark. Everyone pulled up chairs and sampled the wine and talked about the end of the Camino. It was such a beautiful night- we sat until the sun went down and the stars came out. I knew that I should have had an early night- I wanted to get a really early start for my 50 kilometer day- but it was just so hard to leave that terrace. The others knew about my plan to walk to Muxia the next day. Meredith and Honza both seemed intrigued. “You’re maybe inspiring me to try to walk this,” Meredith said. “Yes,” Honza agreed, “It’s an interesting thing to consider.” We laughed, we finished our wine, we walked back to the albergue.

I marveled, again, at how amazing the Camino is: I’d left Santiago, leaving everyone I knew behind. But within just this one day I’d found people to sit with and eat with, to talk with and laugh with. It was such a beautiful day, and such a beautiful night. 

             

But I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more…

In about an hour, I leave for my second Camino. A few weeks ago, even a few days ago, I figured that this blog post wouldn’t be written until I arrived at the airport and settled in to wait for my flight. Or maybe it would be written on the flight, or else on the train ride from Paris down to Hendaye.

But instead, I’m ahead of schedule. I’ve been ahead of schedule these last few days, and it’s throwing me off a bit. Where is the scrambling, the rushing, the panicked feeling that I don’t have everything done and I’m not prepared and that I’m going to forget something?

A small part of me worries that there’s something I’m not remembering to do, but mostly, I’m on top of stuff. It’s strange. I know I’m still going to have that feeling of “what am I doing??” when the plane takes off and, better yet, when I arrive at the train station in Hendaye and set off to cross the bridge from France to Spain and into Irun, my first official steps of the Camino del Norte.

But right now, this sort of feels ‘old hat’. I did a small training hike the other day with my pack ‘Camino loaded’, and as I was stuffing things into compartments, it all came back to me: how the sleeping bag fills out the bottom, how my soap and toiletries come next, topped with my rain jacket and ziplocs filled with clothes, how my bag with electronics and cords settles in at the top. Without having to think, my hands just moved along, filling my pack in the way that I used to last summer.

I’m at my parents house right now, where I’m leaving my car for the next month. I only arrived here yesterday, having spent most of the day finishing up work for the year. I imagined that I would spend my evening with maps spread out in front of me, jotting down notes, sending off emails, doing all of those last minute, pre-trip things. But instead, I went for a stroll around my neighborhood and saw lightening bugs blinking across the corn fields. I sipped a coke slushey and watched Apollo 13. I had one of the most relaxing summer evenings that I could imagine.

And now I’m sitting in my old bedroom with my Camino things spread out before me, not quite fully packed. My outfit is arranged on my bed, I’ll change into it shortly: a long pair of hiking pants, a deep blue t-shirt, underwear, socks. I remember this moment so vividly last year, how I was struggling to take a deep breath, panicked about what I was about to get myself into.

This year I feel so calm, and I love it. I think I’ve been ready to get back on the Camino for months, and now it’s here. Round two. The weather is supposed to be beautiful for my first day’s walk on Friday, so stay tuned for some gorgeous photos of the northern coast of Spain. Here’s a photo of a map of the route, taken from my guidebook (so pardon the poor quality of the map… but you’ll be able to see the route, which is the most important thing).

map of Camino del Norte

The solid red line is the route I’m walking this year, the Camino del Norte which branches off to the Camino Primitivo; the dotted red line is the Camino Frances, which I walked last year.

So here we go, 31-days on the Camino del Norte and Camino Primitivo… 500 more beautiful and strenuous and magical miles through Spain. Stay tuned!

Next Post: Day 1 on the Camino del Norte

10 days, Calm and Ready

A year ago I wrote a blog post called ’10 Days, rain, and stress’. I was- as you can guess- 10 days away from leaving for my Camino, and my days were consumed by- as you can probably also guess- rain and stress. I felt mildly panicked about everything: I hadn’t trained as much as I wanted, and for some reason I thought that I wouldn’t be remotely prepared for the physical part of the Camino if I didn’t get a chance to practice with back-to-back 15-mile hikes. I can’t remember what my longest training hike even was, last year; if it was 15 miles it only happened once, and it wasn’t with a loaded pack.

The rain was getting me down, I had two huge work presentations that were scheduled for the days just before I left for Spain, and I was terrified of walking the Camino. I was excited, too, but terrified: the Camino was calling me, loud and clear, but I didn’t know if I could handle it. I was so intentional about the decision to walk and the preparations and the training but suddenly, with 10 days to go, it felt a bit absurd- what in the world was I thinking? I was about to walk 500 miles across Spain??

This year is different. 10 days to go, and I feel… calm. Mostly. I actually don’t feel like I’m about to leave for Spain to walk another Camino, and maybe it’s because the stress and the fear isn’t there in the same way that it was last year. It just doesn’t feel real, but then again, things like this never feel real until I’m sitting in the window seat of a large aircraft, with my pack stowed above me and my journal open to a fresh page. That’s when it really hits- the excitement and the fear. I’ve had moments of each but I think they’re going to hit hard, and all at once, when I’m sitting on the plane.

But for now, everything feels controlled and calm. I’m not exactly sure who this person is, sitting here, writing about how calms she feels about a month-long trip to Europe to walk across a country… because months ago, I suspected that I would be a bundle of nerves at this point. Second-guessing everything, wondering if I was fit enough, worried that I would be too shy to make friends, worried about everything that could go wrong.

Instead, I feel settled. Despite spending hours, day, weeks, (months?) earlier this year, struggling to figure out the ‘best’ thing to do this summer, I think I always knew that I wanted to walk another Camino. And I can feel that, now. I feel it strongly: walking another Camino is exactly what I want to do this summer. I wrote about wanting to be ‘open’ on this Camino, and it’s been like a very tiny mantra that I repeat to myself every day, as I organize my gear, as I climb up small hills in a park: “Open. Open. Open.”

I’m ready for it NOW. Yesterday I hiked 15 miles with a loaded pack and I felt good. Tired at the very end, but mostly strong. Not everyday will feel like this, and I still worry that this Camino will be tougher on me than the walk last year… but I’m ready. After my hike, I bought the last few items I need for my trip: a bar of soap, a fresh t-shirt. My pack isn’t put together yet, but I have everything I need. No scrambling for last minute items. I’m ready.

Last year, I asked myself- what do I want out of my pilgrimage? I had some ideas, but I wasn’t really sure what the experience would be like for me. On the plane ride to Iceland, I wrote these words in my journal: “Connection. And fun.” Sometimes it shocks me that I was able to identify what I needed, because those were, perhaps, the two things in life that I needed the very most at that time. To feel strong connections, and to have fun. And man, did the Camino ever provide those things to me.

This year, I kind of want everything- sunshine and beach days and endless cafe con leches and Javier Bardem. And time to myself and time for connections and fun. But I expect nothing. If my days are beautiful and I meet incredible people and I have amazing days full of laughter and joy… then it will be a good Camino. And if I walk in nothing but rain, if I walk alone and stay alone, if I spend more time writing than socializing… then it will be a good Camino. My only goal, I think, is to be open- to accept what’s before me, to talk to the people around me, to take each day as it comes, with whatever it brings.

I still suspect that my next blog post, the one just before I leave or the one I write on the plane ride over, will sound completely different than what I’ve just written. That I’ll be saying things like, “What in the world am I doing?? This Camino is more isolated and it’s more challenging and WHAT IF IT RAINS EVERY DAY???” But right now, I’m not saying those things. I’m saying this: Camino #2, I’m ready for you.

Training hike, Ridley Creek State Park

Camino #2 shoes

Some of you expressed interest in the lacing advice the ‘REI guy’ gave me: see the right shoe. I was amazed that I could hike with a shoe laced like that, but I can! And it feels great!

A Rather Unrealistic Wish-List for my Second Camino

I’m just over two weeks away from leaving for my second pilgrimage, this time on the Camino del Norte/Camino Primitivo. Two weeks!! Sometime before I leave I’ll post a map of my route(s); I always meant to do it last year and it was probably one of the most asked questions by my family and friends: “Where in Spain will you be walking?” My guidebook should be arriving any day now, and then I’ll have a better sense of where I’ll be walking. Someone, it might have been my mom, seemed a little surprised that I would be bringing a guidebook. “Didn’t you have a great experience after you lost your guidebook last time?” And I did- I practiced letting go of planning, I learned to fully embrace the openness and possibility of my days in a way that I wasn’t quite able to when following a guide.

But at times, I missed the Brierley guide that directed me along the Camino Frances. I missed learning about the detours (which I loved taking), I missed being able to read up on albergues, I missed learning some of the history of the places I was walking through. So for this walk I’m going to use a guide, and I’m going to do my best to make sure I don’t accidentally leave it in the folds of a blanket on my bunk bed. I’d still like to follow the same approach that I learned on last year’s Camino: walk until I’m tired or, walk until I stumble upon a beautiful place. There are some things I’d like to plan (already I have a couple albergues that I’d like to check out), but more than anything I want to leave my days open to chance and possibility.

Along those lines, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what else I’d like from this year’s Camino. It’s a big topic, and I’m still processing last year’s pilgrimage: the things I wanted, the things I received, the things that surprised me, the things I was learning. I think that more than anything, I want to be very open to this experience, and to whatever it brings. That’s the third time I’ve used this word- open- in this post. Maybe because this second pilgrimage feels so wide open. I already know what a Camino is like, there aren’t quite as many question marks, not the same kind of fears and anxieties. But I’m also not clear on what I want, which leaves the possibilities open: Do I want to form deep bonds and find a Camino family that I stick with until the end? Or do I want to be totally free and unattached, able to walk as much or as little as I want on any given day? I wanted both of these things, often simultaneously, on last year’s Camino. I still didn’t quite have it figured out when I arrived in Santiago, and I felt like I needed at least another 500 miles to find my answers.

Putting the bigger questions aside for a moment, lets talk about some of the things I’m dreaming about for this second Camino. I already have some guarantees: I know that I’m going to meet some incredible people. I know I’m going to savor those mugs of café con leche and glasses of vino tinto. I know I’m going to love waking up every day and putting on my shoes and walking. But now lets talk about the dreams, the fantasies, the things that could happen but probably won’t but (who knows) maybe will…

1. Making it to Muxia

Emma, the Canadian-born, London-based friend we made on the way to Finisterre last year, said it best: “Five years ago, walking to Santiago was the end. And Finisterre was like this little secret that not everyone knew about. Now, walking to Finisterre is the end. And adding on a day to get to Muxia is the secret that not everyone knows about.” Muxia is a small coastal town about 30km from Finisterre and today, indeed, many pilgrims walk here, in addition to Finisterre, after arriving in Santiago. Muxia is part of the ‘Costa de la Muerte’ (Coast of Death), named after the many shipwrecks resulting from its rocky coastline, and it is beautiful. At least, that’s what I heard from friends who made the trek last year. Because of timing, I could only walk to Finisterre, but I wished I had extra time to make it to Muxia as well.

And this year? Getting to Muxia is a pipe dream. I have exactly 31 days to walk, and that’s not exactly a long time for the roughly 840km between my starting point of Irun and my ending point of Santiago. At best, I might be able to make the journey in 30 days, giving me a day to bus over to Muxia, but I’m not sure that’s how I’d want to do it. I really think I’d like to walk to Muxia, and that’s a minimum 3-day journey from Santiago.

But who knows- maybe if I’m totally going at my own speed, not attaching myself to anyone and feeling really strong, I’ll walk some long days, and get to Santiago way ahead of schedule. Maybe.

2. Taking black and white photographs along the way

I considered this before last year’s Camino: should I lug my old and heavy SLR camera and a dozen rolls of film over 500 miles in order to take some nice photographs? Ultimately I decided not to, and it was a good decision. But this time? Oh man, I’d LOVE to have that old camera with me. I’d love to have several rolls of film from this trip, to one day be able to make a few beautiful black and white prints that I could frame and hang on my wall. Or print enough to have a small exhibit somewhere… (I’ve been so focused on writing lately, but the photography dreams are always lurking just beneath the surface).

And speaking of writing…

3. Blogging every day

Blogging on last year’s Camino gave me so much joy, and continues to give me joy when I go back and read through my posts. But I just couldn’t do it all: couldn’t walk the long days AND spend time with the people I’d met AND explore the towns AND blog every day. But this Camino is a different Camino, and I just might have more time on my hands. Unless #4 happens…

4. Meeting a Javier Bardem look-alike in Oveido

Ha! Last night I watched Woody Allen’s Vicky Cristina Barcelona (a movie that I never seem to tire of), and I paid close attention to the scenes in Oviedo, a city that I will be walking through/staying in if I detour from the Norte to the Primitivo. Maybe the Camino will offer up some good-looking Spanish/European men again this year…

So that’s my wish-list for now. Along with perfect weather, lots of opportunities to lounge on the beach, and perfectly placed café con leche stops.

I think the reality is going to be just a bit different… but only two and a half more weeks until I find out!

Hiking in Ridley Creek State Park

Only time for a few more training hikes…

The Good and Beautiful Days of Patience

I’m sipping a glass of wine (a tempranillo, got to prepare for my Camino!), and eating a small bowl of potato chips. At some point along the Camino, potato chips became my go-to snack (I don’t think this counts as tapas) to go along with a glass of wine. I think it was my friend Mirra who first introduced me to this combination, when we took a bottle of Rioja and a bag of papas fritas down to the banks of a river in Najera, to sit and talk and stretch out our legs after a long day of walking.

In the last week or so, I’ve been consumed with memories from the first portion of my walk on the Camino. I think it’s because everyone’s on the Camino, these days: blog friends and Philadelphia Camino friends and even a real-life Camino friend, from last year. They’re posting blog posts and photos- “I made it over the Pyrenees!”, and “Here’s Belorado in the rain” and “Passed through the small, quaint village of Ages”.

I’ve loved seeing these updates; I click on every photo so it enlarges on my screen, and I press my face in close to examine the image for the tiny details that I might have forgotten, to peer at each stretch of road, knowing that I walked the same path nearly a year ago. It almost makes me want to return to the Frances, to walk that road again.

But it’s too soon to go back to that particular path, not yet anyway. The Norte is still my plan for June, although I have to say- this year’s preparations and anticipations are completely different from what I experienced last year.

Maybe that’s one reason this blog has been a little quiet. I assumed that by now, I’d have a lot to write about- my training and the things I’ll be packing and my thoughts and impressions of a second Camino. I’ve had so many thoughts, but they’re all still muddled up there in my head. Sometimes, I still wonder if I shouldn’t be spending the month in France, writing, instead of walking. Sometimes I worry that I’m going back to look for something I never found on the first Camino, something I can’t even identify. Sometimes I think I want a re-do of certain aspects from the end of my Camino. Sometimes I think that if I had figured out more about my life in this past year, I wouldn’t feel the need to go back for another Camino.

But a lot of those thoughts are based in fear and control, aren’t they? I still want to choose the exact, perfect thing to do this summer, the thing that will help me out the most in my life, the thing that will point me in the “right” direction. Nothing I do this summer will really give me that, of course, and finding direction is just about taking steps towards something- anything- and then figuring it out as you move along. And in this past year, I’ve been doing that. I just need to keep moving, and practice some patience.

So that’s been my word, lately. Patience. I tell this to myself as I sit in a long line of traffic on the way to work. I tell this to myself as I hurry through the last miles of a training hike, my voice saying, “Slow down. Not amount of rushing will bring this Camino any closer.” I try to practice patience as I look through photos of friends on their Camino, envious of their days spent walking through Spain. I try to practice patience with my writing, as I wait to hear back about an essay I’ve submitted, as I wait to find the right words to say something.

And maybe the biggest is this: practicing patience about the direction of my life. I’ll get to wherever I’m going, I’m sure of it. I want to be there NOW, I want to have all the answers to so many of the questions. I know that I’m going to be okay, and yet, I just want a flash of an image from my life, 5 years from now, of the 39 (yikes) year old me. Just a little reassurance that the decisions I’m making now, the things I’m testing out now, are going to lead me somewhere good.

So in the meantime I’m just going to keep trucking along- drinking my wine and eating my potato chips, hiking miles through a park, practicing Spanish phrases, writing my essays and making to-do lists for my next Camino. Despite the unknowns, these are such good and beautiful days.

April shadowsYellow trail, Ridley Creek State Park

The Beginning of a Season: Snow and Water Ice and Answering the Big Questions

Something I’ve always loved to do is to use a point in time- New Year’s, my birthday, the beginning of a season- and think back to the previous year and where I was/what I was doing. I’m not alone in this, it’s a natural way to mark our progression (or regression??) through life.

Today is the first day of spring, and I am staring out my kitchen window to at least 5 inches of snow piled on top of the bushes, on the trees, covering the ground. It snowed all day long. Sometimes light flurries, sometimes heavy, large flakes. But once again, everything is white, and still, and quiet.

spring snow

This landscape is at odds with the season, it’s at odds with how I feel. I want the world to feel bright and alive, not silenced and soft. I want to feel some sunshine on my face and see a scattering of purple wildflowers on my neighbor’s lawn. I want the lengthening days to encourage me to be out and to be doing more; but instead, today, the snow forces me home, and inside.

I feel confident in saying that this is the last snow, for awhile. And spring is here. But it looks a lot different than last year.  A year ago, I’d returned from a 5-ish mile hike through my state park and stood in a long line snaking around the block, waiting for a free cup of water ice. I stood in between families and groups of teenagers, I was dressed in hiking pants and an old pair of sneakers. I knew I would be walking the Camino and these were early training days: wearing shoes that gave me blisters and feeling my muscles ache after walking 5 miles through wooded trails. But it was satisfying: a long hike. A free cup of water ice. Spring.

Free water ice from Rita's!

The winter before had been a hard one for me, and it was a victory just to make it to that first day of spring. It was a victory to have decided to walk the Camino, a victory to push myself to go on long hikes after work. That first day of spring felt so full of promise and warmth and light, and I suppose that it was a good indicator of things to come.

This year? Maybe I don’t need the sunshine-y symbolism of the past. This year’s winter went by faster than any winter I can remember; there was cold, ice, snow, rain, and lots of gray… but there was something else. I’m struggling to put my finger on how exactly to describe it, I don’t know if I can. There’s been hope, and promise, and excitement for the future. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I haven’t had days of doubt and frustration. There have been times when I’m a bit down, even a little sad. Confused about how to go out and get the kind of life that I want for myself. But there’s also been this thrill, this… wonder. And it’s sort of underneath everything else, and it doesn’t feel like it’s going anywhere.

The Camino opened up some things for me. It’s taken me a long time to really feel its influence, but it happened sometime during the winter. I settled into the short, dark days, and let myself think about my life and my future, and then I just started moving. I started writing, but it’s been different than my dozens of other attempts: this time, it feels sort of permanent. I have a different kind of confidence about it, despite the days that I struggle. Because honestly, most days I sit at my computer and I want to bang my head on the table. Sometimes my eyes fill with tears of frustration because the things I am writing are just so, so bad. Some days I don’t write at all, and just watch Netflix. In the past though, these frustrations would have made me stop, they would have made me think that the elements of my life weren’t just right, that I needed to do x, y and z before I could actually start to write.

Now, I just recognize that this is part of the process. This is what it takes to write. I’ve said this before: it’s a lesson I learned on the Camino. It was the Camino: needing to start slowly, start with a single step, in order to get to the end of something very monumental. What I didn’t realize 6 months ago, however, was that the Camino gave me confidence: confidence that I can undertake something very big and scary, confidence that I can find my way through it.

I still have a million questions about my life and my direction. Will I be able to write a book? Will I be able to spend at least a year or two supporting myself from my writing? Will I be able to travel in the ways that I want to: back to Europe but also to Africa, to Turkey, to China and across the US? When will I focus on dating and trying to meet someone? Will I have a family? How can I set up my life so that I can have all of these things? Is it possible?

These are big questions, questions that I know can’t be answered all at once. So instead, I focus on today: Today, everything is great. I spent my work day talking and laughing with teenagers. I went to IKEA and had a $1.00 frozen yogurt. The snow is slowly falling outside my window. I have several writing projects on the desktop of my computer. I have a list of Spanish phrases to practice before I go to bed. Yesterday I walked through a park. Tomorrow I will drive to DC to spend the weekend with a friend.

Spring is here and I’m excited for the next three months. I don’t know if this season will answer any of the larger questions of my life, but I don’t think it needs to, not yet. Because what I’m doing is laying the groundwork for my future: the writing and the walking and spending time with people who make me happy. And for now, that’s all that I need to be doing.

Because in three months, my life will look a little different (in three months, I’ll be on a Camino!), and three months after that, maybe my life will look even more different. And on, and on, until each small step adds up to something monumental. Until they add up to the answer to all of the big questions of my life.

Sign, St Jean Pied de Port, Camino

“The impossible remains to be done.” I saw this sign within the first few minutes of walking out of St Jean Pied de Port on the Camino.

Camino de Santiago: Round Two

On Friday morning I was stretched out in my bed, my computer on my lap, a giant mug of coffee in my hands. I had about 5 minutes before I needed to start getting ready for work, and almost a bit mindlessly I clicked over to Kayak’s site to check on prices for flights to France/Spain.

I’ve been checking flights every day for almost a month, and the only changes I’d noticed were that certain flights were filled, and others had increased their price.

So when the Kayak page was fully loaded, I blinked in confusion at my computer screen, and triple checked my flight criteria. Were my cities correct, did I have the right dates?

Because overnight, not only had prices dropped by over $200, but I was looking at a direct flight, from Philadelphia to Paris. For as much fun as my long layovers in Iceland and Denmark had been… they added time and expense and a bit of stress. A direct flight is a dream.

In fact, the whole thing seemed like a dream. Could this price be right? I decided that I couldn’t risk waiting- not another second- to miss out on this deal. So I flew around my apartment: grabbing my wallet and throwing on work clothes and signing up for rewards programs and, finally, clicking “Purchase” on a flight to Europe.

So it’s done. I’m going back. Camino de Santiago, Round Two.

The specifics are completely up in the air. For the past few months I’ve been dreaming about the Norte- the path that runs along the very top of Spain and often offers dazzling views of the ocean- but suddenly I’m changing my mind. Or, considering my options.

Ever since starting this writing class and slowly making tiny steps of progress towards my goal of writing a book, I worry about the momentum I might lose if I take 5-weeks off this summer to walk another Camino. And I remember my three-weeks at the writer’s retreat in the south of France: the incredible view from the window of my room, the quiet mornings drinking coffee on the terrace, the inspiring conversations with other artists and residents, the hours spent hiking through the mountains. I had time to write, time to hike, and time to connect with other people.

And then I think about the Camino, and the incredible freedom I felt each morning as I set off with my pack and onto a path that took me closer to the edge of Spain. How happy I was to simply walk, every single day. I’d bonded with some of the other residents at my writer’s retreat, but I BONDED with people on the Camino. I remember how I felt when I arrived in Santiago; that I wanted to keep walking, that I felt like, in some ways, I’d only just begun.

So how do I choose? How do I know which option is best, when each feels so right and so perfect?

Well, what if I could do both?

That’s where my head is, at the moment. I just spent hours reading about the Camino Primitivo, a route which could fit very nicely into the 11-day time frame I’d have before needing to head to France and over to the writer’s retreat. I’ve read that 12 days would be better on the Primitivo, but that 11 could work. And I would have exactly 11 days.

The Camino Primitivo– the Original Way- was actually the very first Camino route to Santiago. It’s challenging, with lots of mountain walking, but judging from the descriptions and photos I saw from the hours of “research” I did yesterday afternoon, the scenery is stunning.

There’s still so much I don’t know. I haven’t given up on walking the Norte, not at all. So much of me wants to do another long Camino- 11 days doesn’t feel like quite enough, not when I know I have the time to do more. And, I don’t know if I could do another writer’s retreat, even if I wanted to: if they still have space, if my availability will work with their schedule.

But regardless of what I decide, here is what I do know: in June, I’ll be flying to Paris. Part of my time in Europe will involve walking another Camino. There’s already a spring in my step just thinking about it.

Any thoughts from those of you who have walked the Primitivo?

Baguette in Paris

I’m holding up two fingers to indicate my second baguette in Paris; but for now, we can pretend that I’m referring to my second Camino

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