family Archives - Nadine Walks

“Going Back Again”; Thoughts on Repeating Travel Experiences

February 19, 2018

The older I get, the more I keep learning about myself.

I thought I would have had at least the most obvious things about myself figured out by now- I am, after all, well into my 30’s and while I hopefully have a lot of life left to live, I’ve also been around the sun a few times now, enough to know some basic truths.

Like… I still really like the color yellow. And giant pandas and wearing flip flops and listening to the Beatles. At my core, I’m optimistic and friendly and always try to see the best in people. I really like people, but I’m also an introvert, so I can’t be around them all the time.

Stuff like that.

But then there are the things that should be obvious, and when I finally pick up on my own patterns it’s like something had to smack me over the head to make me see what should have been apparent years and years ago.

There was this day when I was out for a walk, it was probably 3 or 4 years ago, and it came to me in a flash, this realization, this truth: I love trees. And I had always loved them, I have very distinct memories of riding my bike around my neighborhood as a child, and always making a point to notice my favorite trees. And the magnolia that grew in our backyard, how I would marvel every spring at the petals that would seem to burst into bloom overnight, and if I looked out my brother’s bedroom window the view would be nothing but those pink petals, it was like magic. And more and more examples of things like this but it wasn’t until recently that I actually realized: ‘Oh, I like trees.’

Bear with me through this meandering introduction to what this post is really about; it’s been a long day. (Or, maybe, it’s just been a long winter and I feel very out of practice with crafting a blog post).

My thoughts have been on traveling lately, as I look ahead to this summer and try to figure out what I want to do and where I want to go. Here’s what I do know: almost inevitably, I’ll be headed back to Europe again.

I say ‘inevitably’ because, while there are other places in the world that I’d really like to travel to, I’m still very drawn to Europe.

And of course I am! Because when it comes to things I love, I’m a repeater.

Maybe there’s a real and technical term for this, but for now I’ll just stick with ‘repeater’. I repeat experiences, I go back, I return… and I love doing this.

I think the psychology of this is really interesting, but I’ll save that for another post. For now, I’m just struck by how often I’ve repeated experiences in my life when I could have been off trying new things or going to new places, and it’s like it just now occurred to me that this has been a pattern for a long, long time. And so maybe it does make some sense that I keep returning to Europe, that I keep returning to the Camino, that I keep returning to my writer’s retreat at La Muse, that I keep returning to Paris and to France.

Another trip to Paris

Maybe this predilection was set for me as a child; when I look at my very earliest experiences of the joy of returning to a place, I think of the beach vacations my family would take every summer. We’d load into our station wagon (three kids across the back seat and we all dreaded being in the middle), and drive 10 hours down to North Carolina- just above or below the Outer Banks, I’m not quite sure exactly where we were- and we’d rent the same beach house and spend a week with my extended family.

I adored these trips, and one of my strongest memories is the mounting excitement I’d feel as our car crossed the bridge over to Emerald Isle, as we’d approach our rental, as I’d walk in the door and run around the rooms and look for all of the familiar things. The couches! The sailboat mirror! The spiral staircase! The room with the bunk beds! It felt like another home, and returning there felt a little like being home. And there were the reunions with the people I loved, too: my cousins, the girl next door (whose family rented the same house at the same time every year just like us, and we’d write to each other throughout the year- “Remember the 10th!” we would always sign off, and I still remember that beautiful day when the waves were calm and the sun was warm and at 11 years old we couldn’t imagine anything more perfect).

So, you know, I’ve been doing this for a long time- settling into a place and learning to love it. The physicality of it, the features, the feelings, the people. And because of those beach vacations, this tendency is linked strongly to travel. When I experience something beautiful in some ‘other’ place, I form a connection with it, and I am drawn- strongly- to return.

My summer trips have been following a pattern lately: a long walk, and then several weeks at La Muse. Or La Muse, and then a long walk. And that’s going to be the case again this summer. La Muse is already set, this will be my fourth time there, and the third year in a row that I’ve spent my July in the hills of the Montagne Noir in southern France.

Why do I go back? The feelings I have as I sit in the Jeep driving up the winding roads towards Labastide are the very same ones I had as a child when we’d arrive at our beach house. I look for all the familiar landmarks in those hills, I look for the sign saying that we’ve arrived, I look for Homer and I look for my friends and I suck in my breath when I walk onto the terrace, I breath the air that smells faintly of chestnut trees and lavender. I’m going to be staying in the same room this summer as I did last summer, and this feels like a sort of home to me, a room that- for a moment- is all mine. A place I can return to where I feel so happy, like the best version of myself.

And it’s not just La Muse. I thought to write about all of this tonight because, as I plan out my summer, I’m also trying to decide on which Camino I might want to walk. I was starting to feel rather committed to trying out a new path- the Camino Aragones (a 165km path that crosses the Pyrenees to the south of St Jean Pied de Port, and links up to the Camino Frances in Puente La Reina). This would be a great option, given my time frame- travel days not included, I have 7 days to walk after my stay at La Muse. And this would be a new experience, the path is supposed to be beautiful, the pilgrim infrastructure good, the Camino spirit strong.

All of this, and yet, I think I might want to walk the beginning of the Norte again.

It’s a thought that’s been nagging at me, and I keep pushing it back, telling myself that it’s too soon to repeat a path, that there are too many new ones out there for me to try, that there’s no point to repeating something again so soon. I walked the Camino del Norte from Irun to Oviedo in 2015 (and then finished the rest of the route in 2016), so it’s only been a few years. And if I’m being honest, I could easily repeat any of the walks I’ve done since I started this Camino thing (including the long-distance treks I’ve done in Scotland and England), so why am I feeling so drawn to the Norte?

I’m not sure, but I don’t know that I need an answer. I think with a lot of things in life- and especially with a Camino- it’s important to listen to whatever is calling you. And I think the only reason that I’m hesitating is because it is, yet again, another experience that I’m going to be repeating.

I’m curious what all of your thoughts are about repeating experiences, especially as it relates to traveling. Would you return, again and again, to a place or a city or a country that you know you love? Or would you feel like it’s more valuable to always travel somewhere new and different? Does it depend on what you want out of the experience?

If I do the Norte again, I’m sure I’ll put my own unique twist on it, something different than the last time I walked. And I’m sure that the entire experience will be different- with any luck, my first day out of Irun will have good weather and outstanding views, something I missed that first time around (oh, the rain and the fog, and the wringing of socks in the middle of a field). My plans aren’t set- I still have months until I have to make any decisions- but I’m really leaning towards walking part of this path again. And right now, it’s putting a smile on my face. It feels right.

Sometimes that’s all we really have to go on, isn’t it? Just a feeling, some push in our gut that tells us we’re on the right track.

And I can see how this is important to me, to the person that I’ve always been- the one who likes giant pandas and magnolia trees and beach houses with spiral staircases- that the return to a place I love allows me to fall into an even richer experience of that place, a deeper connection, a return to my best self, a reminder of where I’ve been and maybe even where I’m going.

Yes, a reminder of where I might be going. A yellow arrow, a marker, to guide me along my way.

A New Camino Family; Day 24 on the Camino, Grandas de Salime to Padron

July 15, 2015

I have a new Camino theory, though maybe it only applies to me, on this particular Camino: every other day is a good walking day. It’s been the pattern, lately: I have one really strong day, then one day when the walking is tough. Then a strong day, then a tough day.

Today’s walking wasn’t the easiest. It wasn’t a difficult stage, but I think that after yesterday’s marathon, my body needed more of a rest. Plus the weather was hot and muggy and there was no nice breeze (as there so often has been here), so I pulled myself through the kilometers and looked forward to my destination, Padron.

I walked with Moritz for the last hour or so, and it helped pass the time. Moritz is young, maybe only 18 or 19, but I admire him. He’s polite and smart and friendly and can carry a conversation with just about anyone. If I ever have kids and have a son, I wouldn’t mind if he turned out like Moritz. We talked about American football and how difficult it is to get a driver’s license in Germany, and of course we talked about the Camino. Those last kilometers flew by, and I was happy for the company.

When we arrived at the albergue, Guillemette and Nicolas were already there, sitting outside. Moritz and I looked at Nicolas and he just smiled back at us. “I’m not going to Cadavo today,” he said. Nicolas had planned to walk another really long day to catch up to his friend, but had lingered through the day with us, instead. And maybe this albergue was just a bit too good to pass up: not crowded yet, a big open yard, a view of the distant mountains, a vending machine that sells beer and a snack machine that sells sardines and tuna. And us, his new friends.

So my new Camino family was going to have another night together. I smiled at Nicolas and then turned to go into the albergue when I saw Christine. She was standing on the stoop and we looked at each other and for a moment neither of us moved or said a thing. It was Christine! I hadn’t seen her since Guemes, which was nearly two weeks ago. She and Annalissa had started walking slightly longer days and the last I’d heard, Christine was thinking about walking the Primitivo, but I didn’t know for sure which path she’d chosen.

But now here she was, and it was that old Camino magic, back again: I hadn’t known if I would see Christine again, but I’d been hoping I would. I’ve lost so many others along the way, but Christine was someone I would have really regretted not seeing again. We gave each other a huge hug and started talking, exclaiming about how we were both here, how it had happened, where we’d each been. My French had gotten a bit rusty but nevertheless I heard Nicolas in the background, saying, “Wait, she can speak French??”

The night was perfect. I’ve had some great Camino nights in these past two years, and this one was up there with the very best of them. Nicolas, Guillemette, Christine, Jordan (another French guy we’d met that day) and I walked 1km back to the previous town to find a bar to have a drink. We stayed there for a few hours, drinking wine and picking at the pinxos delivered to our table. The conversation was entirely in French so I mostly just listened, but I preferred it that way. I marveled at the combination of people the Camino continues to bring together: old friends and new friends and everyone fits together so effortlessly sometimes, like we’ve known each other forever.

It was Sunday and we’d planned poorly. Shops were closed and we hadn’t been able to buy any food during the day, and had arrived in Grandas too late the day before to find an open store. Our food supplies were low, and our dinner was looking pretty meager: a couple packets of pasta and a few cans of tuna for 6 of us (well, for me that’s a solid meal, but the others weren’t as pleased). Nicolas had the brilliant idea of asking the barman if it would be possible for them to make us a big salad. It seemed impossible that it would work, but it did. We left the bar with a bag full of wine and beer, and another bag with a large, large container of salad.

Back at the albergue we pulled the table over to the lawn, positioned in the fading sunlight. We set out plates and poured glasses of wine and toasted being together. It was a beautiful meal and afterwards the guys played frisbee, neighborhood dogs ran through the yard.

Guillemette, Nicolas, Moritz and I had our own room- two bunk beds in a square room with a window that looked out to the mountains. Nicolas said how it was like a little home, and as we went to sleep, Moritz said, “It was really great being with you guys these last two days.”

And it was. If the day before- the long and crazy walk with new friends- was just what I needed, this day was even MORE of what I needed: to feel like I was part of a Camino family again. I had it briefly in the beginning of my Camino with Iria and Amy and Richard and Misako, but I felt it even more strongly this time: this was my group.

We’re close to Santiago now and we all have different plans for the next few days, so as it always goes here: this won’t last. But I fell asleep with a feeling of deep, deep content: this is a great way to be spending my time at the end of my Camino.

Next Post: Day 25 on the Norte/Primitivo

Camino families and monasteries; Day 4 on the Camino del Norte, Deba to Monasterio de Zenarruza, 31kms

June 25, 2015

(I’m behind on writing and posting, but for now here are a couple of posts from Days 4 and 5!)

Today started perfectly: an open bar at 6am just across the street from the train station. I had a grande cafe con leche, a yogurt, and a croissant. I was ready to tackle another difficult day.

I left the bar with Iria (Spain), Amy (England) and Richard (France); before I left for the Camino I’d heard that the route out of Deba was confusing. A local who wasn’t too fond of pilgrims had taken to painting over the yellow arrows with black paint. The others had been given maps when they checked into the albergue, but the hospitalero must have forgotten to give one to me. In any case, I decided to leave with the others in case finding the way was tricky. We didn’t have much trouble and it seemed like yellow arrows had been replaced over every black mark that the local had made (and we knew we were going the right way when we saw trees covered in big black splotches).

The four of us walked together for just about the entire day- we stopped and took breaks together, we started back up together. Our paces were a little different so we were often spaced apart, but never far away. It reminded me of the day last year when I walked the Dragonte route, the only time on the Frances when I walked all day with a group. There were times in the day today, like last year, when I wished I were alone, but in the end just that one day of walking together bonded us. It’s amazing how it happens- we rarely even talked, we just walked along and cheered when we made it to the top of a difficult hill, or turned to make sure that no one was being left too far behind. We shared snacks with each other, we stopped to talk to other pilgrims, but we never really strayed from the group. I don’t think I will have a lot of days like this, because it’s just not my preferred way to walk the Camino; so often I felt like breaking away and being free and alone.

But I’m so glad I did this today. We all ended up in Markina- I arrived a bit before the others and found a grocery store, then came outside to see the others (including Misako) sitting at an outdoor table in front of a bar. They waved me over and we talked about plans for the evening- they were planning to stay at the albergue in town, and I was planning to continue for another 7kms to a medieval monastery.

Iria and Richard both considered going with me but in the end decided to stay. Richard seemed concerned that I would be going alone, and I took the chance to explain that sometimes, it’s really important for me to be able to go off on my own here. I went into the bar to pay for my cafe cortado (more coffee for an extra kick to push me along!), they got their packs ready to check into the albergue. When I came out of the bar they were all standing there, waiting to say goodbye.

“I’m sure I’ll see you guys in Bilbao, in two days,” I told them. Misako and Richard looked doubtful, but I knew better. I might not see them in Bilbao, but I’m almost positive that I will see them all again, at some point on the Camino. It’s just how it works- you think you are saying goodbye, but a Camino goodbye is rarely a goodbye.

As I walked away, I thought a lot about my choices to be alone versus with others on the Camino. Almost instantly, I passed under a bridge and saw these words:

Last year this was probably the biggest thing I struggled with, wanting to sometimes be alone but not wanting to lose the friends I had made. Wanting to form really close relationships yet always be able to make my own decisions and go my own way. I felt like I was just beginning to figure it out and then I arrived in Santiago. So this year, it’s been on my mind from the beginning.

And what I had today was something I never really had last year: a Camino family. I made so many friends and made so many connections, but I never had a group.

What I had today felt like a Camino family, the way I imagined it would. I’m not sure exactly how the five of us came together, we don’t always communicate well (I try to translate in French for Richard but I don’t do a very good job, and often he walks along not understanding what we are saying). We might not stay together and in fact probably won’t- we all have different timelines and paces, Amy and Iria have friends coming to meet them for part of the way.

But leaving them today felt a little sad, and I was so happy to feel like, for at least a few days, I had belonged to a little group.

The last kilometer to the monastery was all uphill on rocks (this is starting to become a trend), but when I arrived I nearly gasped. It was perfect. Nestled in the mountains with amazing views (also becoming a trend) were a church and a cloister that were nearly 1,000 years old, all part of a large compound surrounded by manicured lawns and wooden benches sitting in the shade of old trees. The albergue was around the side of the building- two rooms of beds, one upstairs and one downstairs, and an area outside with tables and chairs where pilgrims were already gathered, drinking beer and eating pastries. The majority of the pilgrims were French, and they were happy about it (I’m pretty sure that I heard a ‘Vive la France!’ tossed about once or twice).

I went to a short mass in the church at 7:30, and then we ate dinner together at 8:00: a large pot of rice and lentils, loaves of bread, pitchers of water. Simple food but staying and eating here was all by donation- we could give as much or as little as we wanted.

After dinner I stood outside talking to Eunie from Korea and her husband James, from Australia. We talked about how we would never want to hike the Appalachian Trail or the PCT because of bear fears, and how we wished humans had the capacity to hop like kangaroos.

Another good Camino day: Camino families and Camino “goodbyes”, walking alone and finding more community.

Previous Post: Day 3 on the Camino del Norte

Next Post: Day 5 on the Camino del Norte

Bread and the Beatles- Photo(s) of the Week #8 and #9

April 20, 2015

How many ‘photos of the week’ have I missed? I’m thinking back to these past weeks and wondering where the days have gone. This is what always happens in the spring; the days grow a little longer and a little warmer and suddenly time disappears. I feel like I’m in catch-up mode right now, trying to get myself back on track with all of the things that have fallen a bit behind: practicing Spanish, hiking, preparing for the next Camino, writing.

I was keeping up, until all of a sudden I wasn’t. But this always seems to happen- just when everything comes together, life hits, and the routines vanish. But I’m lucky to be able to say that the things that have derailed me are all good: small trips and holidays and time with family and friends (and, well, a too-tight hiking shoe that caused my right foot to ache and resulted in a break from Camino training. Just when I thought I would have absolutely no trouble with footwear for this Camino!).

So here are a few photos. The first is all about bread: I help my mom bake her traditional paska recipe for Easter, and this year I did 95% of the kneading. My memories of paska making go back to childhood: my mom working her hands through the mound of sticky dough, the all-day process, the tall, golden brown loaves. I’ve done a lot of the kneading these past few years, and it always feels so satisfying: picking up the dough as it spills over the edges of my hands, folding it, throwing it, molding it. But this year was different, there was nothing satisfying about it. The dough was sticky. It was sticky like the heavy paska dough of my memories, the kind of dough that causes stress.

“It needs more flour!” I kept saying to my mom.

“No,” she shook her head. “Just keep working it.”

I should have trusted her, she’s been making this bread for over 30 years. But I kept asking, kept saying that I thought something was wrong. I also kept kneading the sticky mass, the dough coating my hands like an extra layer of skin. My face was red, my hair was falling into my face, at one point I was short of breath.

But in the end, she was right. The bread didn’t need more flour. It was perfect.

And the next photo is all about music. When I was 16, my mom, sister and I went to see Ringo and his All-Starr Band. At the time, I was at the height of my Beatles obsession, and Ringo was my favorite. We got to the venue early and as soon as I saw others carrying signs and banners, I instantly wished that I’d made one myself. So we rooted around in the car and found a manilla folder and I wrote RINGO in large block letters with a blue sharpie.

Later, during the concert, I stood and held up the sign. Ringo looked out in my direction, smiled, and pointed at me. “You’re 16,” he sang, “you’re beautiful, and you’re mine.” This still goes down as my very top concert/music moment.

This past weekend I was in Cleveland to see the Rock Hall Induction Ceremony. I was there, once again, with my mom and my sister, and I was there to see Ringo.

And despite more engaging speeches and more dynamic performances from other artists, the highlight was still Ringo. My grin stretched from ear to ear as I watched him, sitting at his drum kit, banging away with his head bobbing from side to side. Paul McCartney was there, too, playing his guitar and supplying background vocals- it’s as close to the Beatles as I’ll ever get.

The music felt timeless, I felt like I was 16 again.