goals Archives - Nadine Walks

Paris of My Dreams

August 4, 2017

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

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

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

All I knew were, well, three things:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are the answers: Yes. No. No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memorable Moments of 2016

December 30, 2016

I always get reflective at this time of the year. For years I would journal on the very last day of the calendar year, looking back and reminding myself of all that I’d done (or hadn’t done), what went well in the year, what hadn’t. And then I’d set my sights forward, making lists of goals and resolutions and plans. A new year has always had a touch of magic to it: I still love the idea that I’m starting from a blank slate, that I hold the pen that writes in the story of my next 12 months.

But before we can get to the future, lets look back at the past! I’ve never written a ‘best of’ post, have I? In any case, I’ve been thinking about all that I’ve done this year, and I thought it could be fun to do a round-up here on this blog, going month to month. There were some things that went wrong, maybe some months where it felt like I didn’t do too much, but I’m going to keep this post happy and positive. These are my memorable moments of 2016, along with some of my favorite photos. (And, in case you don’t make it to the end of this post: a great big thank you to all of you. I’m still astounded that there is anyone at all who reads this blog, much less people who have been coming back for years now. My blogging slowed down this year, but I don’t see myself stopping anytime soon. If anything, I want to make blogging a more regular part of my routine for 2017, so I hope you’ll stick around).

January

I kicked off the year in Washington DC, a place I visited multiple times in 2016. I have several very good friends who live in or around the city and so I find myself there a lot: for art museums, baseball games, concerts. And I ended the month in Fort Royal, Virginia, where I met up with a friend for a winter weekend of wine tasting. But aside from these trips, the month was cold, and quiet. I made a few trips into Philly to hunt down the city’s best coffee shops, but otherwise I was tucked into my apartment and doing the tough, but gratifying work of writing my memoir.

February

Another cold, winter month and the few photos I took reveal simple activities: I wrote, I hit more coffee shops, I baked bread, I went on a few long walks when the sun came out.

March

More walks! More coffee! Art museums in Philly are pay what you wish on the first Sunday of the month, and at least once I year I get into the city to see my favorite works at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. This year I waited in a long line to get free tickets into the Barnes Foundation, a museum that holds an extensive collection of post-impressionist and early modern paintings. It’s an outstanding collection, and I can’t think of a better way to spend a winter Sunday than in the gallery of an art museum.

This month also held my first big trip of the year: a four-day camping excursion on Cumberland Island in the state of Georgia. It was an adventure, to be sure: I’d never been camping on my own before, and never for more than one night. I bought myself a new sleeping bag, a little camp stove, and loaded up my car and drove 12 hours down to Georgia. I took a ferry out to the island and crossed my fingers that this camping thing would work out. And it did. The weather was stunning, I explored all over the island, saw wild horses and armadillos and the ruins of old mansions.

April

The weather began to get nicer this month, so I took advantage and was outside as much as possible. I went on a far-too-long walk along the Delaware & Raritan Canal (I think it was about 18 miles? My feet were throbbing at the end and I had a small blister forming on the ball of my foot but it was a good to get back outside), spent a weekend in Frederick, MD with good friends, spent time with my family and kept chipping away at my writing.

May

I usually love the month of May but this year it seemed like it rained constantly. Did the sun come out at all? My pictures show beautiful days only at the end of the month, when I drove out to Cleveland over Memorial Day weekend to visit my sister. When it wasn’t raining I spent as much time as I could at my local park, hiking on the trails and getting ready for my summer adventures.

June

The end of work, baseball games, beach trips, hiking, a bridal shower for a good friend. And at the very end of the month, I set off for my 7-week summer in Europe, which I kicked off in Bath, England. I spent a day wandering through the city, finding my travel legs, and hanging out with Jane Austen.

July

It’s hard to pick the highlights from the month of July: on the 1st of the month I was at Stonehenge, on the 31st of the month I was dragging myself into Oviedo to finish the Camino de San Salvador. In between I had three mostly glorious weeks at La Muse, the writer’s and artist’s retreat in the south of France. If I had to pick a favorite moment from the month it would probably be sitting up at Le Roc with Homer, looking out over the mountains surrounding Labastide.

August

Look how dirty my leg is!!

Lots more walking to do this month! I started things off with 9 days on the Camino del Norte, then spent a week in Scotland, hiking the West Highland Way. Both trips were incredible, but by the end I felt ready to come home and spend the last month of summer with family and friends.

September

I checked an item off my bucket list this month: I officiated the wedding of two good friends! Afterwards I joked that I might make this officiating-weddings-thing a side-gig (anyone need someone to marry them?), but all joking aside, it was an incredible experience. The rest of the month was about transitioning back into work and enjoying the fading days of summer with long hikes and a couple trips to DC.

October

My mom and I took a little trip up to Concord, Massachusetts to see Walden Pond and (most importantly) Orchard House, which is the long-time home of Louisa May Alcott. I wasn’t supposed to take any photos inside but when no one was looking I snapped a photo of the desk where Alcott wrote Little Women. It’s my favorite book of all time, and after the trip I felt re-energized and excited about getting back into my own writing.

November

November had a couple weekend trips: one down to Maryland and Virginia and West Virginia- with a quick hike in Shenandoah National Park and a visit to Harper’s Ferry, and a day trip up to NYC to reunite with a couple friends from my summer at La Muse. There was election day madness and a relaxing trip home for Thanksgiving, and lots of walks and hiking as I took advantage of some mild fall weather.

December

This has been a quiet month. I’ve seen friends, baked lots of cookies, and spent the holidays with my family. Since my summer travels I’ve really struggled to get back into my writing, but I think I’ve set myself up with a good plan for the next few months. I’m ready to get into a new year, and I’m ready to see what I can accomplish in 2017. 2016 was, overall, a fine year, but now it’s time for something even bigger and greater.

Happy New Year, my friends, and I will see you all soon!

Daylight and Writer’s Block

March 13, 2016

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?”

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.

Into the Wild: Fear and the Unknown

February 14, 2016

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.

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!

The Kick-Off of my Philadelphia Coffee Tour: Fishtown & La Colombe

January 10, 2016

Coffee is- and this will come as no surprise to my family, friends, and even many readers of this blog- one of my favorite things. I love waking up in the morning and knowing that the very first thing I’m going to do is walk into my kitchen a brew a pot, or maybe scoop some finely ground espresso into my stove-top Moka.

I love coffee at home, but I love coffee when I’m out, too. I made it a goal to drink as many café con leches as possible when I walked my Caminos (and to be honest, this was one of the easiest goals I’ve ever set for myself), I have a very long relationship with the café crème in France, and I even made a (small) pilgrimage to the first Starbucks in Seattle.

But this year, I set another kind of coffee goal, and this one involved drinking cups a little closer to home: to explore the coffee scene in Philadelphia. I live a little outside the city, and I have my favorite coffee shops in my own town that I’ve been frequenting over the years. I’ve been to some great cafés in Philly, but for as long as I’ve lived here, I have to say that I’ve barely scratched the surface of the coffee culture in my home city.

Several weeks ago I was scrolling a little mindlessly through Facebook when an article caught my eye: “Where to Find the Top Coffee Shops and Espresso Bars in Philadelphia”. 30 coffee shops were highlighted, in areas and neighborhoods all over the city.

“This would be a cool thing to try,” I thought to myself. “What if I could have a coffee in every one of these places?”

A friend of mine enthusiastically jumped on this idea with me, and just like that, a new goal was born: spend 2016 drinking all the coffee in Philadelphia (or, as much of it as possible).

So I’m kicking off what I hope to be an on-going series of posts with the first coffee shop on my pilgrimage, as well as a tiny glimpse into an up-and-coming neighborhood of Philly: Fishtown.

I’d been to Fishtown only a few times before, but in the past few years I’d been hearing a lot about the area. A traditionally working class neighborhood, named for once being the center of the shad fishing industry due to its border along the Delaware River, Fishtown is emerging as a truly creative center. An eclectic mix of people make up the area, from families who have settled here for generations to artists, musicians, writers, students. Galleries, cafés, studios, restaurants and independently-owned shops, along with lines of row homes, dot the small network of streets that make up the triangular grid of the neighborhood. The streets are lively but not chaotic- Fishtown sits directly northeast of center city so it is close to the action but also slightly removed.

There were several Fishtown coffee shops on our list but we only made it to one of them, as well as another in the neighboring area of Northern Liberties (my arbitrary “rules” for this pilgrimage include having some kind of coffee drink in every place. Stopping by to check out the space doesn’t fully count- I need to taste the coffee, too. But this means that doing more than 2 or 3 stops in a day is going to be challenging unless I want the caffeine to keep me up all night).

We hit the spot that may have been at the very top of my list- the flagship La Colombe café. La Colombe is probably the most well-known coffee company in Philadelphia. Founded in 1994, its first café was located near Rittenhouse Square, and it now has locations across the city, plus cafés in New York City, Washington DC and Chicago.

Just over a year ago, La Colombe’s new home base was opened in a large warehouse in Fishtown, and the place is amazing. It’s enormous, with space for offices, a coffee lab, roasting facilities, on-site bakery, even a rum distillery. When my friend and I arrived, it was almost too much to take in: a merchandise corner in the front of the store, ample food and pastry offerings, wine and beer (and rum!), plenty of seating areas and an upstairs lab which holds free cupping events on the 1st and 3rd Fridays of every month.

So many options, but all I wanted was a coffee. I ordered a cortado (influenced, perhaps, from my afternoon coffee breaks on the Norte this past summer). This shot of espresso with a dash of hot milk was served in a clear glass cup and I savored every sip. I love La Colombe coffee, and I have for a long time. It’s my go-to coffee when I want to have something special on-hand at home; Corisca is my favorite blend for filter coffee, Nizza is the best for espresso.

La Colombe has been about the extent of my Philly coffee knowledge for as long as I’ve lived here, and I suppose it’s fitting that this is where I started the coffee tour. It’s an old favorite, so I’m curious if I’ll find a contender as I journey around the city, from coffee shop to coffee shop. La Colombe is going to be hard to top, but then again, there’s a lot of great coffee out there. Stay tuned for more!

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

March 20, 2015

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.

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.

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.

“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.

One Year Later

January 12, 2015

This new year kind of crept up on me. I guess being in Italy and attempting to navigate an unclear friendship/relationship didn’t give me much room to do my normal ‘end of one year, beginning of another year’ reflections.

I still haven’t really given it much thought, except to say this: It feels good to be in 2015.

2014 was an up and down year. The words that come to mind when I think about last January are ‘cold’ and ‘quiet’. I started this blog, and wrote about taking a single step towards… something. My serious relationship had just ended, I didn’t know what direction my life would be taking, and I had no idea what to do to move my life in any direction. So I began to dream about the Camino, and of how alluring it would be to simply follow arrows for a long, long time. Move myself in a physical direction, and determine the figurative one along the way.

The first half of 2014 was filled with preparing for the Camino. Did I do anything else? Maybe, but all I can remember is spending hours on my computer, researching gear and reading blogs. Of walking in endless small circles on an indoor track at the Y, and later walking in loops through a park. Multiple trips to REI, Amazon boxes delivered weekly to my doorstep.

And then the summer came around and I was on the Camino, and I was finally moving. It was beyond what I expected, and I’m still processing that walk, still kindling the flame of energy that it gave me, still working on how to continue “walking” the Camino in my every day life.

In the months since returning from the Camino I’ve been a bit restless. I’m home, I’m back into my routines, but I’m anxious to figure out the next steps in my life. That feeling continued straight up until the end of the year, right up until I left for Italy.

Since returning? I’m sure it’s too soon to tell, but it feels good to have just returned from a trip. It feels good to be in a new year. It feels like I’m ready to start moving again.

This year feels like an open book, like I could take it anywhere I want to. Soon I will start to fill in the images of what this year will look like, but right now the pages are blank. The only thing I see are possibilities, but nothing certain. Will this be the year that I finally start to write the book that I’ve been dreaming about writing? Will it be the year that I switch jobs? Will it be the year that I move out of my apartment? Will it be the year that I walk another Camino? Go back to France for another writer’s retreat? Do a US cross-country road trip? Will it be the year that I go on lots of dates? The year that I meet someone to settle down with? The year that I make a dozen new friends? Where will my travels take me this year? Where will I go?

Last year, as 2013 changed to 2014, I was in my best friend’s apartment. I was in a daze, trying as hard as I could to be happy, but struggling. We watched a marathon of Harry Potter movies and as we toasted the New Year with a glass of champagne, I remember thinking, “In 2014, I want to feel alive.”

And as 2014 changed to 2015, I was in the Piazza San Marco in Venice, with a man at my side, a plastic cup of wine in my hand, thousands of people packed in around me, and fireworks exploding overhead.

Alive.

So here we go, another year, an open book. This blog started as a place to write about my Camino, but I think it was really a place to write about my life. So have no fear, the blogging will continue. Thanks for reading and following along, I hope I can continue to share some good stories with you this year.

Twix and Van Gogh and some thoughts on traveling (and life)

January 4, 2015

I’m eating a Twix bar in my bunk bed in Copenhagen (a top bunk, of course); Twix seems to be my comfort food when I’m in foreign places. I only have a little less than a day in Copenhagen, and by the time I arrived this afternoon, the sun was setting. So I figured out how to get from the airport to the train station to the hostel, stashed my bags on my bed and locked up my valuables, and then set off to see the city while there was still a bit of daylight.

But for all of my planning (though really there wasn’t much), I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where to go. My flight had been delayed for an hour in Bologna, so I no longer had time to walk to the art museum I’d wanted to check out. I headed in that direction anyway- what I thought was that direction- only to realize that I couldn’t figure out where I was on my map.

I ended up in a different art museum, 40 minutes before they closed, and didn’t have to pay because entry is free on Sundays. I walked through quickly but paused for a long time in front of a Van Gogh painting, one that he did in the last year of his life while he was in St Remy.

It’s been incredible to think about the last year of my life. In August, after I finished the Camino, I went to St Remy, a small town in Provence, France. I walked the streets that Van Gogh walked, I took in the same views, I looked out the window of his room. And now, today, I’m in Copenhagen, of all places. I found myself in a small art museum that I didn’t know existed, staring at a scene that Van Gogh painted years ago and one that I saw, myself, just months ago.

It makes the world feel a bit smaller. In the grand scheme of things, I haven’t traveled that much. Not when I think about the entire world and of all the places I’ve never been to, and may never get to.

But these recent experiences in Europe? They’ve taught me that the world doesn’t have to feel quite so large and so unknown. There are corners that I can discover, moments that I can experience that feel like they should be impossible… but aren’t.

And these thoughts are stemming not just from the Van Gogh painting, but from being in Italy. I’ll write more about the trip in the days to come, and talk about some of the beautiful things I saw, the amazing things I ate. But really, I think what might stand out about this trip is that it didn’t feel so foreign, or strange. Traveling is still a very big experience for me, and I think it always will be. But the more I travel, and the more I expand on the types of experiences I have, the more that this all feels possible, like it can be an active part of my life. Not just a big trip that I take once every 5 or 10 years.

Is this post making sense? I’m tired and confused about where I am. I know I’m in Copenhagen, I know I’m going home tomorrow, I know that it’s now 2015, but it all feels jumbled and crazy and wonderful and strange. But I think that’s what traveling does. It takes us to a time when we’re blogging from a top bunk, wiping bits of carmel from the Twix bar off of the sheets, listening to guys speaking whispered French from somewhere in the room.

Tomorrow, things go back to normal. But it’s a new year, and I’d like to have more experiences like this: like Italy, where (at least some of the time), I felt like I was settled and home. And Copenhagen, which feels random and exciting. And, for that matter, like Spain, where I could learn how to feel comfortable in a foreign place, on my own.

I’m not sure what 2015 is going to hold for me. Not sure at all: I have no plans, only ideas. And that’s sort of an exciting place to be in.

Scratching off my Map of the World

November 3, 2014

There’s this poster tube, wrapped up in newsprint (a travel section of the New York Times), resting against the wooden blanket chest in my bedroom. It’s been there for over a year- just sitting there, ready to be unwrapped, ready to be opened, ready to be used.

The poster inside the tube was a birthday gift that I bought for my ex-boyfriend. In May 2013, he was still my boyfriend, and I had stumbled on a great gift: a 23×32 inch scratch-off poster map of the world. You grab a coin and scratch off the countries you’ve visited; after years (months?) of travel you’ll have spots of bright colors scattered across the map to reveal all of the places you’ve traveled to.

I loved the map and thought it was perfect for my ex. In his twenties he’d been on a quest to visit all 50 US states, and since he only had Alaska left, I knew that he would soon start to travel internationally. When we were together, we often talked about all of the places on our “lists”: our dream travel destinations around the world. We planned the places we would see together, the adventures we’d have.

The map was for him, but I knew that in the coming years, as he scratched off countries, I would inevitably be part of some of those travels.

I ordered the map well in advance- his birthday was in August, and I ordered the map in early June. I needed the map early: I’d be driving up to Vermont- where my boyfriend lived- in early July, then flying to France for a month, returning back to Vermont for several weeks in August before finally coming back to Philadelphia. I planned to wrap up the map, leave it in Vermont and have it ready to give to my boyfriend when his birthday rolled around in August.

These details are important because the map never arrived. Well, it did, but not in the way I expected. June was a flurry of activity as I finished work and visited friends and vacationed with my family and got ready for France. Around the end of the month it dawned on me that the map had never arrived, so I asked the handyman of my building if he had happened to see a poster tube arrive in the mail recently (the handyman is the partner of my landlady and they live in the main part of the house that my apartment is connected to. It’s a confusing and quirky building and mail gets mixed up, quite a bit).

The handyman looked at me, squinting his eyes. “No, I don’t think I’ve seen anything like that… no.”

“You haven’t?” I asked, trying to clarify. “It was probably this long,” I held my hands a few feet apart, “and it was a map of the world.”

Recognition sparked in his eyes, quickly followed by a very, very guilty look.

“That was for you? There was no name on it, just the address, we didn’t know who it belonged to.” He shifted on his feet, uncomfortable.

“You have it then?” Already I knew it was a futile question. My handyman has a heart of gold, but also, at times, a careless attitude and complete lack of reliability.

“Well, you see, we didn’t know who it was for. And it had been raining, and the map was wet. It was soaked, it was ruined.”

He wasn’t done yet, so I waited.

“And we scratched it off. We scratched off all the countries.”

I stared at him for a minute. I pictured it in my head: a rainy evening, one too many beers, a scratch-off map of the world at his fingertips.

“It was a gift,” I mumbled. I didn’t know what else to say.

He promised to order me another one, to overnight it. But it was the weekend, it was the 4th of July holiday, I was leaving for Vermont in a few days. I knew there was no way I would get it in time but he ordered the map anyway. It arrived at my apartment the day after I left for Vermont.

So I didn’t have the map ready for my boyfriend’s birthday, but I figured I’d just give it to him the next time I saw him. At the time, there was no way I could have guessed that I would never see him again (that is just a slight exaggeration: I saw him only once after that summer, and at that point the map was the very last thing on my mind).

I returned home in August, my relationship ended, the map sat, unopened, in the corner of my bedroom. All other traces of my relationship were tucked away: photos, stray CDs and books, notes and a stack of letters, a wooden cribbage board. I swept through my apartment and gathered up every reminder, packing most of them away in a box in the back of my closet.

But I left the map in my bedroom, because I didn’t know what to do with it. It was too late to give it to my (now ex) boyfriend, I didn’t want to give it to anyone else, I didn’t want to throw it away. So I just left it there and figured that, eventually, I’d figure something out.

And I have. It took about a year, but finally I figured out what I want to do with that map.

That map is now MINE.

Initially I thought that keeping it for myself would be too hard, that it would remind me of my ex-boyfriend, of all of those unfulfilled plans and dreams we’d had together. But time is a funny thing. I haven’t forgotten those plans and dreams- I probably never will- but they just don’t matter as much anymore. Because I’ve moved on. I’ve moved past that time, and life is about all sorts of new and exciting things again, and not about what I was supposed to share with someone else.

And besides, the map sitting in my bedroom? That’s not the map I bought for my ex-boyfriend. That map was a soggy mess, scratched off by a drunken handyman and now buried somewhere at the bottom of a trash heap.

My map is new and untarnished. My map was overnighted and expressly delivered. My map arrived a day late for my ex-boyfriend, but maybe it was never meant for him at all. Maybe this map of the world- a map full of countries waiting to be visited and scratched off- maybe that map was meant for me all along.

Spain, France, Iceland: scratch, scratch, scratch. And that’s just the beginning.

Nuns and plums and getting close to the end; Day 28 on the Camino, Portomarin to San Xulian

July 24, 2014

It’s only been in the last few days that I’ve felt close to Santiago, and aware of what that means to me. I’ve been walking towards Santiago for 28 days, but I couldn’t really put it all together in my head until yesterday. Until now, it’s all just been walking: day after day. I knew that the kilometers were adding up, but I wasn’t paying close attention to how much I walked or where I was on a map. I was just walking, and taking in the experience.

The first thing that struck me was something three nuns said, on a little hill on the outskirts of Ponferrada a few days ago. Saskia and I had been walking by when we saw them picking fruit from a tree. Saskia, who can speak Spanish, asked what the fruit was. The answer was plums, and instantly the women reached down to us, offering handfuls of the round fruit. They filled our hands, offering more and more. The plums were spilling out of my grasp and rolling down the hill, but they kept reaching down to give us more. Two guys were approaching (who, it turns out, had just started their Camino that day and were about 20 minutes into their walk). I shoved handfuls of plums at them, and the nuns continued to give us more, speaking in Spanish the whole time. We finally left, our hands and pockets overflowing, and I asked Saskia what they were saying.

“They were saying- ‘pray for us in Santiago.'”

It gives me chills now as I write this, the idea that these three holy women recognized the importance of what we were doing, and saw a great meaning in our walking and in our destination.

I’ve tried to be aware that I’m on a holy pilgrimage, but it wasn’t the reason that I chose to walk the Camino, and it’s been overshadowed by so much here. I try to stop in churches when I can, and have attended a few masses and received several Pilgrim Blessings. But most of the people I talk with aren’t here for the religious part of the pilgrimage. And it’s easy to forget about the history of the path we’re walking on, and the reason that this Camino exists at all.

But when I heard that the nuns asked us to pray for them in Santiago, something shifted a bit in my head. I knew that I would say a prayer for them when I reached Santiago, and all at once, the larger scope of what I was doing came into focus.

I’m almost in Santiago. And I’ve walked a long way. This is day 28, which means I’ve been walking for 4 weeks. The beginning of this Camino- that first day through the Pyrenees- feels like a lifetime ago, and it feels like yesterday. I don’t want this to end, but I’m also so excited to reach Santiago.

And I’m a little surprised by my excitement. For weeks now, Adam has been talking about the sense of accomplishment we’ll have once we reach Santiago- to be able to say that we walked this distance. And every time I heard him or someone else say something like that, I couldn’t really agree. I’ve loved the walking so much, and some days have been hard, but it’s also been one of the easiest and natural things I’ve ever done, in a way.

But now that Santiago is close, man, I’m excited. And I feel proud. Lots of new pilgrims have started in the last few days (including large, large groups of students, and everyone tries to figure out where they’re stopping so we can avoid those towns), and the Camino is crowded. I was expecting this, and am trying my hardest to have an open mind when I can’t walk alone. When these newer pilgrims ask where I started, I feel really proud when I answer, ‘St Jean’, and I wasn’t expecting that. But I do feel proud: I’ve been walking for a long time, and now, finally, I’m starting to feel the accumulation of all of my steps.

My legs are strong. They’re really strong. I’ve always been a fast walker, but here? It’s a rare thing when people pass me. Several people have joked that I’m impossible to catch. On hilly and rocky sections of the Camino, I can nearly keep the same pace as bikers. I was walking quickly in the beginning and I’ve continued to, but now I just feel so solid. This isn’t to say that I haven’t had my hard days here, physically, but even my hardest day hasn’t been that bad. I’m proud of myself for being able to physically handle this walk, and proud that I can safely say that I could do this for another month.

I’m proud that I’ve handled the potentially uncomfortable parts of this as well as I have. I worried that I would have trouble with feeling displaced, and constantly on the move, and that I would tire of the same routine day after day. But if anything, every day feels so new and exciting and full of possibility. I have no idea what I’ll see or who I’ll meet. I have a fairly good idea of what I’ll eat but since I’ve mostly been loving what I’m eating, that’s not so bad (bread, coffee, cheese, wine, fries, tuna. Mmm). Last night I feel asleep in an albergue with about 100 beds in a wide open space. The lights were still on at 10:30 and people were moving around and talking and, somehow, I fell asleep. I’ve adapted to the strange conditions of this trip: the offbeat places where I’ve had to stay, nearly always sleeping on the top bunk, cramped and sometimes dirty showers. After the first week I gave in and bought shampoo and having been using it every since, but as for the rest of it? I think I’ve shaved my legs once, I’m definitely not wearing makeup, I wear the same two outfits every day. And I feel great.

I’ve had great practice in letting go of planning, I’ve spoken up for what I need when I need it, I feel more comfortable socially than I have in a long time. I’ve loved the people that I’ve met, and it feels good to know that I’m loved in return.

I’m not done with this walk yet but I’m certainly processing the ending. I had such a good walk yesterday: I walked alone for nearly the entire day, not seeing many pilgrims. The sun was shining and I was walking through a beautiful part of Galicia. I felt so good and at peace. I listened to music and at some points was dancing down the trail.

Last night I stayed in Portomarin where lots and lots of people stopped for the day. I ran into so many that I knew: all of the Koreans, the Spanish man and his two kids, the Italian mother and daughter, the Vermont family. Almost everyone is going to arrive in Santiago on the same day, the 27th, and that makes me so happy. There was a long time when I thought I would fully break away and stretch out my trip and walk short days or take days off. But about 10 days ago I realized that I wanted to celebrate in Santiago with all of the people I’ve met along the way.

And I think most of us feel this way. “When are you arriving in Santiago?” we ask. “The 27th, and you?” “Me too! We’ll take a photo in front of the cathedral!” “We’ll celebrate with sangria!”

Two days ago Ibai showed me a photo on his phone. ‘Can you see who this is?’ he asked. There was a man standing in front of the cathedral in Santiago, his walking poles raised in the air in triumph. I squinted at the photo. ‘That’s not Adrien, is it?’ Ibai nodded in excitement. ‘It is, he made it to Santiago!’ All I could do was grin. Adrien had started from St Jean on the same day that we did, but after two weeks started walking really long days to reach Santiago by his deadline. I hadn’t seen him since Hontanas.

And now there he was, the first person I’d walked with who made it to Santiago. I couldn’t stop smiling when I saw the photo, and I can’t stop smiling now.

Santiago is close.

I’m on my way (I don’t know where I’m going); Day One, St Jean Pied de Port to Roncesvalles

June 27, 2014

I’m in the albuerge in Roncesvalles, Spain, hanging out on my top bunk. I had a top bunk last night, too, and so far I think I’m a fan, except right now there’s a man directly on other side of my bed (the beds are sort of in pods, little groups of 4, within a much larger space), and he’s taking a nap and snoring. Loudly. Mira is in the bunk underneath me; I met her on the last few kilometers into Roncesvalles. We started talking because we have the same shoes, and also Deuter packs. She’s American, and Jorge is in the top bunk across from me. He’s from Mexico but is going to college in Pamplona, and right now he’s paging through a brochure he picked up in the tourism office, and telling us facts about the Running of the Bulls (I’ll pass through Pamplona in a few days, about a week before the bulls). The other man in our pod is French, and he’s been walking for several weeks through France. He’s got a neat notebook full of sketches and notes of the places he’s been. He doesn’t speak English, so I’ve been practicing my French.

I’ve had a lot of French practice so far, but more on that in a minute. First: I made it to Spain! I’m not even sure when I crossed from France to Spain, or if there was a marker along the path, or if I was daydreaming or staring at the amazing views and completely missed it. All I know is that I passed a construction worker and I said “Bonjour” and he said “Buenos Dias” and I thought, “Ahh, I’m in Spain.” What a great way to enter a country.

When I got off the train yesterday in Bayonne, I needed to take a bus to St Jean Pied de Port because of the train strikes. I went outside of the train station to see if I could figure out where to go, and I nearly laughed out loud. There must have been 100 pilgrims standing outside of the station, waiting for the bus.

It was actually a bit overwhelming to see that many people who would be starting the Camino at the same time. I chatted a bit with the people around me, but then the bus pulled up and chaos began. Later, someone said it was like the Hunger Games of the Camino: everyone could see that there wouldn’t be enough seats on the bus, so people frantically shoved their bags into the storage compartment and rushed to secure a seat. I never made it on the bus, but that was fine by me. It was too crazy, and an SNCF worker assured us that another bus would be around in about 20 minutes (which was actually more like an hour, but hey, I was still getting to SJPP earlier than I thought, so what was another hour?). It gave me time to talk to the others who hadn’t made the first bus, and I was glad for it. I know that I’m going to meet so many people during this Camino- I’ve already met a bunch- but I was a bit nervous yesterday. It seemed as though lots of people were in pairs or groups, and I felt kind of awkward being alone (although that feeling is already starting to go away).

In any case, so much of yesterday is a blur, and I think it’s because I was so tired. Somehow I got my compostela, checked into the alberge I had reserved, washed a few clothes, showed up for the communal dinner, walked around the town to explore (I found a cemetery!), took some photos. The dinner was in the alberge, and from what I read, it sounded like a great chance to meet other Pilgrims and have the chance to introduce yourself and explain why you are walking the Camino. The dinner was decent: some kind of creamy soup, noodles, a potato gratin dish, lamb chops, a custardy thing for dessert, bread, wine.

But, with one exception, everyone at my table was French. A group of 4 had been hiking for about a week, and one guy started 17 days before, averaging 45 kilometers a day (which is A LOT!). So the conversation was all in French, with a few side conversations between myself and a man from Canada, Jeff. But I tried to speak in French, and it went okay, until one of the men asked me why I was walking the Camino. That question is hard enough to answer in English! I was immediately flustered and everyone was staring at me expectantly, and I’m not even sure what I said. Speedy helped me out, saying something about life transitions and having a middle time, to separate the ‘before’ and the ‘what comes next’ (well, I’m not entirely sure if that’s what he was saying, but I think that was the gist of it). In any case, I was glad when dinner was over. I was already exhausted and overwhelmed with being in a new place and trying to get my bearings, trying to mentally prepare for the next day. Speaking in French, at that point, was a bit too much for me.

As I was trying to fall asleep last night, I thought about what was waiting for me the next day. Despite months of preparation, I felt like I wasn’t ready. I was a bit anxious about how it would all go, if my pack would be too heavy, if the walk would be too long, if I would talk to anyone during the day, if I would like being a pilgrim.

And as I left St Jean Pied de Port this morning, I had a moment when I shook my head and thought, “What it the world am I doing??” And then, “Here goes nothing.”

I’ve already written a ton, so here’s how the day went, in a nutshell: it was amazing. I loved the walk so much. Parts of it were difficult, but when I arrived in Roncesvalles, I thought, “We’re here already?” I think I could have walked for a few more hours. It was probably the most beautiful walk of my life: straight through the Pyrenees, with the views getting better and better around every bend.

Having perfect weather helped. Sunny, with a few clouds, and a coolish breeze as I walked up into the mountains. After the first couple of hours things spread out, and I was walking big chunks completely alone, not seeing anyone in front of me or behind me.

And it was just so good to be walking. My training has definitely helped, but a lot of it is mental: I’ve been thinking about this trip for months, and now that it’s here, it feels so good to put on my pack and go. I don’t have to worry anymore about whether I can do this or not. Because I’m here, and I’m doing it.

There is so much I could describe from this first day, but soon I need to head to dinner, and then a Pilgrim’s mass in the church.

So far, I’m feeling good. I just walked through breathtaking scenery, had a ham sandwich on a french baguette staring out at one of the best views in the world, stopped for coffee in the Pyrenees, took a hundred photos, talked to a dozen people and smiled and said ‘Buen Camino’ to dozens more, and am settled into my bunk, eating a Twix bar and relaxing before dinner.

A good, good Day One on the Camino.

Before I Die I Will…

June 17, 2014

I just did a sort-of-trial-packing for my Camino, and all I can say is: now I know why a 24-liter pack is considered small. Oh boy.

In other news, I wanted to write about something I saw the other weekend. I was visiting friends in Maryland (one of whom walked the Camino years ago), and it was a Camino-filled two days: we spent hours talking about the walk, practicing Spanish phrases, eating tapas and drinking sangria at a Spanish restaurant, going on a few hikes.

We were there for the town’s ‘First Saturday’ and the theme was art- there was live entertainment, art demonstrations, community art projects. We walked down a street and saw large chalkboard panels propped against the side of a building, with the words ‘Before I Die I Will…’ written at the top.

Dozens of people had supplied answers, from ‘Go to Italy’ to ‘Be a Mom’. We spent a few minutes reading through the panels, and pointing out our favorite answers.

“Look,” I pointed. “Someone wrote, ‘Find Waldo’.”

“And look just above that,” my friend said. “Walk the Camino.”

It seemed amazing to me that someone had written that they want to walk the Camino. Maybe it was because I rarely see or hear Camino references in my every day life. Maybe it’s because when I tell people what I’m doing this summer, almost nobody has ever heard of the Camino.

Or maybe it’s because the Camino is something that people dream about, something they put on their bucket lists. Knowing that someone answered the question ‘Before I die I will…’ with ‘walk the Camino’ makes me think about how incredible this experience is going to be. I’ve been so caught up in the preparations and the scrambling and training that I’ve lost some of the pure excitement and giddy disbelief of going on a pilgrimage through Spain.

I’m about to walk 500 miles across Spain. Before I die, I WILL attempt to walk 500 miles across Spain. What a great thing to get to do.

(‘Walk the Camino’ is on the right column, near the bottom)

Camino Planning: Time to Begin.

February 26, 2014

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

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

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

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

Training hikes completed: Zero.

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

Spanish learned: Zero.

Flights/hotels/trains booked: Zero.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I may never come home.

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

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

Steps in the Snow, and My Camino Training.

January 26, 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Single Step

January 2, 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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