Nadine Walks

stories of trekking and travel

Endless coffee, top bunks, and delirium; 7 things I miss about the Camino

Today is National Coffee Day, and as I sit here in my apartment, listening to the rain, I think about all that great coffee I drank in Spain. And that gets me thinking about the Camino, and the walking and the people and the food and the conversation and all of the things that I miss. So here are a few things that come to mind:

1. Giving myself permission to drink as much coffee and wine as I liked.

Was there anything better than multiple café con leches or the 1-euro glass of (really, really good) wine? Sometimes an entire bottle of wine was only 2 euros. I could sit and drink coffee and write in my journal, I could sit and sip wine and talk with new friends, and I could do this every single day.

espresso cups, Burgos

 

2. Spending my days outside.

It just felt so healthy: the cool, fresh air of the morning. The sunshine on the back of my legs. Walking through forests and vineyards and mountains. The sound of the wind blowing through a field of wheat.

wheat field, the meseta

 

3. The moment just after I finished doing my laundry.

One day I was hand washing my socks and underwear and t-shirt, and I turned to the person next to me and said, “This is my favorite part of the day!” This person stared at me and responded with, “Doing laundry? Are you crazy?”

“No,” I explained. “Just after this. When everything is finished. After those first kilometers when you haven’t had coffee, and the last kilometers when your legs feel like lead. After finding an albergue and showering and charging your phone and washing your clothes. Just after it’s all done, that feeling of complete relaxation and open time. You’ve done all of your work for the day, and it’s 2:00pm and you can eat and drink and meet up with friends or just do nothing. That’s my favorite time.”

socks on laundry line, camino

 

4. An open church.

It was so easy for me to get caught up in all of the other stuff on the Camino: the physical aches and pains of the walking, the socialization and new friends, the changing Spanish countryside, the language and the culture, the nagging thoughts in my head. But when I passed a church, it was nearly always a reminder that I was on an ancient pilgrimage route. The churches connected me to a sense of the history of the Camino, and to my own personal pilgrimage.

When passing a church I usually tried to open the door to see if it was unlocked, and often it wasn’t. But that made the time when I could find an open church pretty special. I loved the little chapels, especially. So small and simple, with tiny details and still spaces. I loved when I could stand alone in an empty church- stand at the back and look up towards the altar, close my eyes and say a little prayer- and then quietly continue on my way. It always brought me a strong sense of peace.

church along the camino

 

5. A top bunk by an open window.

By the middle of my Camino, I started to get used to sleeping on the top bunk. I think my ratio of top to bottom bunks was 8:1, and at first this seemed like bad luck. But eventually I found my upside: sleeping by an open window. Sometimes this was purely chance. But whenever I got to an albergue on the early side and could choose a bed, I’d opt for a top bunk if there was a window close by. These were some of my best nights of sleep, when I could bundle into my sleeping bag, sometimes with a wool blanket stretched across the bed, and feel the cool night air blow in through the window. In one albergue I had a view of stars and a nearly full moon. In another, I could hear distant howling (and the next day someone mentioned that there were wolves in the hills, could this be true?)

bunk beds in an albergue

 

6. Those hilariously delirious moments when you’ve simply been walking too long.

I think everyone had them. I kind of hope that everyone had them, and it wasn’t just me. Because usually by the last few hours of a really long, hot day, I could get a bit loopy. Once, I was walking with my friend Mirra and I looked ahead and exclaimed, “Look! A horse!” There was no horse. It was just another pilgrim, walking along.

There may or may not have been a time when I was walking alone down the very long, very straight, old Roman road under a very hot sun, looked around to make sure no one was within earshot, and shouted out, “Caesar!!” Just because he also walked down this road, a long time ago, and it seemed like I should somehow acknowledge it.

And there was definitely a time when I sang American Pie over and over and over because it was my 7th hour of walking on a hot day when I had lost my earbuds and all I wanted to do was listen to music. “Drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dryyyyy…”

old roman road, camino de santiago

Caesar!!

 

7. Waking up every day and feeling like anything was possible.

I know that some people got a bit bogged down in the routine of the Camino, but for me, I felt like every day was full of possibility and surprises. This feeling increased after I lost my guidebook; I didn’t always know what the terrain would be like, if I would have to climb big hills, if I would pass through large towns. Where would I get my coffee? Who would I run into? Where would I stay at night? Would I make a new friend, would I have an inspiring conversation? Would I see a castle or a cathedral or a field of sunflowers or a long line of cows? When else in life do you get to ask yourself these kinds of questions?

The toughest, the prettiest, the luckiest.

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

This could be a long post.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

nadine walking to finisterre

The Camino’s not done with me yet; Day 33 on the Camino, Negreira to Olveiroa

I’d thought that my Camino had ended in Santiago. I was continuing on to Finisterre with a friend, but when I last wrote from ‘the road’, on the first day’s walk out of Santiago, I said that I felt like I was on a long walk to the beach with a friend, and no longer on the Camino.

Oh, famous last words. If the Camino could laugh, it was laughing at me then. She thinks I am finished with her? Has she not learned anything on this walk?

After that first day, walking from Santiago to Negreira, I felt like it was a sort of ‘in-between’ experience: I was still a pilgrim, and it was a Camino of sorts, but very separate from the journey I had just been on. My pilgrimage was done.

But things started to change on the second day. Sonal and I walked to Olveiroa and met so many other pilgrims on the way. It reminded me of the beginning of my Camino, that first week out of St Jean when everyone was new and eager and forming friendships and connections. Maybe it was because we were new to each other, and there weren’t many of us on the road. But suddenly it felt easy, once again, to meet people and to make connections.

We stopped at a quirky place for a second breakfast: a family’s home, the patio and grounds opened up for pilgrims to stop and have a drink or a bite to eat. Hammocks were stretched out between trees, picnic tables and multicolored adirondack chairs were scattered across the lawn. I was excited to find this place: a Camino gem. But just before Sonal and I arrived a group of loud Spanish pilgrims, probably in their early 20’s, had descended on the place. We’d been trying to move away from their group for the past two days but they always seemed to show up wherever we were. We hesitated outside as the Spanish group took over, and just as we decided to leave, an older woman came out of the house. She gestured over, motioning for us to come inside.

We did, and settled into cushioned chairs in a quiet room off of the kitchen. High, wooden beamed ceilings, antique furniture, old musty books, black and white photographs on the walls. I couldn’t figure out what this place was: a family’s home, it seemed, but also an establishment for pilgrims. The mother was bustling around the kitchen, a daughter came out to take our order. Our coffee was served with little orange flavored pastries, and our tortilla was warm and fluffy, with a basket of soft, crusty bread. When we finished I signed the guestbook, and I wrote that it was like a small paradise: unexpected and magical.

And unexpected and magical are the words that I would use to describe the rest of my experience on the Camino.

After a long day’s walk we arrived in Olveiroa, and as I walked through the bar to find the hospitalero to check in for the night, I noticed Richard, a British guy we’d met earlier in the day. I stopped to say hi and sitting with him was someone I’d known from my “real” Camino (as I thought of it at the time). Since I’d started walking to Finisterre nearly a week after arriving in Santiago, all of the people I knew had already moved on, or gone home. “Everyone from my Camino is gone,” I kept saying. So to run into a familiar face, even if it was someone I didn’t know well, felt a bit mystical. I was walking to Finisterre, he was returning from Finisterre. We greeted each other with a strong hug, and later, stayed up late into the night- each of us, I think, clinging to our last Camino moments.

And that night Sonal and I made a new friend, Emma. She had walked the Camino Frances six years ago, ending in Santiago, and vowed that she would return one day to complete the walk to Finisterre. She kept her promise and had started out from Santiago the same day as Sonal and I did. We talked with her that night, sitting around a long table outside of the albergue’s bar, as the stars came out and the air grew cool. People kept joining our table, sliding up chairs, laughing at jokes, pouring shots of hierbas from a tall bottle. We toasted, all of us. I looked around the table and marveled at the combination of people sitting with me: a pilgrim who had left St Jean on the same day that I did, but who I hadn’t talked to until the very end of my journey. New pilgrims I had just met that day. A pilgrim who had walked six years ago and had just returned to complete the journey. And my friend from home, a brand new pilgrim two days into her walk, but someone I’d known for 20 years.

So many different connections: so unexpected, so magical.

As I drifted off to sleep that night- top bunk, muffled snoring from the corner of the room- I realized that my Camino hadn’t ended after all.

“What’s next, Camino?” I asked. “What comes next?”

Olveiroa, SpainBreakfast stopLunch stopYellow arrow on the Camino

Going back to some Camino moments: Day 14, Hontanas to San Nicolas

I left Hontanas with a spring in my step. It was- for me- one of those perfect Camino villages. Small, a couple albergues, one bar/restaurant where all the pilgrims sat and drank and talked, a pretty church, lots of character. I’d gone to bed the night before in a room of 8, sleeping on a top bunk next to an open window. There was a view of the village rooftops, a fading violet sky, a bright moon.

That morning I’d woken early, shoved my things in my pack and went downstairs to the bar to have a cafe con leche and a croissant. One of my favorite things on the Camino was when a bar would be open by 6:30 so I could have coffee before I left for the day’s walk, and it was for this that I left Hontanas with a spring in my step.

I was feeling good. Still adjusting to being without Mirra and for the first time (except for the beginning of my Camino through the Pyrenees), feeling like I was truly on my own. I was nervous, but I was also excited. That night I would be staying in a place where, most likely, I wouldn’t know anyone: La Ermita de San Nicolas.

I’d heard about San Nicolas before leaving for my Camino, and it was on my short list of must-sees/must-dos. A 13th century church now converted into a pilgrim albergue, run by a confraternity of Italian men. The building had no electricity, there was a communal dinner with a pilgrim blessing, and some sort of ritual foot washing. I’d purposefully stayed in Hontanas the night before so that I would have a short walk to San Nicolas, ensuring that I would arrive early enough to secure one of the 12 beds.

The morning walk was beautiful, and with the help of the cafe con leche, I sailed through the kilometers. I arrived at San Nicolas at 10:30, the earliest I’d ever arrived to my evening’s destination. On the door of a church was a sign that said the albergue would open at 3:00, but luckily the door was cracked so I pushed it open and stepped inside. Several pilgrims were there, looking around the building and getting stamps for their credentials. One of the Italian hospitaleros was there too, and he greeted me warmly.

“I’m hoping to stay here tonight,” I explained to him.

He looked around, then looked down at me. “Yes,” he nodded. We don’t sign anyone in until 3, but you can pick out a bed and leave your pack, and then come back.”

I smiled, thrilled that I would be able to stay for the night. As I spread my sleeping bag out on a bottom bunk, he came over and asked for my name.

“Nadine.”

A flash of recognition came over his face. “Ah yes, Nadine, you are the American? We were expecting you.”

It’s a strange and unnerving feeling to be in the middle of northern Spain, standing in a small church surrounded by nothing but wheat fields and to be told that I was expected here, in this place.

I stammered. “How did you know I would be coming?”

“A boy told us.”

I’m still not exactly sure who this could have been. Possibly Etienne, a French guy I’d met the day before. We’d had our morning coffee together coming out of Burgos, and later ran into each other for lunch as well. He’d been walking for over a month at that point, having started in France, and averaged about 40 kilometers a day. I had told him that I planned to stay in San Nicolas, and we looked it up in his guidebook. He had left Hontanas earlier than me that morning, and so I suppose that as he was passing through, he might have stopped in San Nicolas and told the hospitalero that he knew a girl who planned to stay for the night.

I never saw Etienne again, so I’ll never know for sure if it was him or not. But whoever it was, I was grateful. It was the first time on the Camino that I was branching off on my own, and I had walked into a place and instantly felt welcomed, and like I belonged there.

So I stashed my pack and threw some necessary items into my day bag: flip flops, my fleece, bottle of water, can of tuna fish, bread, cheese, peach, spork, journal. I set off towards the nearest town, 2km away, planning to find a nice spot to eat lunch, and then hopefully a bar to have a coffee or a drink. As I walked a car drove past me, slammed on its brakes, then reversed to come back to me. The window rolled down and the hospitalero I’d spoken with 20 minutes before leaned out, asking me if I would like a ride.

I only hesitated for a moment. As I’d been walking I thought that I would not only have to double back and walk these kilometers in reverse, but that I would walk them again the following morning. So when the offer of a ride came, I was tempted. I would still walk these Camino kilometers, but I would walk them the next day, as part of my actual Camino.

But as quickly as the thought entered my head, it vanished. I smiled at the car and shook my head. “No thank you, I like walking.”

The late morning and afternoon ended up being one of the best of my Camino. It was the first short day I walked, and it almost felt like a rest day. I found a shaded spot next to an old church to eat my lunch, and when I saw Ibai walking past I waved to him and he came to sit with me. I ended up walking further with him into the town and to a bar where we met up with Vinny and Vicool and Hyoeun and Jiwoo. They were breaking for lunch, and were tired. Sitting with them, I thought about how nice it felt to be done for the day, and how happy I was that I’d decided to stay at San Nicolas.

And the experience at San Nicolas was, indeed, a special one. I returned to the albergue and went about the normal “chores” of the day: showering and washing clothes. But from the moment I returned I felt a different kind of energy around the place. There was nearly always a feeling of kindness and peace on the Camino, but it was more present at San Nicolas. Pepe, another one of the Italian hopsitaleros, told me that I was home. “For today, and tonight, this is your home.” Jerome, a French boy with a wide brimmed hat and a sly smile, shook my hand as soon as he saw me. I met Eva, an Italian woman with dark eyes and a soft voice, and Alice, another Italian woman who laughed like a child and kept repeating, “I am so happy to be here.”

I sat outside in the back courtyard with my journal, and throughout the afternoon people came to sit with me: Jerome, Alice, Rudy, an American from Chicago who I’d encountered a few times before. The caretaker of San Nicolas, an old man wearing a long, worn sweater, came over to me a few times. He only spoke Spanish, and I nodded along, trying to understand his words. But it didn’t matter that I couldn’t understand; he smiled at me, then pulled several Maria biscuits from his pocket and placed them down on my journal.

Pepe came over, squinting against the sun. “You’re a writer,” he said in his raspy voice.

“Yes, I like to write,” I replied.

“Okay, okay,” he paused for a long time looking off into the distance, and I wondered if he’d forgotten that I was there. But then he looked down at me again. “You should keep writing. Maybe you should write a book.”

And then he walked off, leaving me to wonder if this place, like some others along the Camino, held a bit of magic.

Before dinner we sat in the altar of the church, in upright wooden chairs. Pepe and the other hospitaleros wore dark brown cloaks, and read a pilgrim blessing in Italian. Then the moved around to each pilgrim, asking that we place our right foot over a basin of water while they read a few words and rubbed a wet cloth over our feet.

We sat down for dinner at a long wooden table, candles at each place. A cucumber, tomato and olive salad; pasta carbonara; bread and cheese; melon and wine. Food was continually passed around, the candles were lit, coffee was served. I spoke with a German man on my left and Eva across from me. We joked that both the coffee and the wine were like fuel on the Camino. “To more fuel, more energy!” the German man cried, pouring us wine and lifting his glass for a toast. We echoed his words. “To more energy, to the Camino!”

The night slowed down, quietly. At 10:00pm I stood outside, wrapping my arms around my body for warmth. The sun had set and there was a soft orange glow over everything. A wind blew through the wheat fields and it was all you could hear: we were alone. No buildings, no roads except for the Camino, no pilgrims passing at this hour. Alone, but exactly where I was supposed to be.

In the morning we drank coffee and ate toast by candlelight, and slowly packed our things to leave. I thanked the hospitaleros, and Pepe gave me a hug. “You could stay here for a few days, if you want,” he rasped. “Help cook, and clean, and then continue on your Camino.”

I wasn’t sure if he was serious. But in any case, my pack was on my back, my shoes on my feet. Every day on the Camino I wanted to walk, and I did walk. It wasn’t time for me to stay put yet, even if staying put only meant a day or two.

“Yes,” Pepe nodded when he saw I was leaving. “Keep writing. Write a book.”

I walked away from San Nicolas, leaving before anyone else. Feeling strong, feeling at peace, feeling energized. Ready for whatever would come next.

IMG_5298

courtyard, San Nicolas

Maria cookies and journaling, San Nicolas

Interior of San Nicolas

Details, San Nicolas

Pepe and Alice, San Nicolas

San Nicolas, setting sun

Coming Home

I just took a shower in my apartment, and my hair feels clean- truly clean- for the first time in a month and a half.

Right now I’m marveling a bit at the normalcy of this: sitting on my couch with my porch door open, a breeze blowing through my living room, the sound of the fountain trickling outside. I woke up this morning and didn’t know where I was: I looked around my room and everything was familiar but my brain couldn’t figure it out. After a minute it came together; I was home.

For the past several weeks I’ve craved a morning like I just had- sitting on my couch with a cup of coffee and nowhere to go, nothing to do. (well, the first thing I had to do this morning was to put on my shoes and take a walk to the nearest food store to get supplies to make coffee. My car is at my parents house so I have limited options… but at least I just finished a pilgrimage across Spain so walking to find coffee wasn’t a big problem). In any case, I’ve loved this morning. I got very used to all the traveling, the packing and unpacking of bags, a different bed every night, but having some routine and comfort back is welcome.

And yet. One of the first things I did after I sat down with my coffee was to start thinking about how to get back to Europe, or how to do another Camino. It’s all just thoughts at the moment, because for now I need to be back (and I need to make some money). But my traveling this summer- and certainly the Camino- has had a profound impact on me.

There has been so much on this trip that I’ve wanted to write about, and a lot in the last few weeks (Finisterre! The Côte d’Azur! Provence! Paris! Iceland again!), and I’ll get to some of it. I also want to write more about my experience on the Camino, and my thoughts now that I’m back. So there will be more to come.

But for now, right now, I just want to appreciate that I’m back home. When I passed through customs as I was flying out of Iceland, the man working behind the counter asked how long I’d been in Europe.

“How long?” I paused, mentally doing the calculations. “Uhh, 7 weeks.”

His eyebrows immediately shot up and I laughed, saying, “7 weeks, I know. I’m lucky.”

7 weeks was a long time to be away and traveling, and I was, indeed, very lucky to take this trip, and I was very lucky while on the trip.

I think about what’s changed in that time, because mostly things look the same. I suppose that on the outside, I’m just a bit different: my hair is lighter and my skin is a bit darker (not to mention the crazy tan lines on the backs on my legs; I have a picture when they were at their worst, but I don’t know if the public will ever get to see that). I stepped on the scale this morning and I’m four pounds heavier than when I left. It figures that I can spend 5 weeks walking across Spain and gain weight: I blame the bread, cheese, and wine. And the ice cream/gelato.

So there are tiny changes on the outside. On the inside? I’m still very much the same person. But there are some changes. The light and the magic of the Camino got to me, spread through me, and started to shine out, and I think it’s going to take me to some great places.

But first, I’m going to sit here, drink more coffee, and appreciate being home.

IMG_6406.JPG

A Perfect Camino Day; Day 25, Herrerias to Fillobal

Once again I’m not sure exactly where I am. Somewhere in Galicia now, about 4km before Triacastela. Not having a guidebook, a friend or group to always walk with, or any set plans can be a wonderful thing: I usually start my day with a general idea of where I might end up (I have an outline of stages that Mirra tore out of her guidebook to give me before she left, and sometimes I ask to look at guidebooks that others carry, to give me an idea of what the next few days will be like). But the beauty of not having a set plan is that I can go wherever I want, whenever I want. I wanted to do a few short days, and thought I would stop in a town about 3km back, but when I passed the albergue I saw a group of about 40 teenagers talking and laughing in the courtyard, and I didn’t even break my stride; I walked right past and decided to head to Triacastela, where most of my friends are.

But I’m here instead, in a small village, sitting at a table outside the bar, in a little grassy area with chickens running around and a dog sleeping under a chair, a small apple tree to my right and a mountain view directly ahead. When I saw this space I doubled back to the albergue and checked-in. I’ll catch up to my friends eventually, maybe even tomorrow. For now, like I did a few days ago, I’m craving peace and quiet.

The last few days have been great, but as ever, my Camino experience continues to change and evolve. This time is very different from the beginning. It’s different from the Meseta, it’s different from the last time I wrote.

I am constantly thinking about the balance between time that I need for myself, and time that I want and need to spend with others. Three days ago I was feeling a bit down, and just a bit lonely. I’d chosen to go off on my own and separate myself from most of the people that I knew, and I think that experience was good for me, despite feeling lonely.

But all at once, things changed (and this is one of the greatest things about the Camino). I’d written my last blog post when I was in Rabanal, where I thought I didn’t know a soul. I went to hear the monks sing a vespers service in the village’s small church, and when I came out of the church I felt relaxed and settled. As I walked into my albergue I saw a group of people eating at a picnic table, and a girl looked over to me. It was Saskia, an American who I’d met at some point during my first week here, and continued to see every 3-4 days throughout the walk. The people she was with offered me the leftovers of their pasta dinner, and then I made some lentils and opened the small bottle of wine I’d found in the supermercado (along with the wine, I’d found earbuds for 2 euro, which was perfect since I’d lost mine a few days before. The small shop in Rabanal came through in a big way!).

So I had a simple, delicious dinner that night, and a good, long heart to heart with Saskia.

And I felt revived heading into the next day. More calm and settled about the time I spend alone, but also more aware of the time when I want to be with others.

I have so much to share about every day here, that when I don’t write for several days I have no idea where to start. I could write a thousand words about Cruz de Ferro and leaving my two rocks; I could write a thousand words about the new people I’ve met and the conversations I’ve had with them; I could write a thousand words about the Dragonte route and its beauty and challenges.

Maybe at some point I’ll catch up and share more stories. But for now, I want to share my nearly perfect Camino morning, and what was overall a really great Camino day.

I woke up this morning at 5:45, after a solid 8 hours of sleep. This has never, ever happened on my Camino, and poor sleeping has left me pretty exhausted. But last night was wonderful, I was in a small, quiet albergue, on a bottom bunk with no one above me and no snorers in the room.

I packed my things and left while everyone else continued to sleep, and as I made my way out of the village I ran into John, a Scottish man in his 60’s. I’d met him a few days before, and we spoke for a minute about the 8km climb we had ahead of us, and then I moved on ahead (later, I saw Joe and Adele, who told me they’d run into John later in the day, and he called me a ‘greyhound’ because of how fast I started climbing up the mountain. I certainly wouldn’t call myself a greyhound, but I DO walk fast, and probably faster after a good night’s sleep).

I climbed 4km and after yesterday’s extremely challenging climb (along with 6 other pilgrims took an alternate route called Dragonte which involved three mountains; we were the only 7 pilgrims on the route that day), I was able to climb fairly easily. Just as I was really tiring, I reached a town and, like a mirage, I saw an open bar (at 7:20am!). So I sat and enjoyed a cafe con leche and a croissant, and then climbed the next 4km to O’Cebreiro and I felt like I was flying.

It helps that I wasn’t carrying any food in my pack. Often I have at least one can of tuna (and at some point on this Camino I was walking around for 4 days with three cans of tuna fish), but I usually have more. The other day I was noticing how heavy my pack felt, and I mentally scrolled through what I had shoved into my bag that morning: half a baguette, a big chunk of cheese, a hard boiled egg, two peaches, an apple, a bunch of cherries, a tomato, two cans of tuna, and a bag of candy. Way too much, and I’m amazed I could fit it all into my pack. But at this point on my Camino, walking for over three weeks, I can handle carrying a lot.

But this morning I felt light, and it was probably because I didn’t have an extra 5 pounds of food in my bag. On the way to O’Cebreiro I passed a small town where I saw the Italian group outside having breakfast. They cheered when they saw me and Carol stood up to give me a hug. Laura, the 12 year old, asked where I was staying that night, and said she hoped it was the same town where she would be.

I continued my walk, meeting a man from Chile who was walking very slowly, but smiling constantly. I made it to O’Cebreiro, stopped for another cafe con leche and tortilla, then ran into Ibai on my way out of town. We accidentally walked a kilometer or two on the main road, realized we went the wrong way, then doubled back to find the natural track.

Today’s walk was breathtaking. I crossed into Galicia, and I’ve heard that this is the nicest part of the Camino, and from today, I can believe it. The weather was beautiful, there were near constant mountain and valley views, there were cows and chickens and horses and dogs everywhere. Quaint villages, so much green, and as the day progressed I had a lot of time to walk alone.

But I also met several new people today and had some great conversations, and it reminds me of how incredible this experience is. Geraldine and David have been walking since St Jean but today was the first day I encountered them; Anti started her Camino today and I met her minutes into her walk.

I walked with and passed by friends I’ve gotten to know over the last several weeks, I’ve had moments of connections with people I’d only just met, and I had time to myself to enjoy the beauty of where I am and how magical this experience has been.

And now I’m in this tiny town with a cold drink and the sun slowly setting into the mountains. I’ll have dinner soon with some new friends, and tomorrow I’ll wake up and walk… somewhere. About 6 days until I reach Santiago, and I’m trying to soak up as much of this experience as I can.

20140722-072326-26606705.jpg

20140722-072328-26608599.jpg

20140722-072325-26605307.jpg

20140722-072325-26605691.jpg

20140722-072327-26607653.jpg

Next Post: Day 28 on the Camino Frances

The Camino finally gets difficult (subtitle: Spanish guys on bikes, and dogs); Day 21 on the Camino, Villares de Orbigo to Rabanal

There have been many points during this Camino when I’ve wondered when it was going to get hard for me. I actually started to feel a bit guilty about it- it was like my entire experience had been charmed, and only good things were coming to me.

I think things changed a bit today. Today was tough.

And it was tough all around: physically, mentally, and emotionally. For the first time, I really started thinking about home, and sort of wished that, for a few days at least, I could go back home and things could be easy. I wished I could take a day trip to the beach, I wished that I could sit on my couch and drink endless cups of coffee, I wished that I could hang out with my friends and shop at Trader Joe’s and do all of my normal stuff.

I think a lot has caught up with me, finally. This is my 21st day of walking, and I think I’m tired. My body is still handling this walk pretty well, but my feet hurt more than ever before. I have a few new blisters developing. Maybe I ate something a bit off for lunch today, because there was an hour or two when I felt a bit sick.

And for the first time, I ended my day’s walk earlier than planned, because I just couldn’t walk any further. I think part of the problem is that I’ve started to feel a bit invincible; even though I ended today’s walk early, I still walked nearly 37 kilometers, and most of that was a gradual uphill climb. I’m not sure why I thought that another 40+ kilometer day wouldn’t be too hard, but I did. And I felt just a bit defeated to realize that I’m tired, and that today, for the first time, I got tired of walking.

My experience last night was wonderful and just what I needed: sleeping in a beautiful albergue. Peace and quiet. Time to write and reflect. I had dinner with two Germans and that was also quiet and simple. Because of the language barrier, none of us talked much, but it was a comfortable meal (and delicous: jamon and melon, grilled meat with tomatoes and onions, ice cream for dessert and good wine and bread).

As I walked away from the albergue this morning (after a breakfast of coffee and toast with jam and honey), I thought about what a great decision I’d made, and how much I needed some time to myself.

But today, after a hard walk and not seeing many pilgrims on the road, I walked into this town hoping to see someone I knew. And there was no one. Only new faces, and it’s so strange to not know anyone. This is the first time it’s happened, and it feels a lot lonelier than I expected.

I found the municipal albergue and picked a bed, but quickly realized that I probably made a mistake and should have looked around at the other albergue options. I scraped my back twice of the underside of the top bunk bed, the shower was ice cold, and the windows bang loudly in the wind. Not many people are staying there, and the place has a hollow and sad feeling to it.

But, here’s the great thing about the Camino: either the day will improve and I’ll run into people I know or I’ll get a good night’s sleep or I’ll eat a good meal… or it won’t improve at all but tomorrow morning I’ll move on. Every day I get to move on, and sometimes that’s hard because I’m leaving people or a place that I really love, but sometimes that’s needed, because I need to move on to something better.

And even on this hard day- my hardest Camino day so far- there’ve been some good encounters. Namely, Spanish guys on bikes, and dogs. Three bikers stayed in the same albergue as I did last night, and as I was lying in bed around 9:30pm, winding down and looking at things on my phone, one of them started talking to me. I told him, in the kindest way possible, that I’d just separated myself from the people I knew for some needed time to myself (in other words: I want to be alone!). They were still sleeping when I left this morning, but I ran into them at a cafe in Astorga, after walking about 15km. The guy who’d talked to me last night came over and exclaimed, “You left without saying goodbye!” and then, “Wow, you walk pretty fast.”

Later I’d stopped at a cafe for some ice cream (on these hot days my new routine is to have some post-second breakfast, pre-lunch ice cream), and while sitting at an outdoor table in the shade, talked to another Spanish bicycler who’d also stopped. It’s only happened a few times, but I really like the conversations with bikers. They are experiencing the Camino in such a different way than the walkers do, and I like the fleeting but sweet nature of the encounters.

And then there were the dogs. This entire time on the Camino I’ve never had a dog come over and say hi, and it’s happened twice today. Right now I’m sitting outside at one of the village’s only bars, and right away an old, sweet dog came over to me, sat down, and waited to be pet. He settled in, then laid down, and has been keeping me company as I write.

I think about how people say that the Camino provides, and there’s just something about this dog that makes me think that his presence is not entirely a coincidence. I’m happy that he’s here.

So finally, things got a little challenging today. I always expected that at some point this would happen. But I’m hoping that things turn around a bit in the next few days, and the Camino shows me some more of the magic that I’ve come to know.

20140717-180341-65021622.jpg

20140717-180340-65020685.jpg

20140717-180339-65019747.jpg

Next Post: Day 25 on the Camino Frances

To stay or not to stay; alone and together, Day 20 on the Camino: La Virgen Del Camino to Villares de Orbigo

I have a ‘note’ in my phone of things that I’ve jotted down since starting the Camino. Advice from others, tips on albergues, song and movie recommendations, etc. I just glanced at it and at some point I’d written: ‘Leon- DON’T stay at the monastery’.

Guess where I stayed in Leon two nights ago?

It could have been worse, but it was the second night in a row of not great accommodations. Hot, crowded, not super clean. But the shower pressure was great and they provided breakfast so I really can’t complain. And this is what I’ve learned when it comes to albergues and towns on the Camino: it’s all hit or miss. Sometimes I’m going to stumble on an amazing place or stay in an amazing town, and sometimes I’m going to stay in some real dives. But especially as I’ve let go of planning, I’m realizing that I just need to take what comes: the good, and the bad.

And really, the bad isn’t so bad. My Camino continues to be pretty amazing, and I’m still not sure how I’ve gotten so lucky. I want to believe that some of it is my outlook (today’s walk was super hot, next to a busy road for just about the entire 30k; I tried to find the alternate, scenic route but somehow was fed back to the main road, and at some point I lost my headphones. And my feet hurt more than they ever have, I think because it’s been so hot and they started to swell. But sitting here, settled into an albergue, drinking a glass of red wine with lemonade (it’s delicious!), I’m feeling good, despite the sub-par day). So some of it is my outlook, but some of it is just pure luck. My body is holding up, my spirits are holding up, and I’ve met the best people. I’m lucky.

Getting through the Meseta, and coming in and out of Leon, presented some challenges. And some were challenges that I hadn’t been expecting. I came into this walk knowing that I was walking alone, and the more I walked, the happier I was that I was here alone. Mirra and I paired up, and I think we were a great match for each other: we usually walked separately, and I think always felt that we could each go off and do our own thing when we wanted or needed to.

After Mirra left I was looking forward to truly walking some of this Camino on my own, but then I met some new people, and one in particular who I liked being around. In Leon I was faced with a decision: continue on by myself and do my own walk, or stay with someone and no longer have a solo Camino.

Maybe the decision never had to be so black and white, and maybe the decision I made- to continue on my own- will change and evolve as I keep walking. Maybe I will meet my friend at some point on the way, or at the end, and I will want to make a different decision. But for now, what has felt right, is to go off on my own for awhile.

Trying to figure all of this out- the social part of the Camino and the friendships and the connections and the hellos and goodbyes- has probably been the most challenging part for me. In real life, I don’t meet people like I do here. Every day, on the Camino, I have so many conversations, sit with so many different people and have coffee, or lunch, or wine, or ice cream. And I’ve loved this part so much. So much more than I expected.

And if I’m not careful, this Camino could turn into one big party. It would be so easy to stick with the people I’ve gotten to know, to always have meals with them and drink bottles of wine, and walk and listen to music and sing and dance. And there’s some appeal in that- a lot of appeal.

But I’ve realized that I’m not just here to meet people and have fun. That part has been important, and I think I’ve done a stellar job of it. But I’m here for something a bit more, and now is the time to figure some of that out.

So today I walked very much alone. I’d stayed at an albergue just on the outskirts of Leon last night, and I expected to now know many people there but it turned out that so many of my favorite people were there (this happens a lot). But it was also just what I needed: to make a big salad and share with a few people I’d gotten to know, but weren’t close with. To sit after dinner and play cards with the four Italians I always see in the mornings when we all stop for coffee. To stay up with Laura, the 12 year old Italian girl, and Nolan, the 10 year old Vermont boy, and have them show me card tricks.

Today’s walk was challenging, but overall I was happy that I made the decision to be on my own. I stopped for coffee, I stopped for ice cream, I stopped to put my feet in a cold river and eat tuna and cheese and cherries. Since I lost my headphones I sang to myself- long songs, like American Pie and Thunder Road.

I passed through a tiny town and wasn’t sure if I should stop or continue on for another 15 kilometers, and then I saw the albergue. A yellow building with painted blue shutters. I glanced in through the open door and I swear I saw a little paradise, and then I was convinced of it when I walked in further. This is the most beautiful albergue I’ve stayed in: a small courtyard in the middle of the building, a wrap around porch on the second floor with wooden chairs and an old couch and pots of bright red flowers. My room is beautiful, with wooden floors and large French windows that open up to the main village street. The bathrooms are modern, there is a small kitchen, and I was offered coffee when I checked in. Perfect.

And for tonight, this is just what I needed, and what I’ve been craving. A beautiful, peaceful place where I don’t know anyone too well. Time to sit by myself and write. Sitting here at the village’s only bar, drinking wine and lemonade, with two Germans at the table with me. Sometimes we talk, sometimes they talk and I write. It’s easy and relaxed, and always a reminder that even when I choose to be alone, I’m never really alone. But for now, alone in the way that I want to be alone.

20140716-220504-79504431.jpg

20140716-220505-79505361.jpg

20140716-220506-79506302.jpg

20140716-220503-79503547.jpg

Next Post: Day 21 on the Camino Frances

Dirty hair, solid legs, Hemingway’s cafe; Day 3 on the Camino, Zubiri to Pamplona

This trip feels surreal. It’s like I’ve been suddenly plucked out of normal life and placed into an alternate reality. I’ve been walking for three days- so this is still, supposedly, new- but it feels natural. A different place and different people and different things, but I feel like it fits.

I think it might be hard to articulate this Camino experience. I’ve read so many accounts of others who have walked, I’ve talked to friends who have done this, I’ve heard how incredible it is. But I didn’t expect that after three days, I’d be sitting in a beautiful cafe in Pamplona, eating tapas and drinking wine with three new friends: another American, a guy from the Basque region of Spain, a guy from South Korea. Or that before going out in Pamplona, I’d wander into the courtyard of the albergue to look for Mira, and then be drinking a beer with a guy from New Zealand, who it turns out is one of a duo who did the first day of the Camino barefoot. And then I met his mom and his 12 year old brother; they’re doing the Camino as a family.

So far, I’m liking the Camino. My feet are feeling good, my legs are feeling good, though I was definitely more tired than the past few days, but I think’s more from lack of sleep than anything else. My hair, on the other hand, feels disgusting. Washing it with a bar of soap isn’t fun. And I sort of wish I had brought a shirt to change into at night, or maybe something separate to sleep in. But those are small complaints. Everything else- the important stuff- is good.

I wrote a long blog post last night but I lost it, and so far the wi-fi hasn’t been great. But I’ve been wanting to write about and capture this experience as much as I can… while also going out and experiencing everything this Camino has to offer. And trying to get enough sleep. But mostly, I’m focused on enjoying the experience.

It’s almost 11pm and that’s late for a Camino night, but I was out with Ibai and Ji-Woo walking around Pamplona, taking in the pre-running of the bulls festivities. We’re staying in a large albergue, this building was a church, and there are long rows of bunk beds running down the sides of the building. There are six beds in my cluster- I walked into Pamplona with Ibai and he got the bottom bunk, but was very kind and offered it to me. Between the other four occupants of the beds: right now one is listening to music that we can all hear, a father and daughter are loudly whispering to each other, and a man occasionally snores loudly. There are footsteps above and voices echoing and cell phones beeping and hall lights on… here’s hoping for at least three hours of sleep tonight.

I slept pretty well last night- I was in a municipal albergue in Zubiri, pretty bare bones, rickety bunk beds (top bunk), but no snorers. I’d also had a few glasses of wine and maybe that helped; after dinner with Mira and an Australian and Texan (who’d met last month on an archaeological dig in Jordan, people here have such great stories),I went over to a bar to find Steve and Peg and watch some of the World Cup match. I’d met Steve and Peg on the first day in Bayonne, waiting for the second bus (and, as it turns out, most of the people I’ve gotten to know are the ones who didn’t push their way onto the first bus). As I talked to them last night, I found out that they have four kids around my age, and that Peg also does school counseling. After the game and before I walked back to my albergue, Peg gave me a big hug and said, “Thank you so much for finding us tonight, being with you reminded me of home.” I had to assure them three times that I could make it to my albergue okay, but it was nice to know that there were people looking out for me.

The people I’ve met have been great, but I’m here to walk, and that’s been incredible. I’ve only walked three days so maybe it’s too early to say how much I love this… but I do. I love waking up and loading my pack and setting off for who knows where. I glance at the guidebook and maps, but all I really know for sure is that I’m headed west, to Santiago. It’s easy to just follow the arrows and go, not worry about where you are because it’s hard to lose your way. There is purpose and direction in the walking, and all along are beautiful sites and small villages and dogs and horses and sheep and kittens.

Uploading photos has been hard, and I already have hundreds. Maybe this time I’ll be able to share a few…

20140630-162352-59032083.jpg

20140630-162349-59029353.jpg

20140630-163055-59455423.jpg

Next Post: Day 4 on the Camino Frances

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

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.

Next Post: Day 3 on the Camino Frances

2 days, putting it all together.

I leave for Europe on Tuesday. 2 days. I’ve read, however, that a pilgrimage begins the moment you step outside your front door. And if that’s the case, then my journey begins this morning. I’m heading to my parents’ for a couple days, and in a few hours, I’ll have all my stuff packed, my fridge cleared out, my apartment shut up. And my trip will begin.

These last few days- weeks- have been a bit frantic, but this morning I feel kind of relaxed. Most of my to-dos are done. My training hikes are over, and I’ve stopped worrying about the fact that I never did back-to-back 15 mile hikes with my loaded pack.

I got out for a small, 7 mile hike yesterday, which was all I had time for. I filled my pack with everything I’d be taking with me on the Camino, and did my first (and only) test run. Before I left I stepped on the scale to see how much my pack weighed. 18 pounds, with water, but no food. Ugh. I’d been hoping to keep the total weight (with water and food) to 15/16 pounds, and I actually thought it would be easy. No problem! A few tshirts, a few socks, a rain jacket… what else could I possibly need?

But the weight adds up. It adds up fast. As I began my hike and walked through the trails that I’ve come to know so well, all I could think about was how heavy my pack felt. I’d done lots of training hikes with the pack, and in the past few weeks, I’d been carrying about 15 pounds. Why in the world did the extra 3 pounds feel like an extra 20?

I mentally scanned through the contents of my bag, searching for items I could toss. I probably didn’t need to bring a tank top, when I already had two t-shirts. Did I really need the travel neck pouch?

But I couldn’t think of much else to get rid of. I’m taking a few ‘luxury’ items, but these are non-negotiable. I’m bringing a small point and shoot camera, in addition to my iPhone. I know that I don’t need it, I know that the camera, and case, and cord just adds weight. But I want to take photos on this trip, and I don’t want to be limited to what my phone can store. I’m also bringing a journal, and again, I know I don’t need it. But I don’t think I’ve ever traveled without a journal before, and I can’t imagine ever traveling without one.

And yet, my pack just felt so heavy. Uncomfortable on my shoulders. I sort of felt like my pack was betraying me: I’d opted for the really small size because it was the best fit. During all of my training hikes, the pack felt so perfect. And now, days before my trip, I was questioning the decision to buy a 24 L pack for a 5 week trip.

As I walked I thought about how I’d thrown my stuff into my pack at random. And then I thought of the articles I’d read about how to properly load a backpack. Ahh. I found a bench, sat down, and pulled everything out of my pack and then reloaded it, trying to remember the tips I’d read about weeks before. I repositioned my heavier items in the middle of my pack, close to my spine. I squeezed everything back into my bag, put it on, and began to walk.

It was like I had my perfect pack back. Still heavy, but this time my pack felt like it was part of me, rather than some foreign thing that was out to get me.

And this, I realized, is why it’s so important to do training hikes with your pack and everything that you’ll bring on your Camino.

So much has been running through my mind as I get ready to leave for this trip. Some of it is the small stuff, the little questions that linger: is it wise to go without sock liners? Now that my pack is fully loaded and packed to the gills, how in the world will I have any room to carry food? What will it be like to use one bar of soap to wash my clothes, my body, my hair?

Then there are the bigger questions: will I actually get down to St Jean Pied de Port by Thursday morning to begin my Camino? Not only has there been a huge train strike in France, but i just read that air traffic controllers will begin a strike on Tuesday. The day I am supposed to fly to Paris. Oh France and your strikes. They always come at the worst times.

And then there are even bigger questions: am I mentally prepared for this journey? What do I want to get out of it? Can I walk this distance?

But I no longer have much time to dwell on these questions. Now I just need to leave and begin taking my first steps. So for the first time, but most definitely not the last, I’ll say: Buen Camino! Let the journey begin.

loaded pack

Before I Die I Will…

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.

Before I Die I Will...

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

10 days, rain, and stress.

I was one mile into a hike the other day when it started to rain. I swung my pack onto a picnic bench and reached into the bottom for the rain cover, when I realized that I’d left the rain cover in my apartment. Draped over a drying rack from my rainy hike the day before.

This illustrates two things: it’s raining. A lot. And I’m forgetting stuff.

I’m normally not a forgetful person, so when I start to leave things behind, I know that I have too much going on in my head.

And I do. I have 10 days before I leave for Europe and I feel completely and totally unprepared. I know that’s not true: some things are taken care of, like my flight and my train ticket and where I’m going to stay for my first two nights. And I have most of my things. I still need to find a long sleeved shirt, and I need to get to REI to pick up another fleece that I ordered (yes, I second-guessed the white one. If I had loved it-regardless of the color- I think I would have kept it. But the fit wasn’t great). Otherwise, I think I have everything I need.

I told myself, months ago, that all I really needed was a way to get over to St Jean Pied de Port (my starting point for the Camino), and a good pack and good shoes and a few extras. After that, the rest would take care of itself.

But I also know that I like to be prepared. And the closer this Camino gets, the more nervous I feel.

And what’s with all this rain? The one thing I had been doing really well was training for this walk, but in the last few weeks? Other than a great 8-mile hike with a loaded pack and some good friends, I haven’t done much. My days are too busy for long hikes, and when I do have a little more time, I strap on my pack and as if on cue, the skies open up and dump water on me. I’ve done a few smaller hikes in the rain- to test out my jacket and the pack cover- because at some point in my 35 days of walking this summer, I’m sure I’ll have to walk in the rain. But yesterday, as I set off on a hike and began to get rained on for the third time this week, I gave up and turned around.

All of this being said, I can’t wait for this time next week. Work will be over for the school year, I will be leaving for France in three days, and inevitably, I will have more items checked off my to-do list. And I suspect that the little kernel of Camino excitement that is currently buried somewhere in me is going to be making more of an appearance.

And today? Today the skies are blue and the sun is shining strongly. In a few minutes I’m going to go outside, stretch my legs, and soak up some of this little-seen, late spring sun.

maryland hikefog on creek

testing out my rain jacket

A can of tuna and a white fleece (pre-Camino thoughts).

I was opening a can of tuna fish tonight and it slipped off the edge of the counter and fell down towards my bare feet. In my mind I was shouting, “No!!! Don’t hit my toes!!!!” I tried to jump out of the way, my big toe got nicked, but- you can rest assured- it was in no way a Camino-ending injury.

My feet, these days, are precious. My health is precious. The money in my wallet is precious. My time is precious.

It’s all so precious because my Camino is close. 27 days until I leave and I’m holding my breath that it all comes together and that I will somehow find myself on a trail, walking.

It still feels a little bit impossible. As more people are asking me about my summer plans and I explain this long walk, I find that I have some disbelief that I’ll actually do this. It still feels so far away, like there’s so much that needs to happen before I can believe that I can do this.

Isn’t there a point when I’m supposed to feel like a hiker? Isn’t there a point when I’m supposed to have a surge of confidence? Isn’t there a point when I’m supposed to feel certain about my pack and my shoes and my gear?

Some parts of this are slowly coming together, but other parts are a comedy of errors.

For instance, I bought a white fleece. A white fleece! To wear on a 500-mile summer walk through Spain! My best friend has been staying with me for a few weeks, and she’s been great at giving advice and opinions when I ask for them. So I even talked over the whole white fleece thing with her, and she looked at me and said, “White gets dirty.” And I agreed but what did I do? I bought a white fleece.

I get so overwhelmed with shopping and choosing the ‘right’ things that at a certain point, I usually give up and buy whatever strikes my fancy. In this case, I fixated on having something white to wear, because I love wearing white in the summer. It’s impractical and ridiculous but it still seemed like an okay idea. And then, today, the fleece arrived in the mail and I opened it and man, is it white. A pure, soft, beautiful white that is going to be so dirty and stained covered by the end of my walk… what was I thinking?

I’ve spent so much time reading and researching gear and clothing and sleeping bags and micro-fiber towels and sock liners and buffs and water bottles and rain jackets and my head is spinning. There always seems to be more to read, more to learn, more opinions to hear, more advice to receive. And usually, by the end of all of this reading and researching, I feel further behind than where I started. Confused. Clueless.

I’ve written about this already, but as ever, it’s a practice in letting go. It’s okay to have anxiety about this trip and whether I’m preparing enough, but I also need to let go of all the small worries. Is my fleece going to get dirty? Yes. Is my fleece lightweight and going to give me a layer of warmth when I need it? Yes. And both of these answers are okay.

What’s not okay is dropping a can of tuna fish on my foot and breaking a toe and being forced to delay my Camino. This, luckily, didn’t happen, but you’d better believe I’m going to be extra careful with my feet in these next few weeks.

Walking in circles (with a perfect pack).

One month until I start walking.

Man, these days are going by fast. My lofty Camino goals (Learn Spanish! Back-to-back-to-back 15 mile hikes!) have been put on the back burner. At this point, all I’m really focused on is buying a few more items, reserving a train ticket to St Jean Pied de Port, and hiking when I can.

I know that I’m not as prepared as I could be, but I think I’m prepared enough. And I still have a month to go.

4 months ago I had visions of doing lots of long hikes with my loaded pack and well worn-in shoes. The reality is that I can fit in a long hike about once a week. Because, surprise surprise, long hikes take time. They take a lot of time. (I know this is the most obvious thing, and yet, I may have underestimated just how much of my day would need to be devoted to 15 mile hikes. I just can’t fit in a 15 mile hike after a full day of work. Darkness catches up with me).

But I’m continuing to walk, a lot. I drive to the same local state park, wind my way through the same trails which I now know like the back of my hand. I’ve begun to recognize the same people, too. I try to smile and say hi to most people I pass, and now others have started to recognize me and give me friendly greetings in return.

Two days ago I passed a man and a woman as I walked along a paved loop trail. The man said, “Looks like you’re preparing for a backpacking trip!” We talked about the Camino for a few minutes, and as I walked on, he called out, “Remember! The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plains!”

“Yes,” I replied. “I still need to get my rain gear.”

I passed another group further on that path, and a man in the group said, “I definitely recognize you. You’re walking at a really good pace.”

That made me smile.

About a week ago I bought a pack and I love it. It’s a Deuter 24 liter and I know it’s small for a 5 week walk. Maybe really small. I went to REI prepared to buy something in the range of 28-32 liters, 28 being the lowest I would go. I tried on pack after pack, adding and removing the 5 pound weights, walking around the store. I switched back and forth between the Deuter 24 liter and Deuter 28 liter packs several times, wanting to like the bigger pack better. But I didn’t. Something about the 24 liter pack felt just right, it felt perfect (even though I’ve never owned a good backpack and I’m not really sure what perfect should feel like).

But after several hikes, with about 10 pounds in the pack (less than what I’ll be carrying on the Camino, but a good start for now), I still think that pack feels perfect. I was on mile 10 of a 12 mile hike the other day, and I found myself thinking that the weight of the pack pressing against my lower back felt sort of comforting. Not heavy or intrusive or weighing me down. Just comforting.

I’m curious- very curious- to know how I’ll feel about my pack in two months, after walking for hundreds of miles and having the pack nearly permanently attached to my body. ‘Comforting’ might not be my go-to word. But for now, loving my pack is a good thing.

My mom thinks it’s too small. She saw it and exclaimed, “You have to carry everything you’ll need for 5 weeks in that thing! There’s not enough room!” But I disagree. I’m walking in the summer so my layers will be light, plus a small-sized pack is going to force me to weed out all the stuff I don’t actually need. That’s not to say that in two or three weeks when I finally have everything I need and put it all together, I won’t be running back to REI for a larger pack. But, my instincts tell me that this is the one for me.

I’ve got a pack, I’ve got a good pair of pants, a good t-shirt, a new pair of shoes that I think are going to work. Slowly, it’s all starting to come together.

Here’s a photo of me with the pack that I didn’t get:

Nadine & Pack

This is bravery.

A few weeks ago I’d emailed a friend about my summer plans and the Camino. She wrote back, saying how great the trip sounded, and that she wished she had my courage.

My first thought when I read those words was, “No, this isn’t a brave thing I’m doing. I don’t have courage. In fact, I’m really scared.”

This idea of bravery and courage has been rattling around in my head for several weeks now. Am I brave to be doing this? Have I ever been brave to do any of the things that I’ve done in my life?

My immediate reaction is always to think, “No.” I just do the things that I do, and often, those things are accompanied with fear. Any big trip that I’ve taken has, initially, been full of nerves and anxiety. Change stresses me out. One of my nagging worries is that I’m living a small life and fear is holding me back.

I think about this quote: “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” (Nelson Mandela)

So often in my life I think I’ve assumed that because I have felt fear, I was not acting with courage or bravery. My fear usually feels so strong that it doesn’t leave room for much else. How can I possibly be brave if I feel so afraid?

When I went to France for my junior year of college, I was terrified. I was fine in the days leading up to the trip, and okay as I walked onto the plane. But as soon as we began the descent into Toulouse, my nerves hit. And I realized that I had no idea what I had just walked into. I was going to live with a host family- a bunch of French strangers- for 9 months? I wouldn’t go home for 9 months? I’d have to speak French for 9 months?

I struggled in the beginning, missing home and feeling uncomfortable and uncertain. What I was doing did not feel at all brave. It felt just the opposite: like I was somehow failing the experience because I was scared and timid.

Sometime in my first few weeks abroad, I received a letter from my uncle. I was the first ‘kid’ in the family to go abroad, and he told me how proud of me he was. How I had just hopped onto a plane without a clue, and flown to another country, not knowing what would meet me on the other end. That it was a brave thing to do.

He was right. I had hopped onto a plane without a clue. But he was also right in that it was brave. It still didn’t feel brave, but when I read his words, I was able to look at my experience differently. It was okay that I was scared and uncertain. The bravery was taking the steps: making the decision to study abroad, and walking onto that plane and into the unknown.

This has been a slow kind of acceptance for me, that making a decision and taking a first step- any kind of step- is bravery and courage. And that it is okay to have fear, that fear does not preclude bravery.

I am filled with fear for this Camino. Excitement, too, but also fear. So when someone tells me that I am brave to do this, I automatically think that I am not, that a brave person wouldn’t feel this kind of fear.

And that is not true. There is courage in this, in walking across a country in search of adventure and connection and discovery.

This is bravery.

Theme by 17th Avenue · Powered by WordPress & Genesis