loss Archives - Nadine Walks

The things we can’t leave behind: the story of my walking stick

July 31, 2015

My walking stick was my constant companion on the Camino. I thought about this a lot as I moved through my walk: the cities and towns would always change, the scenery would change, the people would change- nothing on this Camino seemed to stay the same. Nothing except my stick.

It might seem a little ridiculous- and probably is- my attachment to a piece of a large branch that I found in the woods several kilometers past Deba on my fourth day of walking the Norte. But after I spent the first hour with that stick in my hand, it felt unnatural to walk without it. And it was my companion, it was this thing that helped me, day in and day out, the thing that was always by my side, the thing that I would never, ever, leave behind. (Some people might describe an actual person in this way- a real companion- but for a solo-walker like myself, I think a walking stick takes on a pretty significant role on a long distance journey).

I didn’t actually find the stick, it was Richard, back at the beginning of the Camino when he was part of my first (but brief) Camino family. Have I already written about this? I had told the others about wanting to find a walking stick, and had spent a good part of the morning’s walk looking off to the side of the trail as we passed through wooded areas, hoping to find the perfect fallen branch. And Richard found one, cut it to my exact specifications, shaved off the ends with his pocket knife and even put a ring around the top.

The stick became so perfect to me during my walk- the oils from where my hand grasped the stick caused the wood to become smooth and shiny. The stick was straight and strong, and more than once, people mistook it for something I bought in a shop, rather than something I found in the woods.

Others on the Camino named their sticks, but I never did. Or, rather, I just called it ‘Stick’ (clever, I know). A few times it got stuck in between large rocks and it would tug me backwards. I’d feel a quick shot of panic, that the end might snap off, that my stick could get hurt in some way. “Stick!” I would exclaim, before extracting it from the rocks and moving on.

But it remained perfect, all through my Camino, all the way until the end. It pulled me forward up that last hill in Muxia, when I was tired and exhausted and finished. That stick was part of my Camino.

At some point, I knew I would take it home with me. I’d had a walking stick last year, too, one that I bought in a shop in St Jean Pied de Port, one that look remarkably like a stick you might find in the woods. I loved it, and it was incredibly hard to leave it behind in Santiago at the end of my Camino. I’d considered trying to bring it home with me, but somehow it felt right that I leave it behind.

I’m not sure what was different this year (I suspect one reason is that I walked a more difficult Camino, and the walking stick aided me so much more); in any case, I was determined to bring it home. I strategized with others, I talked with a post office employee in Santiago, I got a list of companies that could ship things throughout the world. In the end, it seemed that the easiest way to get my stick back to the US was to simply check it as a piece of luggage on my flights.

So at the airport in Santiago, I walked over to a stand that wraps and secures luggage. I presented my stick to the man working there, and he laughed. He pulled large sheets of fluorescent green cellophane from a giant roll and carefully wrapped my stick in multiple layers. I’d payed extra for a checked bag, and dropped the stick off at the check-in counter. And when I arrived in Paris, there was my stick, sitting with a few other pieces of over-sized luggage, in the corner of the baggage claim area.

It was easy, and I was delighted that I’d found a simple way to bring my stick home. So I didn’t think twice about checking it on my flight home to the US- but this time, it wasn’t quite as easy. When I made it up to the check-in counter in Paris, the man looked at my stick and said, “You want to check that?” He seemed doubtful, and then gestured over to a blue cart that was far, far across the crowded room. “Put it on there,” he said.

The cart was empty and after confirming several times with other employees that this was the over-sized luggage cart for American Airlines, I laid my stick across the cart and I walked away. I had a heavy feeling, and wondered if I would see the stick again.

So when I arrived in Philly and stood with the other passengers of my flight at the luggage carousel, I was not surprised when I didn’t see my stick. Everyone else got their luggage until it was just me, watching an empty conveyor belt circle around endlessly. A kind employee was helping me- someone who seemed genuinely concerned about my lost ‘luggage’- and he spent a lot of time checking all the possible places where my stick could have gotten held up. Finally he looked at me with sympathy. “It must still be in Paris,” he said. “You can go downstairs and file a claim.”

Arriving back home after being away for 5 weeks should have been exciting or, at the very least, a bit comforting. But instead I went home feeling like I’d left something important behind. “It’s just a stick,” I told myself. It’s one of the lessons of the Camino- that our possessions don’t actually matter that much, that we need far less than we think, it’s the experiences that count- blah blah blah (I do think all of that is important, but when you lose something that’s important to you, even if it is just a piece of wood, it’s okay to feel sad and to feel that our possessions do, in fact, matter a bit).

Things have been a whirlwind since I’ve been home. I stopped at my apartment briefly but then headed right back out for a long road trip to South Carolina, to go to a good friend’s wedding (and I just need to note: the distance I spent 9 hours driving in one day equaled the distance I spent walking for one month). It was when I was in SC that I got a flurry of emails and phone calls about my walking stick. It had been found, made it on a flight to Philly, and was now being delivered to my apartment by a driver named John. He left me a message to confirm that he would be dropping off my ‘luggage’ (when he said luggage he laughed); I called him back and he asked if he was delivering a walking stick to me. “Yes, it is a walking stick!” I told him. He said that all the guys were trying to guess what it was.

An hour later I received a text from him. “I dropped it off by the mailboxes.”

So I sent a text to my landlord, asking if they could look for it and bring it inside, keeping it safe until I made it back home.

I knew I wouldn’t feel completely settled about it all until I was back to my apartment and had that stick in my hand. I finally came home last night, and when my landlord saw me, waved me over so I could get the stick.

He handed it to me- it was definitely my stick, still wrapped in the bright green cellophane- but when I held it I instantly knew something was wrong. The stick wasn’t straight. Back in my apartment I began tearing off the wrapping, worried that I would discover that it had been snapped in two. But when I finally uncovered the stick I realized it wasn’t broken at all. It was just warped. Really, really warped.

I have to laugh about it- all the care and worry about getting that stick home with me- and now that it’s here, it’s not the same, perfect stick that I walked my Camino with. It’s no longer straight at all, but bows out at the bottom half. It’s crooked, it’s changed. It’s my stick, but it’s different.

It’s propped against the wall now, in my living room. I like that I have it back, even though now it’s simply a souvenir, no longer a fully functioning walking stick. And I suppose it’s okay that it’s changed. Part of me wonders- was it meant to be left behind all along? Or, perhaps, maybe it served its purpose, and now it’s done. Finished, retired. “You weren’t meant to walk another Camino with me,” it’s saying. “Find another adventure, and then find another stick.”

Next Post: Crepes and Cathedrals

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.

The Camino Provides

August 31, 2014

I walked into Santiago over a month ago… a month! I traveled for a few more weeks after that, but even so: how has it already been a month since the end of my pilgrimage? Since returning home I’ve thought about the Camino every day. At first it was all I could do to just settle back into life and catch up on sleep and see friends and family and adjust to being home. The Camino- and everything it entailed- was sort of a hazy presence that I knew I would get to, eventually.

And I’ve been trying to get to it lately- go back and sort it all out in my head, wrap my mind around what it meant, what it continues to mean, what it will mean for my future. But it will probably take years to sort out and by that time I’ll have walked another Camino and will need to figure that one out… it’s going to be a lifelong process, I think.

That being said, I’ve been doing some good, solid post-Camino thinking. The other night I got together with a friend who walked the Camino Frances six years ago, and I had a million questions for her. At first they were fairly standard: how heavy was your pack, what was your experience like in this town, etc. But then I started to get to what was really on my mind: how and when did you form friendships? Did they last throughout the Camino or did you break away? Did you find that the Camino gave you what you needed?

This is a big one, it’s the question that’s occupied most of my post-Camino thoughts. “The Camino provides” was a phrase that I often heard during my walk, and one that I’ve used myself from time to time. Nervous at the airport in JFK, wondering what I was getting myself into… and then right away I meet Julie, who is also walking the Camino, also a bit nervous, and so happy to talk to me. The Camino provides. Our flight is delayed, we are stuck in Iceland overnight, by the time I make it to St Jean I am a day behind schedule. Had I started on June 26th, as planned, it would have been a wet, gray, rain-soaked walk through the Pyrenees. But June 27th, the day I started? Clear blue skies, views for miles, sunshine and a cool breeze. The Camino provides. I worried about meeting people and making friends, and while I was so glad to walk that first day alone, I couldn’t help but notice other pilgrims linking up and walking together. On the last hour of the descent to Roncesvalles I met Mirra, from San Francisco. We ended up sticking together until she left in Burgos, and I couldn’t have imagined a better person to spend the first half of my Camino with. The Camino provides.

And this was just the first few days of my trip. There are countless other examples of how the Camino provided something to me when I needed it. Small stuff: an open bar when I was desperate for coffee. A snore free night when I most needed sleep. But the bigger stuff, too: companionship when I felt the most alone. Guidance when I felt lost and uncertain.

And then, well, there was my entire Camino. I’ve wondered- while I was walking and now, a month after I’ve finished- why everyone had the Camino experience that they did. Why was my Camino so, so good? Why was I so lucky, so blessed? Why did I avoid injury and pain? How did I escape the bed bugs and the notorious snorers? How did I always get a bed, and sometimes the last bed? How did I avoid walking in the rain? How did I meet the most incredible people, always at just the right times? How did I have so much fun?

Something we started saying towards the end of the walk was- “Oh, Camino.” and “Why Camino, why??” It’s like we realized- for good or bad- that this experience was a bit out of our control. The Camino was going to give us the experience we were supposed to have, and we could question it but in the end, the only thing we could really do was accept it.

Why, for instance, did Susie, after an injury riddled walk, get bed bugs on her last night in Finisterre? Why did Joe and Adele, ready to relax and celebrate, get food poisoning the night they arrived in Santiago? Why did Laura, the Italian mother, get a huge blister on her heel three days before the end of the walk?

I think about these examples, of the pain and struggle at the very end of the pilgrimage, and I wonder why. Why does anyone have to experience pain? Why them, and not me? Was it for Susie to prove, once and for all, that she was far stronger than she ever could have imagined? That Joe and Adele, on their honeymoon, were able to support each other- truly- through the good and bad? That Laura could put a smile on her face and continue to walk and be the best possible example for her 12- year old daughter?

I don’t know. It’s what I saw, and I suppose that the meaning of any life experience- Camino or not- is what we make of it.

And this is what I saw, in part, on my Camino: the Camino gave me joy and life and fun. I came to walk the Camino for many reasons, but the timing of it was because I needed to move towards something. The serious relationship I’d been in had ended 6 months before and the better part of the last year had been very difficult for me. I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t having fun, I was just getting through my days in order to get to a better time. Even though I knew I would find it again, I couldn’t feel the joy in life.

Why does anyone experience pain? I don’t know, but I do know that the contrast of such incredible highs after difficult lows is a thing of beauty. It’s life: we feel pain, but we can also feel joy. We can also feel great joy. I came to the Camino, in part, to feel life again, all of the beauty and magic and hope and joy of life, and I was flooded by it all.

My Camino wasn’t perfect, or totally pain free. Sometimes it felt difficult. But most of the time, it seemed like all I could see and feel was beauty and magic and joy.

The Camino provides.

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

July 16, 2014

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.

Next Post: Day 21 on the Camino Frances

Day 17, Somewhere on the Meseta

July 13, 2014

I have no idea where or how to start this blog entry. The Camino continues to be amazing and surprising, but I can’t even remember where I was this morning or even the name of the town I’m in right now. Every day packs in more- scenery and thoughts and experiences and people and conversation and wine- and it’s hard to sort it all out in my head.

I’d thought that the time after Mirra left, after Burgos, would be different, and it has been. I’ve adjusted, I think, to not having my best Camino buddy with me, but I’m still not sure how I feel about these past 5 days. I’ve continued to have fun, I’ve continued to meet people, and I’ve sort of picked up a new ‘buddy’- Adam, from Ireland. But it’s still so different, and my feelings about it all change from hour to hour.

Right now I’m at a bar (again- in these small towns especially there’s nothing to do before dinner but take a nap or have a drink. I should probably be napping, but it’s too much fun to go to the only bar in town and sit around a table with all the Pilgrims who happened to stop in the same place). I’m alone at the table but 5 minutes ago there were at least 10 other people here. We’d heard that the village’s only store just opened, and everyone rushed to buy food for the long walk tomorrow (and since we’re in the Meseta, there are some incredibly long stretches where we pass through nothing but wheat fields for nearly 20 kilometers). Adam offered to pick up some food for me which is perfect: someone to help me out, and a stolen few minutes of peace and quiet. Me at an outdoor table typing away, the local villagers chatting and drinking coffee.

Except for Adam and another Irishman I met two days ago, I didn’t know anyone at this table. It is a vast difference from the first two weeks of this trip, when I would walk into a town and be greeted with waves and smiles and cheers and hugs and jokes. I’ve met so many people on this Camino, and have connected with so many in small but meaningful ways.

I think of Blas as my Spanish grandfather: he’s probably closer to my father’s age, but there’s something about him that reminds me of my grandfather. He is charismatic and knows everyone. Once his day’s walk is finished he strolls around town in his button down shirt, smoking a pipe, drinking an espresso. When I arrived in Ages he came over to greet me and tell me where the good albergue was, and Vicool, who I’d been walking with, whispered to me, “He’s a pilgrim? I thought he was the mayor of this town.” I met Blas about a week ago while I was walking. We were the only two around and I’d stopped to take a photo, and he offered to take one of me. We started talking-slowly, because he doesn’t know a lot of English- and after about 30 minutes I knew that I had someone looking out for me. Every time I’d arrive in a town and run into Blas, he would give me a big hug and make sure I was doing okay. Today was probably the first time I’ve arrived somewhere and have not been greeted by Blas.

Jerome I only met a few days ago, at the tiny albergue, St Nicolas (which I probably need to devote an entire blog post to). 12 of us stayed there, and I hadn’t known anyone. It was the first time in two weeks that I separated myself from the people I’d been walking with, and I was a bit nervous to meet new people. Jerome walked right up to me and shook my hand, he’s a French guy from Paris, probably in his mid-twenties (but doesn’t tell anyone his age). We sat on the grass in the back of the albergue, and after 10 minutes I was giving him English lessons and he was telling me about the girl he’d walked with for 2 weeks who had to stop her Camino because of tendonitis. They’d fallen in love and promised to meet in Santiago at the end of July; Jerome told me that he’d given up on love but then he met Delphine, and now all he could do is trust that she will show up in front of the cathedral. For the past few days I’ve seen Jerome when I showed up to the town where I’d be spending the night, and he would give me a look and tap his watch, indicating that I was walking too slowly.

A few days ago I saw Saskia after losing track of her for over a week; the last I’d heard she had spent the night with a Frenchman in the mountains. She insists that the actual story is not as fascinating as it seems, but I disagree. A night with a Frenchman in the mountains is nothing but intrigue.

Two days ago, in Carrion, it seemed like we were all together: Blas and Jerome and Saskia. Ibai and Susie and Helen. Adam and David and the Italian mother and daughter that I see every morning for coffee, and the Italian man who chooses the same albergues as I do. I saw the Koreans all over town. But now, I’m with an entirely new group of people, and it was all I could think about as I walked today, down an ancient Roman road through the north of Spain.

At some point today, I think I reached the halfway point of my walk. I only know this because others have mentioned it; I haven’t been paying close attention to how much I walk each day, or how much the kilometers and miles are accumulating. I’m a little surprised that I haven’t been keeping track, but on the other hand, the miles don’t really seem to matter. In fact, they’re sort of flying by.

I still love walking. I love it so much, that I feel sort of bad when people are talking about how hard or boring or long a day was, then ask what I think. My reply, almost always, is, ‘I thought it was great.’ I got some crazy stares today, when I talked about how much I loved the long, straight road that went on for miles. I walked alone, and since it’s an alternate route that not many people take, I couldn’t see anyone in front of me or behind. It was perfect.

But for as much as I’m loving this walk, the section we’re in now is harder than any of the days that have come before. There’s little shade, so the days are hot (although I have lucked out with the weather: so far, Spain in July has been unseasonably cool). I spent the past few days walking with people, and while I’ve loved the conversation and chance to really get to know some of the people I walk with, it’s also been hard. I love walking alone, and since just about all of my post-Camino walking time is spent socializing and meeting up with other Pilgrims, I really crave the solo-walking time. I got some today, and I felt like new person: once I got into the rhythm of my walk, the kilometers flew by and my head felt so much more clear. I could start to think about some of the things that I’ve experienced here.

And here are some highlights:

I left a pair of shorts in Hontanas, but passed a market in Fromista and picked up a pair of ‘lounge pants’, which are unlike anything I’d normally wear but they’ve ended up being perfect.

I had my foot kissed by an Italian man (this was part of the St Nicolas experience), and that same man suggested that I stop walking for a few days and stay at the albergue and help out: cleaning and cooking. I’m still not sure if he was serious or not. (and, for the record, I didn’t stay).

I stood at the top of a large hill and took a photo of four Italians standing in the middle of a labryinth of rocks; as they posed for the photo they shouted out: ‘Mucho gracias Espange!!’

I walked on a long straight path of the Meseta with Ibai and Adam, with Creedence Clearwater playing and the road stretching on for miles. I talked about mix tapes and driving and we joked that we were on a really long, slow road trip.

I waited in a cafe in Carrion with Susie, Ibai and Adam for three hours yesterday morning; Ibai’s shoes were stolen, and I refused to leave for the day’s walk until a shop opened and he could buy new shoes. There’s been a lot of theft in the past few days at this point on the Camino, and it’s so unsettling. I’m keeping my things close and being extra vigilant.

The day after Mirra left I walked to the small village of Hontanas. I walk fast and I arrived early so I secured a bed, showered, and set up at an outdoor table with my journal and a glass of wine. I was feeling a bit lonely but I compensated for this; for the next hour or two I was the welcoming committee for all of the Pilgrims coming through town, and I even convinced Adrian- the tough Spanish military guy with a heart of gold- to stop and have a drink with me before moving on to the next town.

People come and go all of the time here, but I think it’s really hit me in the past few days. I know it’s probably because I’m now around all new people, but I’m having a hard time accepting that so many of the people I’ve met in the last few weeks have now moved on. Or I’ve moved on past them. I think, from my experience over the last 17 days, that I will see some of these friends again. But some are probably gone forever, and I think that will have to be okay. And I guess that’s like life. People come and go, and at some point, that has to be okay.

And so tomorrow, I’ll continue to walk. Still on the Meseta, still on a long flat road, still moving slowly through this country. Still losing people, still meeting people. Saying goodbye, saying hello.

Next Post: Day 20 on the Camino Frances

A Stone of Burdens

February 28, 2014

There is a sort of famous spot along the Camino called the Cruz de Ferro. It’s located about 2/3 of the way into the Camino Francés; pilgrims reach it after walking for about three weeks. This huge ‘Iron Cross’- a wooden pole with a cross at the top- marks the approach of the highest point on the Camino.

I’ve read about several legends associated with the cross: how and when and why it originated, and maybe I’ll write more about it when I actually start my Camino and learn about it from other pilgrims. But what I do know, and what I’m a bit fascinated by, is the tradition of the rocks. At the base of the pole is a growing mound of rocks, placed there for centuries by pilgrims walking the Camino. Pilgrims are supposed to bring a rock along with them on their Camino, ideally choosing one from their place of origin. It seems as though this rock can represent a lot. Often, pilgrims carry a rock in honor of someone: someone who has passed away, someone they have lost, someone whose memory they hold onto.

But I’ve also heard the rock referred to as ‘a stone of burdens’: the rock represents all that you want to leave behind. Or, all that you want to forgive, or be forgiven for.

Pretty heavy stuff.

I’m not sure where I’m going to find my rock, but I still have several months to search for it. And I’ve only just started to think about what my rock will mean to me. I have a few ideas already, but I’m sure that when I place it on top of the thousands of other rocks from pilgrims before me, it’s going to hold more meaning that I could ever imagine.

I’ve been thinking about loss recently. I’ve been struck by how much loss I’ve experienced in the last 3-4 years, and I wonder: was I just lucky for the first 30 years of my life? Or, did I learn how to open my heart, to love more fully, and to risk losing/being left? Or, is this a natural consequence of getting older? Maybe it’s a combination of all three.

Last week my best friend’s dog died, and I’m heartbroken. It’s brought up loss all over again. Everyone, for good reason, thinks that their dog is the greatest. Molly wasn’t even my dog and I thought she was the greatest. Because she was the greatest. The death of a pet is different than the death of a friend or a parent or a partner, but that doesn’t change this fact: losing someone you love is hard. It is always going to be so hard.

I guess the only way to counter death, if it’s even possible, is to carry the people we lose within us. So I’m thinking about the rock that I will take with me on my Camino, and how I will carry it for over 300 miles before I place it at the base of a cross at the highest point on my pilgrimage.

And within that rock, I’m going to carry with me all of the people I’ve loved and lost in my life. I know that I’ll carry them for my whole life- it won’t end when I place that rock at the Cruz de Ferro. But I love the idea of this act: to carry something as you walk across a country, something that represents your love and your loss. I like the act of placing it down: not to leave it behind, but to be able to place it somewhere. That I can carry a rock for hundreds of miles and hold it in my palm and before climbing over the mound of stones to the base of the cross, I can look down into my hand and say, “This is for you.”