magic Archives - Nadine Walks

The Camino Magic is Back; Day 8 on the Camino del Norte, Baamonde to Miraz, 15km

August 26, 2016

It was my second to last day of walking in Spain when everything changed. I’m not sure what happened; I think it was the moment I decided what the Camino experience was going to be like for me, when I said: “It’s just a really solo walk. Not about connection and families and friendship, it’s about me.” That’s when the Camino showed up and responded with, “What have I tried to tell you, time and time again, Nadine? You’ll never walk alone.”

I suppose I helped determine my own path a bit, in addition to whatever Camino magic was happening in those last days. On the morning of my 8th day of walking, when I left Baamonde, I stopped in the bar just around the corner from my albergue for a cafe con leche and a croissant. As I got ready to leave, I saw a girl sitting alone at a table near the door; I’d noticed her the night before, as well, sitting alone on a couch and reading.

When I passed her I paused, and then stopped and introduced myself. Her name was Natalie, and she was from Belgium. We chatted for a minute, talking about where we were going that day, and when I moved towards the door to leave she said, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.”

She was right. I walked alone for the first 7km of the day and then stopped in a bar for a second breakfast. It was the first place you could stop on that day’s walk so there were lots of other pilgrims there, as well, and the place was actually like a little pilgrim haven: it was attached to a new, private albergue and was filled with pilgrim paraphernalia. The owners were friendly and welcoming and I was immediately comfortable. Natalie walked in about 15 minutes after me and we shared a table- she chatted with some other pilgrims she knew and introduced me, and suddenly, I didn’t feel different or isolated, not like I had the night before. Here, I was a pilgrim like everyone else, and suddenly- for one of the first times since I’d been on the Camino this year- it seemed easy to talk with people, easy to fit in. I felt part of something and not separate, like I was doing this on my own.

Natalie left the bar a bit before me but once I started walking I caught up to her, and then we walked together. At first I hesitated; this was the first time I had walked with anyone on my trip, and initially I was resistant to it. But it was a short day- only 15 km to Miraz and the albergue I’d heard so many good things about- and already the day was half done. Natalie was planning on staying in the same albergue as me, and so we walked the rest of the way together.

And it was great. It still surprises me when I can meet someone who I almost instantly feel comfortable around, someone similar to me even though they’re from a different part of the world. We discovered that we had near identical beliefs about how we wanted to walk our Caminos: connecting with others when it felt right, but always going our own way and following our instincts, which often meant walking alone and not sticking with a group.

Because the day’s walk was so short, it, almost strangely, felt like a rest day to me. I had been walking really long days (and the shorter days I walked when I was sick felt like they would never end), so it was a treat to be feeling good and only walking 15km. Natalie and I both didn’t want to rush to Miraz to ensure we got a bed in the albergue we wanted to stay in; I’d decided days ago that I wasn’t going to stress about where I would sleep, and I liked that Natalie had the same view. So we took our time, or maybe the Camino encouraged us to take our time.

Our first stop happened when we passed by a house with intricate carvings in the stone wall out front. We heard music blaring from the lawn and a bright yellow arrow pointed the way through an open gate.

“Should we go in?” Natalie asked.

I looked at her and nodded. “I think we have to at least check it out.”

It was the home of Francisco Chacon, a stone sculptor with a studio in a garage attached to the side of his house. He was working when we wandered in, but put his tools down and came over to talk. Natalie could speak some Spanish so mostly I just listened to their conversation, doing my best to try to understand what I could and communicating my appreciation for his work.

Examples of it were everywhere: in the stones under our feet, covering the walls of his house, designs carved into columns, small figures lined up on table tops. He took us inside his home to show us more, and then back outside to give us stamps for our credentials- hot orange wax dripped onto our pilgrim passports and stamped with his seal.

We walked away, grinning and chattering about how happy we were that we’d made the decision to poke our heads inside. We kept walking, but it seemed as though every 10 minutes we stopped. First a man flagged us down, just wanting to say hi and ask how we were doing, then an older woman who heard Natalie’s French accent and wanted to tell us all about the 4 years she lived in France when she was in her 20’s.

Then we saw a deer bound across the road, then we passed a few pilgrims that Natalie knew. Before we knew it we had arrived in Miraz- it was noon, and the albergue didn’t open until 3:00. We joined a few other pilgrims who were seated outside the entrance, and I was pleased to recognize them all. Two Spanish boys I’d met in the kitchen the night before, Michael, the Swiss lawyer who I’d had coffee with several days before (it turns out that he had been in the hospital for a day with stomach issues!), and Silvia, an Italian girl about my age who I’d first seen in the albergue in Gontan, and again the night before in Baamonde.

Since we were so early, Natalie, Michael, Silvia and I decided to walk to the next village to have lunch, so we left our bags propped up against the albergue wall and sauntered out of the village. Our lunch was wonderful- caldo gallego (a white bean soup that’s a specialty of Galicia), roasted chicken and rice, ice cream and wine and bread. We took our time eating and made it back about 30 minutes before the albergue opened.

And once the albergue did open, I realized why it had been recommended to me. It’s a simple place- there’s nothing fancy about it- but instantly I was comfortable. It’s run by the Confraternity of Saint James, which is a UK-based charity that helps promote the Camino, and the hospitaleros were warm and kind and soon as we walked in. The albergue is donativo and they provide breakfast in the morning, and tea or coffee any time we liked. The kitchen was large, clean and well stocked, and the bunkrooms were also clean and spacious.

After showering and washing my clothes I made myself a cup of tea and settled in with my journal at one of the long tables in the kitchen area. But no sooner than I sat down did I hear someone say, “The fruit and vegetable truck is here!” It was like I was back at La Muse, waiting for the honk of the weekly bread truck so I could run outside and make my purchases.

A group of us ventured outside and when we saw that the truck offered more than just fruit and vegetables, we decided to buy ingredients for a big pasta dinner that we could enjoy together. We walked back to the albergue with plastic bags full of round, heavy tomatoes, onions and garlic, olive oil, two packages of penne.

Silvia was tasked with making the pasta because, well, she was Italian. She set to work immediately, even though it was barely 5pm. “I have to let the sauce simmer for as long as possible,” she explained.

At 7:00 we went over to the village church where the hospitalero gave a small talk explaining some of the history of the village and the church we were in, and we were invited to sit quietly and pray, or just reflect on our pilgrimage. I sat for a few moments but then I walked outside, where I had to zip up my fleece against the cold air and the chill of the wind. I walked in a long, slow circle around the church, and thought about the day. How was it possible that I’d found myself in the middle of such a kind, welcoming group of people when just the night before I had felt alone? When, in fact, I’d felt alone for so much of my time in Spain? Suddenly it was as if the Camino was back, and back in full force.

The rest of the evening was beautiful. We all sat around a large table and feasted on the pasta that Silvia made. Matthias, a German man with light blond hair and ruddy red cheeks had procured a few bottles of wine at the neighboring bar, and the rest of us pulled out bits of bread and cheese and crackers that we’d been carrying in our packs. Michael invited the hospitaleros to join our meal, I included the two Spanish boys who, with only two potatoes between them, looked hungry.

We talked and laughed and toasted and when I went to bed that night, I felt full. I come back to Spain, time and time again, because I love walking through the country. I like that I can spend all day outside and not have to worry much about where I’m going to sleep at night, that I can have my cafe con leches and my vino tintos and that it’s an incredibly affordable way to spend weeks in Europe. But I also come to Spain and come back to the Camino for the spirit, for the like-minded people, for the community. It took awhile this time, but finally I’d found it, my own group of solo-walkers, people who were doing this Camino on their own and in their own way. Somehow, we’d all found each other that night, and just like that, and even for just a very short time, we became a little group. A family. I fell asleep feeling full, and happy.

Photo credit: Natalie

Camino Magic in the Real World; Continuing to Follow the Yellow Arrows

May 27, 2015

As I was driving out of the park yesterday, I saw two little fox cubs playing on the side of the road. I’d just finished a 7-mile hike and I was feeling good; I started off slowly, weighed down by the humid air and hot sunshine, but soon found a rhythm and was marching along with strong legs and solid steps. Lately, my hikes have been good, almost the kind of good that I felt when I was on the Camino last year.

And then I saw the fox cubs. At first I wasn’t sure what they were- whether it was one animal or two, whether it was a large cat or a dog with an orange coat, or some other animal all together. I pulled up alongside the cubs and slowed my car to a stop. One of the foxes ran off into the grass, but the other just sat there, staring at me.

“What are you doing, Little Foxy?” I asked.

He seemed to tilt his head a bit, as if he were listening.

“You’d better move off the road, it’s dangerous for you here.”

I probably would have kept talking to him but I noticed that there were a few cars lined up behind me- but they, too, were peering out the window at the small foxes.

A fox sighting is always a little thrilling to me, and seeing two fox cubs felt really special. It felt like a good omen.

I’ve gotten several good omens lately, and it makes me think of last summer, and my moments of “Camino magic”. On the Camino, good omens or moments of magic seem to happen all of the time, and by the end of my walk I truly believed that wonderful things not only happen on the Camino, but they happen a lot on the Camino.

Losing sight of Camino magic back in the real world is a common thing. We usually don’t call it ‘magic’ here, I’m not sure what we call it. Good omens, perhaps. Luck. Coincidence. Signs from God. Or sometimes we might not call it anything at all because we don’t notice it: too much routine and task and obligation get in the way of the tiny magical moments that are still probably happening every day. Or could be happening, if we open ourselves to the possibility.

Lately I’ve wondered if my ‘good omens’ have anything to do with my approaching Camino. Knowing that another Camino is close has put me in the “Camino frame of mind”; is it possible that this slight shift in attitude is helping to bring good things to me, or helping me notice the beautiful things around me? Sometimes I think of these magic moments or good omens as signposts, indicators that I’m moving in the right direction. As if the little foxes were there to acknowledge my strong hike. “We like it out here, too,” they seemed to be saying.

Several weeks ago I was hiking in the same park and stopped by a picnic area to use the bathroom. Balanced on the very top of the corner bathroom stall was a book- it caught my eye right away because I usually don’t see anyone or anything in the park bathrooms. So I picked up the book and looked at its cover: The War of Art by Steven Pressfield (the book’s subtitle is: ‘Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles). I’ve heard about this book a lot, especially in the last few years and especially as I’ve been focusing on my writing. I flipped open the book at random and saw the words ‘Resistance and Fear’, things that I’ve been thinking about a lot in this past year. After I left the bathroom and looked around the deserted picnic area, I stashed the book in my pack. Maybe the owner would come back to look for it, or maybe not. In any case, it sort of felt like that book had been placed in my path.

You might remember my last post, the one I wrote a few weeks ago about not being able to get a reservation in my favorite Parisian hostel, the MIJE. I wondered where I would stay, I wondered how a different ‘home base’ would change my experience of Paris. When I woke up the next morning and checked my email, there was a message from the MIJE. “Thank you for the kind words in your post,” they said. “When do you need to stay in Paris?”

So I’ll be staying at the MIJE this summer after all- in a shared room but if a single opens up, my name is on the waiting list. How is it possible that this even happened? It all feels a little magical; even though I know how easily information can be shared these days, it feels improbable and unlikely that anyone from the MIJE would have seen or read my post, and taken the time to write to me. I was already a huge fan of their hostels, but now they have me for life (luckily, even though they are youth hostels, there is no age limit. So the MIJE is stuck with me for years to come!).

And this, too, feels a bit like a message. Keep traveling. Get to know places. Settle in. Come back, again and again.

So I think that these are some of my yellow arrows. On the Camino the yellow arrow is a signpost, the symbol that directs you towards Santiago, and they are everywhere. At home, they are much harder to see. But suddenly I feel like they’re all around me, and it makes me want to keep my eyes open for more.

Walking to the ocean; Day 34, Olveiroa to Cée

October 4, 2014

Since I’ve been home, I’ve been measuring time by Camino milestones. As in: “It’s September 27th… three months ago, I started walking out of St Jean Pied de Port!” and “It’s October 4th, two months ago, I was one day away from Finisterre.” Two months since the end of my Camino? Time is a funny thing. So much living was packed into my 5 weeks on the Camino, and it feels like I’ve done a fraction of that kind of living since I’ve been home. Which makes sense, I suppose, because “real life” isn’t “Camino life”.

And yet, my pack sits on the kitchen chair closest to my back door. Ready to go, at all times. I take it with me and wear it when I go out for a hike. I don’t need to wear it, but I like to wear it. The feel of it on my back reminds me of the Camino. And, maybe, part of me doesn’t want to get out of practice. I reason that if I continue to walk, continue to wear the pack, I’ll be ready for another Camino at a moment’s notice. I like to pretend that I could leave for another Camino at any time, even though the reality is that it will take time- maybe a lot of it- before I will go again.

This was a long way of getting around to the real topic of this post, which is, the last days of walking the Camino. I think there’s a part of me that didn’t really want to write about the ending, because it means that I’ve finished writing about the Camino (which isn’t true at all, because so much of the future writing I want to do is about the Camino); but still, putting the ending into words makes it real.

But I did finish, and the ending was incredible. Here are some of the highlights from the second to last day of walking:

Since my friend from home, Sonal, had joined me just in Santiago, we decided to divide the walk to Finisterre into four days. Most pilgrims do it in three long days, but since we had the time, we split up the last 30+ kilometer day into two smaller days. Which was perfect.

On Day 3 we walked from Olveiroa to Cée, which was about 20 km (I think), and it might have been one of my top 5 Camino walking days. It was like the night before had brought the Camino magic back: a good, strong cafe con leche and croissant a few kilometers into the day. A perfectly placed ‘rest stop’: a church with picnic tables under the shade of large trees (Sonal and I were walking and talking about when to take a break, and I think one of us said something along the lines of, “Wouldn’t it be nice if we rounded that corner and there was a place to stop and take a break?” and then a few minutes later we came upon the church and picnic tables). We ran into some of the people we had talked with the night before, further strengthening these ‘late’ Camino friendships. The walk continued, the sun came out, and as we walked, far off in the distance you could see the ocean.

It’s hard for me to describe how incredible this was for me. On the Camino, my destination had always been Santiago, but I also knew that I would be making the trip to Finisterre. Seeing that ocean gave me a sense, maybe for the first time, of the distance that I had walked. I’d started in France, and now I was approaching the very western edge of Spain, and the Atlantic ocean. I was walking to the ocean! I had just walked across a country and I was going to walk until I couldn’t walk any further.

And it was all so beautiful: the cool air, the sunshine, the green grass and trees, that light blue sky and the darker blue of the water. We stopped to take a photo at a marker that read: ‘To The End’, and then we found a spot nearby, took off our packs, and settled down on the grass to take it all in. Mo-mo, a girl from Japan who we’d met the night before, came over to join us. We stretched our legs out in the sunshine and snacked on cookies and looked towards the ocean. Then we continued walking, that ocean getting closer and closer.

We stopped for the day in Cée, a coastal town about 11 kilometers from Finisterre. As we approached the town, we talked about finding an albergue. Jokingly (somewhat), I said, “We need an albergue with a kitchen. And a view of the ocean.” Guess what we found? Not only a clean albergue with a kitchen and a view of the water from our bunk beds, but we also found Emma, the friend we’d made the night before. She was making her bed in the albergue as we walked in, and we looked at each other and laughed. “Of course I’d see you guys here,” she said. “It’s the Camino.”

The three of us went to the beach, sat outdoors in a square and drank coffee, made a big salad in the albergue kitchen and later smuggled glasses and our bottle of wine outside to sit on a bench along the water. I ran to a pastry shop we’d seen earlier in the day and arrived 5 minutes before they closed. I came back with Tarta de Santiago- an almond cake famous in Galicia- and we ate pastries and drank wine and looked over the water as the sky darkened.

What a great day. But the last day was even better. Stay tuned.

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

September 4, 2014

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?”

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

August 23, 2014

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.

Coming Home

August 15, 2014

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.

Camino angels, the big city, saying goodbye; Day 12 on the Camino, Ages to Burgos

July 8, 2014

Before I started the Camino, I’d done a lot of reading and research about it. One of the things I’d read was that the path was sort of divided into thirds: the first 10 days were mostly about the physical part of the journey. The biggest focus would be the pains and changes of your body. The second third was about the mind: you walk long, hot days through the Meseta, a region where this is no shade, a flat path, no distractions. A lot of time to spend in your head. I’ve heard different interpretations about the final third of the way: some say it’s about putting it all together. Some say it’s about coming to life.

I’ll be curious to see if my Camino falls into thirds, or into any kind of distinct sections. Already I can see how it might happen: today, for the first time, felt like I was moving into a different stage of this journey.

I’ve been around mostly the same people for the past 12 days, and it’s been wonderful. I guess this has been my Camino family, and it’s a large one. But it’s changing. Mirra will leave tomorrow and I know that this will affect my Camino. In some ways I’m excited for the change, even though I wish Mirra would stay and she and I could finish in Santiago together. But being on my own could be good heading into the Meseta. Even though I spend hours walking every day, I feel like there hasn’t been enough time to really think about this experience and process what I’m going through. I don’t regret how I’ve spent this first part; in fact, I don’t know that I would really change anything. I’ve been having so, so much fun.

And so far, if I had to pick a theme for the first part of this pilgrimage, I think it would be about fun and connection. I’ve definitely felt the physical part of the walk, but not nearly like others have. All the training walks I did before coming here definitely paid off, and my aches and pains (so far) have been few. So if this first section of the Camino wasn’t about physical hardship, then I would have to say it was about the people I’ve met, and the fun I’ve had with those people.

And maybe I’ll keep having fun, and making good connections- lets hope! But I also wonder if this next part of my walk will be more internal, if I’ll intentionally crave time to myself.

I walked to Burgos today, and the night we just had was a celebration: of beginnings, middles, and ends. Just as Mirra leaves the Camino, Adam (from Ireland) begins. Ibai found him sitting alone in the albergue and invited him out with us. We went out for tapas and sangria, 8 of us squeezed around a wooden table filled with plates of food. We toasted, we sang happy birthday to Ibai, we told stories about our walk, we took photos and talked about keeping in touch.

We walked out of the restaurant to the empty square in front of the cathedral to say goodnight and go to our separate albergues. Everyone hugged Mirra tightly, even Adam, whose walk is beginning just as hers is ending.

Mirra and I walked to our albergue together, talking about what a perfect ending this was for her, and the perfect transition time for everyone else. I can feel, so strongly, that my Camino is going to change tomorrow. I’m not sure who I’m going to walk with, who I’m going to meet, who I’m going to drink wine with and cook with. I don’t know who will be sleeping in the bunk bed above or below me, because for almost every night of my Camino, Mirra has been my bunk mate.

But I’m also excited for the unknown. Two days ago I discovered that I left my guidebook at the albergue I’d stayed in. I panicked for about an hour, not knowing how I would figure out my days and plan where to stay and know how far to walk. But I’m choosing to see this as a big sign from the Camino: time to just let each day unfold and let go of trying to plan. And I think this will be a good lesson for me.

Already, today, the Camino gave me what I needed, more than what I needed. I had no guidebook to walk me into the city of Burgos, but I ended up with something better. An old man with a cane was waiting on a bench, and when I walked by he motioned for me to follow him, and took me and two Lithuanian girls to a scenic detour. Our entire walk into Burgos- what many others referred to as the walk of hell- was through a beautiful park. As we approached the city another man explained exactly how to get to the cathedral and albergue and tourist information center. And as I waited in front of the small albergue for Mirra, another pilgrim sat next to me and told me how great the albergue was, then introduced me to the hospitalero (the man who runs the albergue).

Some people call these Camino angels, and maybe that’s true. I’ve experienced this so much on the Camino: someone is there to help or be kind just when I need it.

So I’m going to try to put my trust in the magic of the Camino. I’m saying goodbye to my best Camino friend, and even though I can’t imagine that the second part of this Camino could be any better than the first, I’m trusting that if I let myself see it, I’ll experience so much more magic.