photography Archives - Nadine Walks

Paris of My Dreams

August 4, 2017

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

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

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

All I knew were, well, three things:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are the answers: Yes. No. No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking Pictures in Spain: How I Capture my #VantagePoint

January 14, 2017

This is going to be a post entirely about photography. I suppose it’s been a long time coming; even though the whole idea behind this blog was to write, I have always considered the photographs I include here to be a big part of the stories I tell.

I walk, a lot. I also take a lot of photos. And this blog gets all the best photographs. Well, it gets a few of the not-so-great ones as well, but I’m careful to pick my favorites to showcase here. And picking the favorites means sorting through dozens and dozens of not-so-great photos. For every one great photo, there are probably 50 mediocre ones behind it. And this is how I take photos as I travel, as I walk across Spain: dozens of okay shots, and then one that’s a cut above the rest.

But I love taking the photos, the good ones and the bad ones. Pictures are so much a part of the routine of my travels, and a lot of the time, they are such a big part of the routine of my life. I’ve been holding a camera in my hands for a steady 20 years now, and somewhere along the way, I developed a photographer’s eye. This can mean a lot of things to a lot of different people but here’s what it means to me: dozens of times a day (every single day), I will pause for a fraction of a second and say to myself- “Snap.” I take mental pictures all day long, as if I were holding a camera up to my eye. I sit in an office and talk to teenagers and sometimes I notice the way they are leaning on the arm of a couch and how a gray light is coming in through the window and touching the sleeve of their shirt and the tips of their ears and I think, “Oh, this would be a beautiful photograph.”

I do this all the time. My eyes have become trained to see photographs in the world around me, I see these photographs automatically. I notice light and shade and lines and perspective and shadow and color.

So on all these travels I’ve been doing lately, I have the freedom to whip out a camera whenever I see one of these “mental” pictures. The photos move out of my mind and onto the lens of my camera and I can capture them, just about whenever I want. And how lucky to be walking through some very beautiful places, too! If a day’s walk has taken me longer than it normally does, it is probably not because of a blister or tired legs; more than not, it is because I’ve stopped to take so many photographs.

Walking a Camino in Spain or trekking through Scotland on the West Highland Way means, of course, that I’m carrying all of my things on my back. As I was planning for my first Camino, I seriously considered lugging along my old Pentax SLR and taking dozens of rolls of black and white shots along the way. I love that camera, I’ve had it since I was 15 and it was probably the most difficult packing decision I had to make, to decide to leave it behind.

That’s me, taking photos in France!

What did I bring instead? My iPhone. On the Camino Frances and the Camino del Norte, I also brought along a small digital point-and-shoot that a friend let me borrow, but I rarely used it. The iPhone was just too convenient; it sat in my pocket all day long, and I could easily pull it out, swipe the screen and snap a photo all with one hand. Sometimes I didn’t even need to break my stride!

So the majority of the photos you’ve seen on this blog have been taken with an iPhone, and so far, it’s worked really well for me. But every year as I plan a new trip, I dream about the camera equipment that could be part of my pack. What if I did bring along that old SLR? What if I bought myself a brand new DSLR? What if I researched one of the mirrorless cameras I’ve been hearing so much about? And then, there’s this: cutting-edge technology that’s creating DSLR-like images from a camera the size of a small point-and-shoot. The very best of both worlds!

The camera I’m talking about comes from a company called Light, and if you’re at all interested in photography it’s worth checking out their site. This post I’m writing now, in fact, is part of their #VantagePoint project, where bloggers talk about their favorite locations to shoot and the steps they take to create their best photographs from those locations.

I have to say, I jumped at the chance to write about how I take photographs, and more than bringing awareness to the L16 camera that Light is developing (though I’m always a fan of spreading information that I care about), I’m excited to share some tips with you guys, my readers.

I thought about my favorite places to take photographs and of course my summer treks through Spain were the first things to come to mind. And more specifically, I thought about how I’ve tried to capture shots of ‘the path’. Here is one of my very favorite photos:

I adore this photo. And I never would have captured it if I didn’t take the time to stop walking, turn around, and look behind me. So this is one of my best tips, actually, when taking photographs: don’t forget to look behind you. Don’t forget to look up or down, either, swing to your right and to your left, turn in circles and keep your eyes opened.

On this particular morning, I was walking through the mountains on the Camino Primitivo, a route that runs through the north of Spain. The morning was a little misty and foggy, a thin layer of dew coated the grass. The air was soft and cool but I could feel the rising sun warming my back and I think it was when I could feel the sun’s warmth that I decided to turn around. The sun was like a fireball in the sky, a giant orb that glowed and burned. I’m sure this was the effect of the clouds and the fog, maybe how the sun was rising over the top of a mountain in the distance. But whatever was happening seemed magical.

I didn’t know if I would be able to get a good photo of it all, however. You know how sometimes you see a beautiful moon in the sky, or a rainbow, or an incredible sunset and you know that no matter what you do, the photo won’t be as good as what you’re seeing with your eye? I worried that this was the case.

I took a string of photographs anyway, to see what I could do. It’s tricky, shooting into the sun, but in this case the fog and the tree were obscuring the sunlight enough that it worked. And lets talk about that tree. I moved down the path, away from the tree, until it was positioned just right in my frame. I took a few steps to the side and then I crouched down until the tree was in the distance, the lines of the fence glinted in the light and I had just enough blue sky for balance. I didn’t want the tree in the exact center of the frame although I suppose that could have worked; but instead, I used both the tree and the glowing sun as my center point.

This was my #VantagePoint. The steps to getting this photograph were, all in all, fairly simple. Keep your eyes open. Turn around and look behind you. Try out different angles and positions. Take several photographs until you get one that works.

I can’t wait to keep traveling and to keep taking photographs. On one of these trips, I may add a new camera and see if I can get even better shots (I have so much to learn) or maybe I’ll just keep using an iPhone but in either case, I know that I’ll continue to take pictures. Lots and lots of pictures.

What kind of camera do you use on your travels? Would you add the L16 to your wishlist? Do you have a favorite place to take photographs?

Memorable Moments of 2016

December 30, 2016

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

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

January

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

February

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

March

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

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

April

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

May

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

June

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

July

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

August

Look how dirty my leg is!!

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

September

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

October

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

November

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

December

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

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

A Rather Unrealistic Wish-List for my Second Camino

June 1, 2015

I’m just over two weeks away from leaving for my second pilgrimage, this time on the Camino del Norte/Camino Primitivo. Two weeks!! Sometime before I leave I’ll post a map of my route(s); I always meant to do it last year and it was probably one of the most asked questions by my family and friends: “Where in Spain will you be walking?” My guidebook should be arriving any day now, and then I’ll have a better sense of where I’ll be walking. Someone, it might have been my mom, seemed a little surprised that I would be bringing a guidebook. “Didn’t you have a great experience after you lost your guidebook last time?” And I did- I practiced letting go of planning, I learned to fully embrace the openness and possibility of my days in a way that I wasn’t quite able to when following a guide.

But at times, I missed the Brierley guide that directed me along the Camino Frances. I missed learning about the detours (which I loved taking), I missed being able to read up on albergues, I missed learning some of the history of the places I was walking through. So for this walk I’m going to use a guide, and I’m going to do my best to make sure I don’t accidentally leave it in the folds of a blanket on my bunk bed. I’d still like to follow the same approach that I learned on last year’s Camino: walk until I’m tired or, walk until I stumble upon a beautiful place. There are some things I’d like to plan (already I have a couple albergues that I’d like to check out), but more than anything I want to leave my days open to chance and possibility.

Along those lines, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what else I’d like from this year’s Camino. It’s a big topic, and I’m still processing last year’s pilgrimage: the things I wanted, the things I received, the things that surprised me, the things I was learning. I think that more than anything, I want to be very open to this experience, and to whatever it brings. That’s the third time I’ve used this word- open- in this post. Maybe because this second pilgrimage feels so wide open. I already know what a Camino is like, there aren’t quite as many question marks, not the same kind of fears and anxieties. But I’m also not clear on what I want, which leaves the possibilities open: Do I want to form deep bonds and find a Camino family that I stick with until the end? Or do I want to be totally free and unattached, able to walk as much or as little as I want on any given day? I wanted both of these things, often simultaneously, on last year’s Camino. I still didn’t quite have it figured out when I arrived in Santiago, and I felt like I needed at least another 500 miles to find my answers.

Putting the bigger questions aside for a moment, lets talk about some of the things I’m dreaming about for this second Camino. I already have some guarantees: I know that I’m going to meet some incredible people. I know I’m going to savor those mugs of café con leche and glasses of vino tinto. I know I’m going to love waking up every day and putting on my shoes and walking. But now lets talk about the dreams, the fantasies, the things that could happen but probably won’t but (who knows) maybe will…

1. Making it to Muxia

Emma, the Canadian-born, London-based friend we made on the way to Finisterre last year, said it best: “Five years ago, walking to Santiago was the end. And Finisterre was like this little secret that not everyone knew about. Now, walking to Finisterre is the end. And adding on a day to get to Muxia is the secret that not everyone knows about.” Muxia is a small coastal town about 30km from Finisterre and today, indeed, many pilgrims walk here, in addition to Finisterre, after arriving in Santiago. Muxia is part of the ‘Costa de la Muerte’ (Coast of Death), named after the many shipwrecks resulting from its rocky coastline, and it is beautiful. At least, that’s what I heard from friends who made the trek last year. Because of timing, I could only walk to Finisterre, but I wished I had extra time to make it to Muxia as well.

And this year? Getting to Muxia is a pipe dream. I have exactly 31 days to walk, and that’s not exactly a long time for the roughly 840km between my starting point of Irun and my ending point of Santiago. At best, I might be able to make the journey in 30 days, giving me a day to bus over to Muxia, but I’m not sure that’s how I’d want to do it. I really think I’d like to walk to Muxia, and that’s a minimum 3-day journey from Santiago.

But who knows- maybe if I’m totally going at my own speed, not attaching myself to anyone and feeling really strong, I’ll walk some long days, and get to Santiago way ahead of schedule. Maybe.

2. Taking black and white photographs along the way

I considered this before last year’s Camino: should I lug my old and heavy SLR camera and a dozen rolls of film over 500 miles in order to take some nice photographs? Ultimately I decided not to, and it was a good decision. But this time? Oh man, I’d LOVE to have that old camera with me. I’d love to have several rolls of film from this trip, to one day be able to make a few beautiful black and white prints that I could frame and hang on my wall. Or print enough to have a small exhibit somewhere… (I’ve been so focused on writing lately, but the photography dreams are always lurking just beneath the surface).

And speaking of writing…

3. Blogging every day

Blogging on last year’s Camino gave me so much joy, and continues to give me joy when I go back and read through my posts. But I just couldn’t do it all: couldn’t walk the long days AND spend time with the people I’d met AND explore the towns AND blog every day. But this Camino is a different Camino, and I just might have more time on my hands. Unless #4 happens…

4. Meeting a Javier Bardem look-alike in Oveido

Ha! Last night I watched Woody Allen’s Vicky Cristina Barcelona (a movie that I never seem to tire of), and I paid close attention to the scenes in Oviedo, a city that I will be walking through/staying in if I detour from the Norte to the Primitivo. Maybe the Camino will offer up some good-looking Spanish/European men again this year…

So that’s my wish-list for now. Along with perfect weather, lots of opportunities to lounge on the beach, and perfectly placed café con leche stops.

I think the reality is going to be just a bit different… but only two and a half more weeks until I find out!

Only time for a few more training hikes…

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

April 20, 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo of the Week #7: A Return to Hiking!

April 5, 2015

A few weeks ago I drove out to my trusty state park to check out the conditions of the trails, and found that they were still covered in snow. And because I’m not a fan of walking over snow and ice, I’ve been sticking to a 4-mile paved trail that runs in a loop around the park. It’s a nice option for outdoor walking, but it’s just not the same as a wooded trail. I was anxious to get back into the woods, so to speak.

And this week felt like a turning point. It helped that I spent the first part of the week in western Virginia, where the weather was a little warmer and there were mountains almost at my doorstep. I took advantage of this beautiful area of the country and went on a few hikes: the first, an 8+ miler to a decent overlook, and the second, a 3+ miler straight up a mountain to a 360 panoramic view of the countryside (this is the hike that tortured my legs).

This part of the state is home to a section of the Appalachian Trail. Hiking the AT isn’t something that I think I’ll be doing any time soon, if at all, and yet… every time I’m on the trail or near the trail, I think about what it would be like to spend 6 months walking through the woods. There’s something immensely appealing about it- to spend all of that time almost entirely in nature. Moving slowly up a country (not unlike what I’ve done on the Camino, just a much greater distance), carrying not only my possessions on my back but also my food and my home… and doing nothing but walking. The Camino was such a great accomplishment, and I can’t even imagine what it must feel like to walk the entirety of the Appalachian Trail.

But for all of the trail’s appeal, there’s a lot about it that doesn’t appeal to me. Namely, wildlife. Specifically, bears. And snakes. And anything that moves during the night. And the fact that I can’t routinely pass through towns and indulge in cups of coffee and glasses of wine. So for now, I’ll stick with the Camino.

In any case, my 8-mile hike this week found me on the Appalachian Trail, but just for a mile or two. I was hiking the John’s Creek Mountain Trail- or at least, I was trying to. Supposedly, I would be on the trail for about 3.5 miles and then link up to the AT, where I would hike for another mile over to Kelly’s Knob, a ridge offering a decent view of the New River Valley. Except I couldn’t find the trailhead for the John’s Creek Mountain Trail. I drove up and down the mountain roads until I finally pulled over in a clearing that led to a wide, flat, dirt covered track. The track meandered up the mountainside at a very slight incline, and a sign indicated that no motorized vehicles were allowed through, but that foot travel was welcome.

After a few miles I came across an orange blazed trail, and for once my navigational instincts were correct: I turned right on the trail (which was indeed John Creek’s Mountain Trail), and after a mile hit the Appalachian Trail. I’m not sure where I went wrong and missed the trailhead, but I’m glad that I did. The mountain track was an easy way to start the hike, and as it wound around the mountain, I was frequently treated to beautiful views and blue skies.

So here’s the photo of the week, from what felt like my first real hike of the year:

Photo of the Week #6: Steak-frites!

March 28, 2015

Today finds me in a warm Panera Bread cafe, on a cold day in western Virginia. I’m here for a mini spring-break trip to visit my best friend, and last year around this time I was treated to sunny skies and 60-70 degree days. Just now, at 11am, it is 25 degrees. I’m not amused. No one is.

Last Saturday, however, was pretty beautiful. I was in DC visiting another friend, and at one point we sat on a bench with a view of the Capitol to our left, the Washington Monument to our right, and the warm sun on our faces. My photo(s) this week come from that trip- a weekend of good food, good coffee, good wine and good bread. And some art.

steak frites, le diplomate, washington dc

Steak-frites at Le Diplomate, a French restaurant in DC. As I took my first bite, I realized that this is a meal I’ve never actually had in France, and I promised myself that I would change that this summer, during the day I have in Paris at the end of my trip.

A “gourmet” food hall with a stall selling some of the best bread I’ve had outside of France (there seemed to be an unintentional French theme to the weekend…)

Photo of the Week #5: Snow Walks and Green Bagels

March 22, 2015

Another photo of the week! This goes back to last Sunday (so… I guess that was the start of my ‘photo of the week’ week? I’m not really sure how I’m measuring these weeks, but I suppose it doesn’t matter too much).

I joined the Philadelphia Chapter of APOC (American Pilgrims on the Camino); I’ll write more about this in a future post, but for now I wanted to share a photo from the hike I joined them on last Sunday. It was the longest day of walking I’ve done since the Camino- 14 miles in about 6 hours, with a few stops and breaks in between. The first few miles were the most difficult, and required us to navigate through snow and over ice; not my ideal walking/hiking conditions…

And, for a bonus photo… the best way I can think of to celebrate St Patrick’s Day (how did you celebrate?):

Green bagel!

Photo of the Week #4: ¡Hola!

March 15, 2015

Lately, my days have been filled with working, walking, writing, and when I have a few extra minutes, reciting basic Spanish phrases. I started a beginner’s Spanish class a few weeks ago; it’s an adult evening class held at the local high school, and man, it’s a bit surreal to be back in a classroom trying to learn a language. It takes me back to those awful, early days of learning French (while I love being able to speak French, I did not love the years of struggle as I tried to learn it).

But this is a bit different. Last year, on the Camino, I told myself that if I ever returned to Spain for an extended period of time, I wanted to know a little Spanish. I’m not expecting that I’ll be able to carry a conversation or even understand much of what people say to me (in fact, I know I won’t be able to accomplish this in a few months), but I am hoping that I can learn some phrases and words that will help me out on the Camino. I knew next to no Spanish while walking the Camino Frances, and resorted mostly to gesturing and smiling. And while I got by without much trouble, there were so many times that I wished I knew just a bit more. Or enough to show that I was making an effort trying to communicate in Spanish, rather than naturally resorting to English and hoping people would understand me.

So here’s my desk, my workbook, my notes. I should probably go do my homework now…

Photo of the Week #3: Blue skies and dragons

March 7, 2015

My week started with blue sky and ended with blue sky, but everything in between was gray and ice and rain and snow and cold. Sunshine makes all the difference, however, and I savored my time outside this week.

Once again, I have two photos to share: the first is from a Chinese New Year’s parade through the streets of my town, and the second is from a walk around my neighborhood. One photo is all about color and movement and noise; the other is stark contrast and stillness and quiet.

A note about the second photo: I’m amazed that this was taken with my iPhone, with no enhancements, no filters, no editing. I looked up at the trees and the sky and held my phone out and snapped a photo and this is what you get. Sometimes, the world is indescribably majestic.

Photo of the Week #1: Snowy walk

February 20, 2015

I’ve been toying with the idea of doing a ‘Photo of the Week’ on this blog, and today I’m giving it a whirl. I’ve always been interested in 365 projects: doing something every single day for a year. There was an ill-fated attempt at my own 365 photo project, and I think I only lasted three days. A photo a week might be more my speed, and will encourage me to remember to pick up my camera (or, as is increasingly the case, my iPhone) and snap a few pictures.

This week’s photo comes from one of the trails that runs through the woods behind my apartment. We finally got a little snow this week, and despite the temperatures being below freezing, I bundled up and went out for a walk. Tramping through the snow I passed kids with sleds, and an elderly neighbor on his cross-country skis. The air was brisk, the sky was a robin’s egg blue, and it felt good to move my legs after days of being cooped up inside.

A few weeks ago I found a blog called A Winter Camino and saw some incredible photos of the Camino Francés covered in snow. You won’t be finding me doing a winter Camino any time soon (or, ever), but there is so much beauty in walking through freshly fallen snow.

So here’s my favorite photo from my winter-y walk. Has anyone else ever tried a photo project? Or done something every single day for a year? Anyone else out walking in the snow these days?

A Date with Venice

January 14, 2015

Within moments of stepping off the train and facing the city of Venice, I knew that I would need to return.

This is going to start to become a problem, at some point: every new place I travel to has me wanting to come back. And then there’s France, which seems to call me back every time. I’m beginning to wonder when I’m going to have the time in my life to do all of the traveling I feel like I need to do.

But back to Venice. My mistake- and it feels like a big one- was that I didn’t bring a good camera. I’ve said it already about this Italy trip: this was not ‘typical traveling’ (if ‘typical traveling’ can even be defined). I knew I would get to see Italy on this trip, but my focus was so far away from the touristy stuff. I did just a bit of research about Florence, and even less for Venice, and figured that I would just learn things on the way.

And that was the benefit of being with an Italian on my trip, I didn’t have to worry about transportation or finding my way around the cities. I had someone to point out the highlights and make sure I saw the “must-see” things for a first-time traveler to Venice and Florence.

But the drawback of traveling this way was that I didn’t prepare like I might have. I debated about bringing a good camera, and really considered lugging around my film camera and a half dozen rolls of black and white film, but I decided against it. I just couldn’t quite get into the spirit of sight-seeing on this trip (at least, not in the days before I left, when I was deciding what to bring).

In the end, of course, my very first thought when I was in Venice was, “I need to come back here with my camera and take some black and white photos.”

Venice, in some ways, was even better than I’d always imagined it to be. It was a place that I always suspected I’d get to, and it held an almost mystic-power in my mind. Maybe because the city is so incredibly unique: a network of canals and dead-ends and no cars and stairs that lead straight into dark water. And when I was there, it felt mystical, especially at night. I loved walking around the streets and ending up in what felt like forgotten corners of the city, far away from the crowds of tourists. It was eerie and spooky and I felt like I stepped back in time.

Even the New Year’s celebration felt other-worldly. Sure, there were masses of people, most who had been drinking, a lot who were acting foolish. There were tourists and people holding out their cameras to take selfies (me included) at every opportunity. There were discarded champagne bottles underfoot, lost gloves littering the square, elbows jabbing into my back.

But it was also magical. A dozen different languages were spoken around me, people ran arm in arm through the streets, many wearing masks covered in gold, covered in feathers. I saw a cat pass by, later a zebra. I was delighted by it, and also spooked. A mask conceals what is really there and it added to the mystery. Whose eyes were staring at me? I can only imagine what Carnavale is like, the annual festival held just before the Lent.

We were sitting in a small bar drinking a café on New Year’s morning (well, a doppio for me), at a table in front of a window that gave us a full view of the canal outside. Every few minutes, a gondola would float past. I know that this is how Venice works: outside that bar’s window was a straight drop to the water. No sidewalk, no street, just water. The building is sitting on a wooden platform held up by wooden planks driven into the ground, all submerged under the water. I understood this before I went, but it was another thing to see. It was pretty incredible- Venice really is a floating city. (I almost floated right along with the city when, in an attempt to take a photo, I slipped a bit on the wet stone of a stair that led into the canal. Otherwise, no close calls with the water).

For me (and I would imagine, countless others), the best thing about this city was to simply wander around the streets and climb over bridges and notice the small details and get a little lost. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a city where I’ve been so inspired to take photographs (well, maybe Paris, but even so, that is saying something).

So I’m not done with Venice, not by a long shot. We have a date (time, to be determined): me, the city, and my camera.

Broken down and smiling

January 6, 2015

I’m back from Italy, and the return has been quite a welcoming. This morning I dragged myself out of bed after an incredibly deep sleep, loaded my work bags into my car, cleaned the falling snow off the windshield, and then my car wouldn’t start.

I sat in the driver’s seat of the car, turning and turning the key to see if something would catch, watching the snow quickly filling up the windshield again, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to Italy at all. Maybe I should have stayed at home and spent more time with my family and friends. Maybe I should have used the money that I spent on the trip to save up for a new car.

Maybe. But I’m glad I didn’t.

Italy was interesting. I’m sure there’s a better word that I could use, but it’s the best I can come up with. I didn’t go to Italy to eat amazing food or to see beautiful towns and cities, or to bask in the glow of famous art and architecture. I got to do all of that, but the reason I went to Italy was to see what the connection with my Camino friend was all about.

I don’t think anything about getting to know this friend was ever going to be simple, and it’s not just that we live in different countries. He’s leaving in a few weeks to travel around the world, so the possibility of building something with him, of having anything concrete, was always very slim.

And knowing this made the decision difficult for me. Why even see what there could be if I was almost certain that there wouldn’t be anything?

But the thing was, I was almost certain that there wouldn’t be anything. Almost. If I’d been totally certain then I wouldn’t have gone. I would have gotten my car checked out before it left me stranded, I would have spent time with my oldest friends, I would have relaxed and had a peaceful vacation.

Instead, I traveled thousands of miles to see if what I felt could have some greater meaning for my future. I think I have my answer- which is no- and maybe it wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. But it doesn’t mean, not for a second, that I regret going.

The trip was beautiful, even if it was a bit different than what I expected or hoped for. There was this one moment in particular, when I was feeling down and sad. I was in Florence, standing in line for the Uffizi Gallery. I’d already been in line for an hour, and noticed a screen that said the wait would be an additional 3 hours. I was freezing, I was conflicted about my feelings, and for a moment, I wondered what I was doing there. In that line, in Florence, in Italy.

And then a woman came by and asked if I wanted her ticket, which was a reservation for a timed entry that would let me into the museum immediately. I bypassed the line, walked through the crowded galleries and then suddenly was standing in front of the bust of a Roman Emperor, and I recognized it instantly. I’d studied this bust of Caracalla in my freshman year art history class, and for some reason had been captivated by him. To stand in front of this bust rather than study a photo in a book reminded me of why I travel, of the places I had vowed to visit when I was young. Later I gazed up at the Duomo, I studied Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise, and I felt awed.

I had lunch with my friend in a tiny restaurant overlooking the Arno river and the Ponte Vecchio. Somehow I had the perfect seat: my view was nothing but river and bridge and beautiful buildings and sea gulls flying by for the bread that the owner of the restaurant was throwing out the window.

Later we watched the sun set, and I leaned against a stone wall and stared out at the buildings of Florence, the city blanketed in a soft pink light.

So this morning, as I was shivering in the cold snow, cranking my engine while a guy with a tow truck banged on my car and lights on my dashboard blinked crazily at me, I didn’t wish that my life could be any different.

I’ll get my car fixed. Eventually I’ll buy a new one. And one day, maybe years and years and years from now, I’ll go back to Italy. I’ll stand in the Piazzale Michaelangelo and look out over the city and remember the last time that I’d been there. The time when I went to Italy to follow a gut feeling and take a risk and to see about the possibilities of my future. I think remembering this time will always make me smile.

Cloudy day, open cemetery, wine by the river; day 8 photos, Logrono to Najera

July 5, 2014

Not enough time for a real blog post, but here are a few photos from yesterday…

Pre-Camino Visions.

April 22, 2014

I have this sort of ominous feeling that I’m in my last few weeks of quiet and calm. Everything is still fairly relaxed: I’m going to work and seeing friends and family, going on hikes and occasionally picking up something to bring along on my Camino. There is still so much left to be done, but I don’t feel as if there is any hurry- surely, I must still have plenty of time?

And I do, kind of. I have about 2 months until I leave, and that sounds like a lot. Panic hasn’t set in, but it’s like I can sense it, waiting just around the corner. I’m afraid it’s going to suddenly hit and I’ll feel like I won’t have enough time: not enough time to train with my pack (which I still have to buy) or time to research all of my travel plans or time to work out what I want to accomplish on this long walk.

But that panic isn’t here, not yet. I’m still settled into this pre-Camino time, going on hikes when I can, and dreaming idly about my summer plans. It’s still a nice phase to be in.

Yesterday I went on a hike, at a nearby park. I’d been walking for over 2 hours, approaching mile 7, when I saw a deer. I’d been walking on a small stretch of pavement before going back into the woods on a trail, and the deer was positioned perfectly: far off in the distance between two lines of trees, standing in a still silhouette.

“Don’t move, don’t move,” I whispered, as I swung my backpack around to reach in for my iPhone, so I could snap a photo. The deer was far away, but because it was standing so still, I thought that it must have sensed me. I zoomed in with my phone and took a picture, but it was blurry and I could barely make out the deer.

So I inched closer, taking steps through the tall grass crunching under my feet. The deer was standing so perfectly still, and with each few steps I would take another photo. Two steps, photo. Two steps, photo.

I couldn’t believe my luck. That deer wasn’t moving!

I was still far away but finally, I realized that something was wrong. The deer hadn’t moved in a few minutes- not an inch. I blinked, and then shifted my position. Was that actually a deer? Or… a tree trunk?

I waded off-trail through knee-high grass to take over a dozen photos of a tree trunk that I thought was a deer.

So, these are my days, lately. Long spring hikes with my camera, dreaming about the things that I’ll see this summer.

I still think it looks like a deer…

A walk through the village

July 14, 2013

I’ve noticed there’s something that happens every time I walk outside here. Whether it’s to the source to fill up my bottle with fresh spring water, to wander around and explore the village, or to go on a hike- every time I step outside, I end up going somewhere I hadn’t intended.

This is what happens: I don’t know my way around yet. It’s a very small village, yet there are winding streets and alleys with staircases and hidden paths and little bridges everywhere you look. So I set out in one direction, and then wander off because something catches my eye, and this continues to happen until I’m much further from where I intended to be. But the result is incredible beauty. And discovery. And surprise. And delight.

I’ve been to many places that I consider beautiful, but this is by far the most beautiful yet. It’s magical. It’s wild and overgrown and decaying and alive.

I took a lot of photos today. I headed off to the source, at the bottom of the village, with a couple of empty water bottles and my camera. As soon as I left the gate of La Muse, I turned right instead of the usual left, to check out what was at the bottom of the path. I found this:

Labastide village

I wound my way back to the “main” street, and took a road I hadn’t been on. It led me through the village, past houses and people eating on terraces, onto a path leading to the gardens. Days before, I’d noticed a zigzagging pattern on the hillside next to Labastide, with stone walls cutting vertically across, separating plots of land. I’d been wondering how to get over there.

garden path, Labastide

I started walking down the trail, further and further until I realized that my sandals were holding me back, and I’d have to put on better shoes for more exploring. So I came back into the village, filled my water bottles, and started slowly heading back to La Muse. The details are everywhere, and they are stunning:

Labastide wildflowers

I ran into a couple of cats, they were picturesque as well. (This one posed for me, like he knew I had a camera):

I took over 60 photos on that little walk, and I easily could have taken 60 more. Later in the day I ventured out again with my film camera, to the farmhouse ruins to take more photos. Each day I find a place that I want to return to, as well as a new place to explore or path to take. Cross your fingers for a rainy day, because it might be the only way for me to get any writing done.