Nadine Walks

stories of trekking and travel

Camino Frances vs Camino del Norte: which is “better”?

“Which Camino did you like better- the Frances or the Norte?”

It’s a question I started to get a lot as this year’s Camino was ending, and oh boy, what a question. But people want to know, they want to know how these Caminos compare to each other, which I liked better, what I preferred about each of them, how they are different.

And it was too difficult to figure out an easy way to answer. Eventually, I began to answer like this- “I’m so glad that I walked the Frances first.”

But I don’t think that’s much of an answer at all. How can I compare? Both Caminos were wonderful, and in very different ways. I’m not sure that I would have loved each as much had I not done them in the order I did (and I wonder how the timing would have affected my experience, had I let more time go by in between the two walks).

This is how I look at these two Caminos: it was all, actually, just one big pilgrimage. When I arrived in Santiago at the end of the Camino Frances, all I could think was that I wanted to keep walking. I wanted to walk for at least another month, for another 500-miles. I felt like I was just beginning to reach deeper into the experience of my pilgrimage, just starting to identify the lessons that the journey was showing me, just starting to practice some things that I suspected I’ve long needed to practice. I felt like I needed to go back.

The Camino Frances, for me, was sort of like the guidebook for how to do a pilgrimage. It was the start, it’s what I needed to do first. It showed me a little (sometimes a lot) of everything: a physical challenge, social interaction, time alone, art and culture, religion and history. I was thrown into it all, and I sort of waltzed through: this dizzying, swirling, laughing dance down a long trail. I moved through the Frances with so much energy, and overall I felt like I had incredible good luck- a charmed experience, in a way.

But the meat of my pilgrimage? I think I got that this summer, on the Norte and Primitivo. I certainly got bits and pieces of it on the Frances, but it was almost like I needed the lessons of the Frances in order to be able to practice them on the Norte. And that experience- feeling like I was able to quickly settle into a ‘meaty’ pilgrimage and have hundreds of miles to walk and think and face challenging situations and practice being strong and independent- that made my 2nd Camino beautiful. It made it so, so special to me, in a different way than the Frances was special. I felt like I shared the Camino Frances with a hundred other friends; I felt like the Norte and Primitivo were all for me.

However, had I started with the Norte, I think I would have had a completely different kind of experience. I’m certain that I would have loved the scenery and the walks along the coast. I would have loved the interactions with other pilgrims. And if I had signed up for this Camino thing in order to have a long walk- a trek across a country- the Norte would have satisfied that expectation completely.

But I decided to do the Camino for a little more than that. I wanted the spiritual journey as much as I wanted to trek across a country, and in some ways, I think I needed to walk the Frances first. The Frances is the Camino, and I could feel the mystique surrounding it: words like ‘magic’ and ‘aura’ and ‘fate’ and ‘angels’ kept popping up. So many people connected to and noticed the magic of the Camino, and the more we talked about it, the more we experienced it. Every day had this energy to it, this feeling that anything was possible, anything could happen. It was a spiritual journey for me: I stopped in churches, I said little prayers, I thought a lot about what it would mean to arrive in Santiago.

Madonna in the Pyrenees, Camino de Santiago; the Frances or the Norte?

The Norte and the Primitivo were somehow more… real. Immediate. Grittier. Dirtier. More painful. I felt like I was trekking, in a different way than I did the year before. My friend Elissa and I noticed this instantly, after the first few days of walking. “This is not the Camino Frances,” we said to each other. While on the Frances I had gone to bed thinking, “What magic will await me tomorrow?”, on the Norte, my bedtime thoughts were either, “Will my blister feel better tomorrow?” or “When will the walking start to feel easier?”

This was a true physical journey for me, with rain and blisters and very long days of walking. And it was an isolated journey- I walked alone and stayed alone for so much of the Camino. I treasured this time, especially the entire days when I wouldn’t encounter a single other pilgrim. It made the pilgrimage feel like mine- it made it both more beautiful, and more challenging.

Walk to Pendueles, Camino del Norte

But after saying all of this, I understand that everyone’s experience is so unique: many, many people get into the meaty stuff of the pilgrimage on the Frances. In the end, I think I needed a good, solid 1,000 miles for the pilgrimage experience I’d hoped to have, but for many, 500-miles is more than enough. 100-miles is more than enough.

So to answer which I liked better- the Frances or the Norte? I don’t have an answer, not a real one. And they are so difficult to compare, but I will say this: both were incredibly beautiful. I just spent a minute looking through my photos from my walk out of St Jean Pied de Port and through the Pyrenees, and I marveled, all over again, and how majestic that day was. And then I look through some of those coastal shots I took on the Norte. Is one route more beautiful than the other? Is one route better than the other? They are impossible to compare.

Orisson, Pyrenees, Camino de Santiago

Coastal route, Camino del Norte; the Frances or the Norte?

For others who have walked multiple Caminos- what are your thoughts? The Frances or the Norte? Do others ask you which route you preferred? Do you prefer one route to another?

Next Post: Writing, Hiking, and Dreaming

In the footsteps of Monet and Hemingway; Day Two in Paris, and the end of my Camino

I’ve been trying to write a post about the last day in Paris and the end of my trip, and I’m reminded of why I loved writing in the moment so much: writing about something that happened several weeks ago is a completely different experience than writing about it when the memories are fresh, when they’re all around you.

So I’ll start how I often do, with what’s around me in the moment: it’s just after 8am and I have a half finished cup of really strong coffee on the table next to me. I’m in my living room and despite the early hour it’s dark in here; the skies are a thick grey and rain drizzles and pours through the trees, onto the stone porch that’s just outside my door.

I’ve had a disjointed and crazy and wonderful few weeks since I’ve been home: a day in my apartment, a week on the road. A few days home again and a few days back out. Back and forth, home and away, over and over. I have one week left of vacation before I return to work, and at the start of the summer, I was tempted to pack in as much as possible: go to Europe, walk the Camino, come home and travel south for a wedding and to see friends. Then take off again- maybe California, maybe Maine, maybe an impromptu backpacking trip in the woods. I realized I was totally unprepared to do any of this, and what’s more, I didn’t want to do anything big. I wanted to sit still for awhile- and even though I’ve been back and forth and continuing to move, there’s also been so much calm in the past few weeks.

I moved so much on my Camino. We all do- anyone who walks a Camino- and I certainly moved last year, but this time? I was running, sailing, gliding through Spain. I could feel it- even in the early days of pain and fatigue and blisters, I pushed on, I pushed harder, I made myself move. And by the end, I felt like I was flying. I’ll write more- hopefully- about how I did this walk, why I decided to walk those long days and what I got out of it- but what I’m thinking about now is my mental state, especially at the end of the Camino.

My mind was strong. It was solid and confident and settled. I was so present in my moments on the Camino, but towards the end, I was also aware of what would happen when I returned home, aware of how I felt when I returned home last year. I’d thought about this as I walked, I thought about this during my conversation with Andrea, on my last night in Santiago: the Camino begins when the walking ends.

And I thought about this on my last day in Paris. I did a small day trip out to Giverny, the home and gardens where Monet spent the end of his life, and where he did some of his most famous work. I lingered over this trip- I could have rushed to the Gare du Nord and made it on the first train out to Vernon (a town near Giverny), I could have hopped on a bus that would take me with the first wave of tourists into the property, I could have tried to enjoy the gardens and the pond before the crowds would arrive. But instead, I lingered over my MIJE breakfast, I slowly wandered through the streets of my quartier and over to the nearest metro. When I arrived at the train station I learned that the next train to Vernon wasn’t for nearly two hours, so I walked through the streets around the Gare du Nord, and found a café near a church. It was on a bustling street corner but inside the café was quiet. I drank a café crème and wrote in my journal and chatted with a man delivering gallons of milk.

I’d become confident with my French- or, at least, confident in attempting to speak- and the attempts paid off. The delivery man laughed with me, tried to teach me a few words, told me I had a beautiful smile. On my way out, I passed a waiter who was standing alongside the bar, and dancing slightly to some pop music that was coming from the stereo. When he saw me he grinned, “Il faut dancer!” he declared. I shook my head, laughing. “I’m not good at dancing,” I told him.

I waved goodbye, and the waiter, the woman who served me my drink, the delivery man- they all stood together and smiled and waved at me and wished me a good day.

It was strange- in a way- to experience something like that in Paris. I love Paris, but Parisians are often rushed and reserved and formal and they just don’t seem to smile so much. Not at tourists, not at people they don’t know. But those moments in the café were different, and I thought about this as I rode the train out of the station and into the countryside: I could have sat quietly at my table and not engaged with the man delivering the milk. I could have smiled politely and not tried to speak. I could have kept to myself, and remained to myself, as I so often do. But I thought of my conversation with Andrea, the Italian, and I thought of what I resolved to myself, just two nights before: that I want to keep the energy of the Camino with me. I want it to shine through and into my life. Maybe I was already practicing this.

When I arrived in Vernon, a town about 5 kilometers away from Giverny, there were buses lined up outside of the station to deliver tourists to Monet’s home. But I chose to walk. Of course I did! There is a flat walking path that runs behind houses and past fields, leading straight from Vernon to Giverny. Most took the bus and several rented bicycles but a few others, like me, chose to walk. And when I arrived in Giverny, an hour later, instead of going to see the gardens, I first sat down to a long lunch. I’d heard great reviews about the restaurant which is part of the Hotel Baudy- just down the street from Monet’s residence- so I found a table on the terrace and ate like a queen: a glass of Bordeaux and slices of fresh baguette. Salad with goat cheese, salmon, broiled tomatoes, crème brûlée.

When I finally made it to Monet’s home, it was packed with people. The gardens were beautiful but so crowded. I walked up and down the rows, admiring the flowers, but I didn’t feel particularly overwhelmed with the beauty or inspired by the setting. But then I walked through a small underground passageway and over to the Japanese water garden and when I saw the weeping willows and wisteria covered bridges and the pond full of water lilies- all of that green- for a moment, it took my breath away.

On my return to Paris I felt full of a quiet energy and inspiration. Those feelings followed me to Shakespeare and Company, an independent bookstore on the Left Bank. I’ve been there before- maybe I’ve been there every time I travel to Paris- it’s my favorite bookstore in the world. As I walked through the stacks of fiction I saw a pile of slim paperbacks, a black and white photo on the cover of a man standing in front of a building. I picked up the book- it was Hemingway’s ‘A Movable Feast’, and I promptly took it over to the register and handed over some euros. My dad had just mentioned this book, when he was driving me to the airport before my Camino. “Have you ever read Hemingway?” he’d asked. “You would like ‘A Movable Feast’, it’s the memoir of his early days as an ex-pat in Paris.”

I’d had no idea. For as many times as Hemingway has ‘appeared’ in my travels these past two years, I’ve never read a thing by him. And yet, ever since I walked into Café Iruna last year in Pamplona, with Ibai and Mirra and Ji-Woo, I’ve felt some sort of small connection with Hemingway. I think maybe it had to do with being a foreigner in Spain- out on this strange adventure, stepping through towns where he spent so much of his time. When I was in Venice, this past winter, I discovered a bar where Hemingway had spent his time, stationed at a corner table in the cold winter months, working on a book. It was Harry’s Bar, and I made a point to walk inside. I’m not sure why, but suddenly it seemed like if I happened to be in the same places where Hemingway used to be, I should try to track down his favorite spots. Maybe I was trying to capture those same feelings that I had when I was gazing over the water lilies at Giverny: that quiet, energizing inspiration.

And this year, on my Camino, there were the words from a local, as I was sitting in a bar, writing: “Hemingway started like this, you know.”

I started reading ‘A Movable Feast’ right away- that night on the stiff, narrow mattress in my hostel room, the next morning, leaning against the concrete wall in the underground of the metro, waiting for my train that would take me to the airport. Twenty pages in and he writes about Shakespeare and Company, how he was shy and poor and had to ask to borrow books. I ate up his words as I read, and I realized- amazed though I probably shouldn’t have been- that I really like the way he writes.

And this is how my time in Paris ended, these are the feelings that I carried back with me from my trip this summer: feeling strong, feeling peaceful, feeling quietly energized, feeling ready to come home, feeling ready to write, feeling ready to figure out how to keep walking my Camino.

café crème, ParisJapanese bridge, Giverny, FranceFlowers and pond, Giverny, FranceJapanese water garden, Giverny, FranceShakespeare and Company bookstore, Paris, France

Next Post: Don’t Stop Me Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

stick and pack, Camino del NorteAirport stick wrappingWrapped walking stickPilgrim shadow, Camino de Santiago

Next Post: Crepes and Cathedrals

You can sleep when you’re in the pencil case; Day 31 on the Camino, Muxia to Santiago (by bus)

(I wrote most of this post while I was still in Santiago, but I’m finally getting around to posting it just now, a full week later. I’m back in the States and this is sort of the last of the ‘live’ Camino posts, but there will be more to come! Including the saga of getting my walking stick home…)

It’s 6:00pm and I’m sitting at a cafe tucked around the corner from the cathedral in Santiago- at an outdoor table under a large white umbrella. I’m steps away from the main square of the cathedral but this tiny corner of the city is very tucked away, down a set of stairs that not many people notice. The day is chilly and the coffee is good and strong. I feel rested and relaxed. Satisfied.

I had another early start this morning, every morning has been an early start on the Camino. Even though I wasn’t walking I still had a 7:30am bus to catch back to Santiago, so I dragged myself out of bed and wondered, again, why in the world I had walked so much yesterday, why in the world I had stayed up so late drinking wine with Honza. But then I remembered something we’d talked about the night before, the expression, “You can sleep when you’re dead.” He told me about one that his girlfriend says, and I’m not sure if it’s a Czech thing or just his girlfriend’s thing, but in any case, it’s this: “You can sleep when you’re in the pencil case.” Same concept, but funnier and stranger. I might start using it.

So yes, I can sleep when I’m in the pencil case. And since I’m not there yet, I have no regrets about pushing myself really hard in this last week: the long, long days of walking, the late nights talking with friends, the early mornings when I sacrificed sleep in order to sit outside and drink coffee with Nicolas or Christine.

Besides, I found my rest today, almost against my will. On the bus ride back to Santiago I closed my eyes for a moment and then opened them to discover I was back in the city; this afternoon I took a nap (the first nap of my Camino! And on my first day of not walking in a month!).

This is my first rest day and my last day in Spain, tomorrow I fly to Paris. My experience of Santiago is so different than it was last year, but not in a bad way. I still feel like I belong here, I’m a pilgrim and I walked here and even though this year’s walk didn’t feel as much like a pilgrimage, Santiago was still, always, the destination.

But like the rest of this year’s Camino, this final day in Santiago is calm and relaxed. But also filled with beautiful moments. I’d arranged to meet Moritz in the morning; I hadn’t seen him in about four days, since Castroverde. He took a slightly different route to get to Santiago and only arrived early this morning, planning to stop for an hour or two and then pass through and continue on towards Finisterre. When I realized that I could make it back from Muxia in time to see him, and that he would wait for me, I was so happy. It meant that I’d been able to say goodbye to the four people I’d grown closest with on this Camino: Christine, Guillemette, Nicolas and Moritz. And that was a special thing, considering we’d all parted and were arriving/leaving Santiago at different times.

So Moritz and I had coffee and filled each other in on what had happened since we’d last seen each other. We lingered, continuing to talk, already reminiscing on the days we had spent together. We said goodbye in exactly the same spot that Christine and I had parted, giving each other a strong hug and promising to keep in touch. I could feel a small lump in my throat as I watched him walk away, and I thought, once again, about how lucky and grateful I was for the people I met this year.

I stopped by the pension I’d stayed in on Thursday night to see if my room was ready, and it was. This time it all felt easy: I knew exactly where to go, I was given the same room, and when I walked inside I felt like I was back in my little home. After dropping off my pack and my stick I hurried over to the cathedral for the 12:00 mass, and stood quietly in the back of a very packed church. After about 10 minutes two men passed by and I realized I knew them- it was Jose and another Spanish man, the guys who had been at my dinner table in Bodenaya. It was a classic Santiago greeting: the looks of surprise and happiness on our faces, the hugs, the congratulations (all in hushed tones, since there was a service going on). I hadn’t seen them since the Hospitales route, the day that I tacked on an extra stage. Jose told me that they were the first to arrive in Santiago, the rest of the people we’d been with in Bodenaya were a day or two behind.

I shook my head and joked, “No, I’m the first of the group to arrive!” He wagged his finger at me. “You’re in your own group.”

I had to smile at that, because maybe I AM in my own group, or maybe, actually, I’m in a lot of groups. I come and I go but always, it seemed as though I found people to be with.

Just as the mass ended and I was saying goodbye to Jose, I heard someone exclaim, “Nadine!!” I turned and it was Jill, an American girl from Chicago who I’d met at least two weeks ago in Pendueles (when I was still on the Norte). She threw her arms around me and gave me the longest, strongest hug I’ve maybe ever had in my life. I’d probably only ever talked to her for an hour but, again, this is the Camino: when you see people again, especially when you think it’s impossible, it’s a special thing.

We’re going to meet for dinner tonight, maybe with a few others as well. I’m hoping I can run into other people I know- I’m still holding out hope that others from the Norte are here, as well- but even if I don’t find anyone else, it will be okay. In many ways I’ve been given more than enough on this Camino- more friends, more connections, more time alone, more time to feel pain, more time to feel alive- than I ever expected. It’s been a good, good month.

(later)…

I never did run into anyone else from the Norte; I’d arrived in Santiago too soon, they had more time to walk, or maybe they were somewhere in the city, and I just couldn’t find them. I did, however, run into one more person, one last Camino encounter that felt strange and special.

I was walking back to my pension after dinner, it was nearly 11:00, the night was dark but the city was still alive, with pilgrims streaming through the streets, eating and drinking and celebrating. Just before coming to the street that I would turn onto for my pension I saw someone familiar walking towards me: it was Andrea, the Italian man who I had helped in Arzua (he had been looking a little lost and I told him to come with me to find an albergue). We greeted each other and he was so pleased to see me. “Come have a beer with me,” he asked.

At first I declined. I was tired and I didn’t know Andrea at all. I’d spent a total of 15 minutes in his company, that day in Arzua, and in that moment, all I wanted was to return to my room and climb into bed and fall into a deep sleep. I felt like my pilgrimage, my Camino, was over.

But Andrea pleaded. “It wil be fast,” he said. “I wanted to buy you a beer in Arzua, after you helped me find a place to sleep, but I went to the pharmacy and then you were gone. But now here you are, and I am so glad.”

I heard his words and then I heard Honza’s words, from the night before: “You can sleep when you’re in the pencil case.”

So I agreed and Andrea and I found a place nearby- a small bar on the corner where we took a table outside and ordered beer and talked for an hour.

It’s hard to describe the conversation we had, but all I can say is that it was such a Camino conversation, and in some ways, the perfect way to end this trip. Andrea told me how much I had helped him, that day in Arzua. To me, I hadn’t thought much of it- he had looked tired and I also needed to find a place to sleep, so it made sense to have him come along with me. But Andrea had really been struggling: he had tendenitis and was in a lot of pain. He was tired and frustrated and feeling like his Camino might have to end, just 40 kilometers before Santiago.

But then I appeared, and he said that when he saw me, I had a smile on my face. That he could feel my positive energy, and that being able to follow me to an albergue helped his spirits and his outlook so much.

We talked about this, and about what the Camino can give you, about how it is really just one small part of a journey through life. How the real Camino begins when you go home. It’s something I’ve thought about before, but it’s been so much more on my mind during this trip. Last year, when I came home from the Camino Frances, I was upset that I wasn’t still on a Camino. I wanted to walk all day, I wanted to be outside all day, I wanted to be meeting people from all over the world, I wanted to feel free, all the time.

It’s a big reason that I came back to do another Camino: I wanted those feelings again. I wanted to keep walking. But this year, at least right now, my feelings are different. I’d still love to walk all day and meet people and feel that freedom, but I don’t think I need it in the same way. So many of the friends I made on this year’s Camino have asked me: What will your next Camino be? When will it be? And I don’t really have answers, other than it will probably be somewhere in France, and it probably won’t be next summer.

Because I’m ready for other things, now. I think I will always want to be on a Camino, and I have no doubt that I will do another Camino (maybe many Caminos) in my life. But I’m also ready to really live my days, wherever I am. To try to be present with each day and not always be dreaming about my future, about what I want to do when I have time off. I want to say to myself, “I can sleep when I’m in the pencil case” a little more than I normally do in my regular life. When people walk up to me, I want them to see my smile, to feel my positive energy. I want to see what other parts of the world I can explore, what other things in life I can experience. I want to feel more alive and free in my day to day life, which I know is a challenge… but it’s something I want to try.

So that last Camino conversation, with Andrea, it was perfect. Because it was all about this kind of stuff. He talked about how the Camino will always be with him, that he can carry it within him wherever he goes, in whatever he does. I thought this was a powerful message to hear on my last night in Santiago, and the words repeated in my head as I walked back to my pension, as I finally climbed into bed, as I drifted off into that much needed, very deep sleep.

The Camino is always with me.

  

Next Post: The Things We Leave Behind

You’ll never walk alone; Day 30 on the Camino, Vilaserio to Muxia

I learned something about myself today: 52 kilometers is a bit over my limit. But… I did it! 2 days from Santiago to Muxia. I would never do it again and maybe it was worse because I had three 40km days leading up to Santiago, which means I did just a tad more than 200 kilometers in 5 days (and I don’t know that I would recommend this to anyone)… but I’m happy to have done it.

Part of this crazy plan of walking really long days was so that I could try to do it all: make it from Irun to Santiago, then be able to walk to Muxia, and then make it back to Santiago and have a little time to try to find people that I’d met along the way. I didn’t realize that I would want to spend time in Santiago after a trip to Muxia until I realized that most of my friends were behind me, so when I began to consider doing Santiago to Muxia in two days, a big reason for that was so that I could have extra time in Santiago at the very end of this journey.

But also, I wanted to see if I could do a 50km day. Last year I’d wanted to break 40km, and I did, and it was plenty. But this year I happened to hang around with some young guys who loved to walk really big days, and the idea began to stir around in my head- maybe I could do it, too. I think it was Simon who said to me, “Don’t you want to go for 50km, to see if you can do it?”

So I did, and I can do it. But not well. You should have seen me on the last 10 kilometers of the walk today: I was literally dragging myself to Muxia. And wondering why in the world I ever thought this was a good idea. And wishing that these weren’t the very last kilometers of my Camino this year- spent in the rain, small pebbles rolling around in my shoes, mud slinging up on my calves, nearly every muscle of my body aching, my eyes heavy because I need more sleep. If there had been a bar 5km or even just 2km away from Muxia I would have stopped for some coffee, just something to power me through. But I powered myself through, ending with a small, steep hill up to the albergue. I stopped in the middle of the hill, partly because I was exhausted, and partly to take a moment to recognize the end of my Camino. Despite my fatigue, I said to myself, “This was a good Camino.” And it was. And, honestly, not a bad way to end this Camino. It started with a steep hill in the rain and was ending with a steep hill in the rain, but the in betweens had been glorious.

The day started really well. I had been the last to bed the night before but the first to wake up in the morning (and this is EXACTLY the reason for my heavy eyes today). I was ready to go in 25 minutes, which I think is a record for me. 5:30am I was on the (dark) road, walking. And even though I walked in the dark for an hour, I didn’t get lost once, or even momentarily confused. My guidebook had decent directions, and I was vigilant about shining my flashlight around to look for arrows and waymarkers. I walked until 7:00 and stopped at the first open bar for a cafe con leche and tostada, and took a few moments to watch the sunrise, something I haven’t seen much on this Camino.

The bar I’d stopped at was also an albergue, and the hospitaleros looked at me as I drank my coffee. “You didn’t stay here last night,” they said to me. “No,” I replied. When I’d entered the bar there were lots of other pilgrims around, getting ready to start their day. It felt kind of good to have already been on the road for 90 minutes. I felt kind of tough.

That feeling lasted for awhile- I walked for a few more hours then took another coffee break. I ran into a German guy I’d met very briefly the day before, and later, passed him on the trail. “Wow, you’re fast!” he told me. I looked at him over my shoulder as I walked away, “I’m fast now, but maybe not so fast later.”

Truer words have never been spoken. After another hour it started to rain, and then my body sort of said to me, “I’ve had enough.” I pushed myself through until I could find a bar, and soon after I arrived the German guy and an Australian girl came in. We all sat and ate sandwiches and the goofy barman tossed rubber eggs at us. I get so confused sometimes because I don’t understand Spanish, but I don’t think this was a language thing, I think the barman was just a bit odd. He had a couple of rubber eggs and I guess they were a joke but maybe I was too tired to really get it. And I WAS tired- too tired for the barman with the rubber eggs, too tired for the good looking German guy who was telling me that he just finished a degree in counseling. I could have handled this at the beginning of my Camino, I could have handled this a few days ago (even yesterday!), but today? All I wanted to do was lay my head on the table and fall asleep.

And then, as I continued to walk, any toughness I’d had in the past few days disappeared. I hobbled through the last kilometers to Muxia, arriving around 6pm, and told myself that I was glad to not have to walk tomorrow. I pulled off my shoes and socks to discover another small blister on the ball of my foot (something I suspected was forming during the last 10 kilometers of the day’s walk… and how’s this for a Camino message? The blister was perfectly formed in the shape of a little heart. Love and pain and all of that… lots of symbolism here- the Camino’s final mark on me was a heart, and I had to laugh when I saw it). I arranged my sleeping bag over my bunk and went to take a shower only to discover that the stalls didn’t have doors. Second time for me on the Camino, but this time I was not the only woman in the albergue. I was not amused but what can you do? At least the water was hot.

I took a walk through the town and over to the end of the little penisula, where I walked over the flat rocks to stand facing the water as it crashed against the shore. It was rough and a bit wild, windy with dark clouds swirling behind me. But ahead of me, far out over the water, the sun was shining (I think another metaphor, perhaps). And as I walked on the rocks and climbed up a hill around the church, the sky began to clear and the evening became beautiful.

Walking back to my albergue I didn’t recognize anyone (and really, the only people I would know in this town were the German and Australian I’d met that day). I wasn’t sure how I felt about being alone; part of me craved it, wanting to just cook up a nice meal and do some writing back at the albergue. But the other part of me was wistful and a little sad- knowing that I was completely finished with my Camino, having just walked over 50 kilometers, wanting to somehow celebrate it, wanting to not be alone.

Back at the albergue I opened a bottle of wine and cut up some vegetables and settled in at a table to do some writing. Moments later, a guy walked downstairs and I squinted when I saw him. From where I was sitting, he looked an awful lot like Honza, the Czech guy from the night before. He looked at me, and then we both grinned and shook our heads. It was Honza, and I was really, really surprised to see him in Muxia.

“You didn’t walk the 50km today, did you?” I asked as he walked over.

“Oh yes, I did. And it was because of you, you put the idea in my head last night.”

I looked at him, worried about whether he hated me for putting the idea in his head.

He smiled. “And on the walk today I wanted to thank you, because I’m really happy I did it.”

So just like Simon had put the idea of a 50km into my head, I’d put the idea in Honza’s head. And as I stood talking to him, I realized that I wouldn’t be alone tonight after all. Honza was a new friend, but he was a friend who had also just walked 50 kilometers to get here.

We made a meal together- pasta and a sauce with chorizo, bread, wine. After we finished eating we took the wine up to the second floor terrace of the albergue, where others were gathered to watch the sunset. As we’d been cooking we’d found two candles in one of the kitchen drawers- a 5 and a 0. While surely someone else had celebrated a milestone birthday, Honza noted that these candles were also meaningful for us. So we stuck the candles into the top of two bottles of wine and held out our cameras to take a photo- the ocean and the sunset in the background. A way to commemorate our 52 kilometer day.

We sat on the ledge of a stone wall, Italians next to us, some French in chairs below us. Drinking wine and talking with a new friend as the sun set and the stars came out, I couldn’t have predicted that this would be how I’d spend the night of my last day of walking the Camino Norte/Camino Primitivo. But, in some ways, of course this is how it would finish: I always struggled with whether I wanted to remain on my own or to be with others on this Camino, and in some ways, the Camino wouldn’t let me be alone. I knew it back on Day 4, when I walked away from my first Camino family, passed under that bridge and saw the graffitied words: “You’ll never walk alone.”

And it was true, because even though I spent so much of the actual walking time alone on this Camino, the number of people I met and the short, but deep connections I made astounded me. I would walk ahead or behind but always, there were others just ahead or behind, as well. Nicolas or Honza, Guillemette or Christine. Moritz or Nicole or Richard or Elissa. And dozens of others. I never knew when I would run into my friends or run into someone new or keep walking alone but this is the Camino (and life, too): in the end, I think we never walk alone.

          

Next Post: Day 31 on the Norte/Primitivo

A Bittersweet and Beautiful Walk; Day 29 on the Camino, Santiago to Vilaserio

My day started perfectly; maybe the whole day was perfect, in fact. 

I woke up, alone in my room in a pension in a quiet corner of Santiago- not needing to worry about my alarm bothering anyone, not needing to worry about making noise or keeping my things contained in a tight, small space. I could get changed in my room and not in a cramped bathroom stall, I could brush my teeth in peace.

Packing my bag is now so routine that I can do it quickly; I was out the door and into the cathedral square in no time. The square was quiet, only a few pilgrims were standing there and looking up to the cathedral. I went to the far end of the square and took a seat against the wall and hoped that I hadn’t missed Christine. I was ready to head to Muxia, and I had a long 40km ahead of me. Already it was almost 8am and normally I would have already been walking for an hour.

But trying to find Christine was worth the delayed start. And just when I thought I missed her she walked into the square. She came from the wrong direction- not on the Camino- and I knew she had already been to the square and had probably gotten her compostela. She was walking slowly, looking around, smiling at other pilgrims, still carrying that enormous green pack and her two very worn walking sticks.

I walked over, reaching out to touch her arm. When she saw me she blinked and said, “Ce n’est pas vrai.” I’m sure she expected that I would be on my way to Muxia by now. We embraced and took a photo and went to find a bar to have breakfast. Our conversations have always been pretty basic, since my French isn’t so good, and this morning I wished so much that we could speak more easily. I had so many questions for her: what it felt like to be in Santiago, what it felt like to end this journey, was she happy or sad or overwhelmed or tired? We talked about some of this, and Christine seemed more subdued than usual. But in the end she told me that she was happy- she was in Santiago, she had seen me. We walked out of the bar and to a corner where we would head in different ways- we hugged again and I struggled to not get too emotional, to not start to cry.

I felt full as I walked away, across the square in front of the cathedral and over to the Camino route; full of happiness and love and excitement for the next few days of walking. And just before I turned left to leave the square and walk out of the city, I saw a familiar figure standing against a wall- with his blue pack, gray cap, smoking a cigarette and holding a small styrofoam cup of coffee. It was Nicolas- of course it was, because it’s the Camino and things like this usually happen. I walked over and when he saw me he smiled. He had just walked through the night to get to Santiago, losing his friends somewhere along the way, losing himself somewhere along the way as well.

“I walked- I don’t know- 60 or 80 kilometers.” He frowned, and squinted at the cathedral. He hadn’t been looking forward to Santiago, or the crowds- he and Pierre planned to walk from Santiago down to Portugal, and Santiago was never the destination for Nicolas. I could tell that he was dazed and tired and probably wishing he were some place else.

But still, I smiled at him, and gave him a big hug goodbye. Whether he was happy or not in that moment, I was happy. I’ve said it already, but it’s worth repeating: on the Camino you don’t often get to really say a goodbye. Last year we joked about the “Camino goodbye”, how you’d think you’d never see someone again, try to tell them goodbye, then see them a day or two later (or even a week or two later). But sometimes you don’t say goodbye, thinking it’s inevitable that you’ll run into them somewhere along the Camino, only to never see them again. It’s good practice for life- people come and go all of the time- but it’s always been hard for me to not have closure on the relationships that have been important to me.

So on this Camino, seeing Guillemette the night before, finding Christine this morning, and now seeing Nicolas, moments before I was about to walk out of the city… it meant something to me. Leaving is always hard, but a hug and a goodbye help to ease that bittersweet ache.

I walked out of the city feeling just that: a bittersweet kind of ache, which I think was exactly the way I wanted to feel. I WAS leaving something behind when I left Santiago- I was leaving people and connections I had made- but it was right to leave. This was the end, and leaving was always going to be hard.

But today’s walk? Oh man, it was great. It took me a little while to get going, and for a lot of the first 20 kilometers, I could feel the effort it took to walk up the hills, I could feel a constant hunger in my stomach (despite the multiple coffees, croissant, toast, banana that I had eaten).

So after I arrived in Negreira, the typical first day stopping point for many pilgrims on the way to Finisterre/Muxia (and where I myself had stopped last year), I found a place to eat, and settled in for a nice, long lunch. Last year, my friend Sonal and I had eaten here- a bar/restaurant just across the street from our albergue, and I had been amazed at the quality of the food. It wasn’t typical for the bars I usually stopped at in Spain: inside, this one had a saloon type feel, with big wooden booths, a few pool tables in the back. Last year I’d eaten an amazing bocadillo (sandwich), and I ordered one again this year, along with a plate of fries. The food that was delivered to my table made my jaw drop: I’d only ordered half a sandwich but the thing that was placed before me was larger than most full sized bocadillos. I laughed at all of the food, the woman who brought out my food laughed with me, and then I dug in.

It had taken a long time for the food to come out so I was at that restaurant for nearly an hour- sitting at an outdoor table in the shade, my shoes and socks off, writing postcards, sipping my coke, munching on french fries. When I finally left, I felt so satisfied and energized, that I knew it would be no problem to keep walking.

Just as I was on my way out of the city, a young man stopped me. He looked like a pilgrim- one who had already checked into his albergue and showered- and he warned me that the municipal albergue was already full (this albergue was outside of the city, so I think he was trying to prevent me from walking out of the city only to have to come back and look for another place to stay).

His kindness made me smile, but I said to him, “Thank you, but I’m planning to keep walking.”

He looked doubtful. “The next town with an albergue is 13 kilometers away.”

I looked back at him. “Clearly, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”(No, I didn’t actually say this. What I really said was more like- “I know, but it’s no problem.”)

He laughed and shook his head a little, then wished me a Buen Camino.

And a buen camino it was. That sandwich and french fries and long break powered me through those 13 kilometers. It was a late day- when I left Negreira it was already 3:00, and on the very outskirts of the city was a marker that said Muxia was 65 kilometers away. I tried not to think too much about it- 65 kilometers was an awful lot to walk between now and tomorrow- and I pushed on. Once again the sun was out and the afternoon was hot, but when I arrived in Vilaserio, 13 kilometers away, I still felt good.

A pilgrim sitting outside a bar waved me over and said I would need to go inside the bar to check into the private albergue, if I wanted to stay. I lingered there for a minute, and a few other pilgrims started talking to me. One was an American girl, the other a German guy. The German wanted to make it to Muxia tomorrow as well, and was considering walking further that day. The American girl was staying. I stood there, leaning on my stick, telling the others about the long days I had walked. “You’re crazy!” they said. I knew it was crazy, but I was still feeling good. And I wasn’t sure whether to keep walking or not. It was nearly 6pm, and I had another 7km to go before the next albergue. It could walk it tonight, arrive late, and only have about 40 kilometers to walk tomorrow… or I could stop now, shower and sit at this bar with these friendly pilgrims, and have 52 kilometers to walk tomorrow.

So I decided to stay. And I’m so glad I did, because it was a great Camino night. After settling into the albergue I sat at the bar with a drink and talked to Juliette, a woman from England. Together we walked over to a place just down the road that was offering food and drinks (it’s hard to describe this place; I’d actually stopped there last year for a break during my walk, and I think described it as a little oasis: it’s a family’s home, and they have this beautiful outdoor space for pilgrims: picnic tables and adirondack chairs and hammocks. They cook food in their kitchen and they told us, this year, that they hope to soon open their own albergue).

When we arrived the American girl, Meredith, was sitting there, along with a guy from the Czech Republic, Honza. I’d seen Honza on my walk that day- he’d left Santiago just before I had, and for most of the morning was just ahead of me. We settled into comfortable chairs on the outdoor terrace, and stayed there for hours: eating salad, soup, bread, their house-made wine (the owner of this place warned us about the wine: “Be careful,” she said, “It is strong!!”). Juliette wandered in and out, but Meredith, Honza and I stayed and talked. Like so many people you meet on the Camino, these two felt like my friends in no time. Eventually we were joined by a group of Italians, and a guy and girl from Denmark. Everyone pulled up chairs and sampled the wine and talked about the end of the Camino. It was such a beautiful night- we sat until the sun went down and the stars came out. I knew that I should have had an early night- I wanted to get a really early start for my 50 kilometer day- but it was just so hard to leave that terrace. The others knew about my plan to walk to Muxia the next day. Meredith and Honza both seemed intrigued. “You’re maybe inspiring me to try to walk this,” Meredith said. “Yes,” Honza agreed, “It’s an interesting thing to consider.” We laughed, we finished our wine, we walked back to the albergue.

I marveled, again, at how amazing the Camino is: I’d left Santiago, leaving everyone I knew behind. But within just this one day I’d found people to sit with and eat with, to talk with and laugh with. It was such a beautiful day, and such a beautiful night.

            

Next Post: Day 30 on the Norte/Primitivo

Walking Fast, Walking Free, Walking to the End; Day 28 (!!) on the Camino, Arzua to Santiago

Today, I made it to Santiago! Also, I lost my shorts. 

I did a really good job of not losing things on this trip (well, everything except my passport, which was the worst thing to leave behind, but it worked out okay). Last year I lost my guidebook, a pair of shorts, a tshirt, a pair of socks, my earbuds… this year, I held onto everything. Until last night/this morning.

I’d put my laundry in with some others and then forgot about it. Around 10, when I was going to bed, I went into the laundry room to find it. But it was nowhere to be found. Not in either of the washers, not in the dryers, not hanging on the line, not piled in a basket. I looked everywhere, I even walked through the bunk rooms scanning the beds and the floor for a pile of laundry. Not only could I not find my laundry, I couldn’t find the people who offered to do my laundry. They were out somewhere in Arzua.

So I went to bed and figured I’d deal with it in the morning. The alarm went off at 5:30 and I walked back to the laundry room to discover my things hanging from the line. Everything except my shorts. It’s a frustrating thing, to know that the shorts were somewhere in the building… that I hadn’t forgotten them, I just couldn’t find them. I’m sure someone else mistakenly grabbed them, but I was bummed. I liked those shorts.

But sometimes you lose things and after all, they were just a pair of shorts. I had another to wear for walking, so I got my things together and left the albergue at 6:00. Immediately, and just next to the albergue, was an open bar. The Frances may be crowded, but it also has coffee. Two points for the Camino Frances.

The walk was really good. Nearly 40 kilometers (again), but I felt so motivated to get to Santiago. I stopped a couple more times for coffee, and for one last tortilla, but mostly just powered on. At one of the stops Guillemette passed by; when I saw her I called her name and felt so happy. She paused but then continued walking, calling over her shoulder, “See you in Santiago!” She seemed like she was on a mission, and I could understand it. If you’re walking well and under 15 kilometers to Santiago, you just want to keep going.

Those last 15 kilometers were really good for me. I’d been curious about how it would feel to approach Santiago and I was surprised to feel excited. Just last night I was a little ambivalent, but suddenly it was like I remembered what I was doing: walking a really long distance to get somewhere. The ‘getting somewhere’ part of this Camino wasn’t as important as it was last year- this year it was more about the journey- but I could still feel a stirring of happiness and energy as I moved closer to Santiago. I felt so connected to the history of what I was doing, how hundreds of thousands of other pilgrims must have felt over the last 1,000 years as they approached the city.

The last couple of kilometers were a little tough (as they nearly always are), and once again under a hot sun. I made it into the city center and began to recognize things. Before I knew it I was close to the cathedral and there was part of me that wondered if I should just find a place to stay, first, and walk to the cathedral later.

But I couldn’t resist it- I wanted to walk into the square and look up at the cathedral and feel that I’d made it. So I did: the square was crowded, people were celebrating and hugging, or standing quietly alone. I paused for a moment, and then kept going.

The next hour or so felt overwhelming. I was in Santiago, a place that I’m familiar with, but I was also uncertain. Uncertain about where exactly I should go, uncertain about how to find the pension where I’d stayed last year. I wandered through the streets a little aimlessly, getting turned around more than once. I stopped by the tourism office for a map of the city, and tried to describe the pension that I was looking for. The woman helping me wasn’t sure what I was talking about, so I headed back out into the city to try again.

Eventually I found my favorite corner of the city, and after walking into a couple of different pensions/hotels that were not the right ones, I found my place: Casa Felisa. And then everything was familiar- I was taken up to my room (a private, glorious, wonderful room!), I took off my pack and spread out my things and took a long shower.

It was strange to be back in Santiago. I wandered through the city for awhile, and I stood in line to get my compostela- the certificate of completion for my Camino. But as I walked around and stood in line, surrounded by other pilgrims, I didn’t recognize anyone. It was like last night in Arzua, but this time I felt it even more strongly: I’ve been walking for a month, I’ve met so many people, and now I’m in Santiago and don’t see anyone I know.

In the last week especially, I moved fast through this Camino. I realized it when I recognized my first person in the city: a young Spanish guy. It took me a moment to place him and then I remembered- we’d stayed at the same albergue in Celorio, nearly two weeks ago. He and his friends were biking the Camino. Biking the Camino. Maybe I did this thing a little too quickly.

It was late and I thought about going to bed but first I decided to find some ice cream. I wandered through the streets again, then noticed a girl with pink shorts. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun and she walked with her hands in her pockets. I was pretty far away, but it looked an awful lot like Guillemette. So I ran to catch up and realized it WAS Guillemette; I called her name and she spun around so quickly and then threw her arms around me, laughing.

“I’m so happy to see you, I’ve been looking for you all day!”

We talked about how ridiculous it was that we’d never exchanged phone numbers, and then I joined her and two other girls for a celebratory drink. We stayed out until midnight, drinking wine and talking about the end of the Camino. When we left, Guillemette and I gave each other another strong hug. “Tell me if you ever come to Paris,” she said. “I will,” I promised.

I was so happy to have found her. Guillemette and I had very similar paces throughout the Camino, ever since I met her in Bilbao. We never really planned to stay together, but we kept showing up in the same places. It took me awhile to feel comfortable around her, but in the end, I felt a strong bond: I felt like we were kind of in this Camino together. I would have been really upset if I’d left Santiago without getting to say goodbye.

Back in my hotel I thought about the others that I hadn’t gotten to see: Nicolas and Christine. Moritz too, he was somewhere behind me. I’d sent an email to Christine after I arrived in Santiago but didn’t expect to hear back from her. But I did, her message said she was in Monte do Gozo, four kilometers before Santiago, and that she would be arriving in the city early in the morning.

So I fell asleep with plans swirling around in my head: I wanted to do it all. I wanted to walk to Muxia in two days, and I wanted to hang around in Santiago just a bit to try and find Christine. I didn’t know if any of it would work: if I could find Christine, if I could walk another two 40 kilometer days, if I would run into anyone else I knew, if I would meet new people, if I would stay alone.

  

two beds! all for me!

Next Post: Day 29 on the Norte/Primitivo

Walking in Circles; Day 26 on the Camino, Castroverde to San Roman

I was woken up this morning by Nicolas, at 5:15. He came over to my bed and whispered, “The coffee is ready.” If it’s got to be that early, I don’t know if there’s a better way to wake up in the morning. 

Today’s walk was long, right around 40 kilometers. And it began by getting lost. The plan was to leave early, around 6, which would mean walking in the dark for about 30 minutes. I left just ahead of Nicolas, who was tying his shoes when I walked out the door. With his pace, I knew he would catch up to me in minutes. I made my way through the town and onto a dirt track but somewhere, something went wrong. When Nicolas never appeared behind me, and when I realized that it had been awhile since I’d seen a yellow arrow, I knew I lost the Camino.

I found my way eventually, after walking in circles, and finally got on track a bit after 6:30 (which totally erased the extra time I had tried to gain by leaving so early). The morning walk was okay, and maybe I was so focused on my thoughts, because when I arrived in Lugo, a bustling and beautiful city about 25km from Castroverde, I sort of just wanted to pass through. When I arrived in the center square I passed by a line of bars with outdoor seating and heard someone calling my name. Sitting around a table cluttered with beer glasses and empty plates were Nicolas and his friend, Pierre (the one he’d been trying to catch), their other friend Daniel (Mexico), Guillemette, and Johan (Belgium). They ushered me over and everyone gave me big smiles. I pulled up a chair and ordered a cafe con leche (and it was one of the best I’ve had on this Camino), but I felt overwhelmed.

Maybe it was entering a bustling city for the first time since Oviedo; maybe it was suddenly being surrounded by new people who were vibrant and joyous and loud; maybe it was because I knew that the group I had been walking with for the past few days was changing: Nicolas would be going off with his other friends, Moritz was somewhere behind us and I didn’t know if I would ever see him again.

In any case, I didn’t stay long. Just long enough to chat a bit with Johan, to notice how very different Pierre was from Nicolas, to run into Christine and plan where we were going to stop for the night. I met another American, Mark, and we walked around the city for a few minutes, trying to find our way back to the Camino.

And then I continued on. As ever, I felt the urge to keep moving, to walk on my own, to continue on through Spain. The afternoon was hot and after a few hours Johan caught up to me. He had been walking from his home in Belgium, and we talked about how it felt to be so close to Santiago, so close to the end. I let him pass me and I continued on, slowing down in the heat, dragging a bit for those last 5 kilometers of a 40+ kilometer day.

The albergue I checked into in San Roman was the municipal one; the private albergue was already full when I passed by. At a first glance, I was a bit worried about the municipal; it was a small and simple wooden building off to the side of the trail, surrounded by woods. It looked like a basic cabin, a hut you might find in the mountains. I worried that it would be dark and dank and sad, but it surprised me. It was almost like one of those tiny houses: the impossibly small structures that are designed so efficiently and beautifully. The albergue had a very small, central area with a kitchen and a long counter; this kitchen was stocked with plenty of pots and pans and glasses and silverware. On either side of the kitchen were two bunk areas, and everything was clean and comfortable. The bathrooms were modern, and the only thing lacking was a good outdoor space with a table or two to hang out at.

But I was content. After my shower I walked nearly a kilometer back to the only bar/shop around for miles, sat with Johan and Guillemette who were taking a long break before continuing on (Guillemette amazed me, saying she felt good and strong and wanted to keep walking). Christine appeared and eventually joined me for a drink, and together we picked up supplies for dinner and went back to the albergue to cook.

Strolling in quite late, at 8:00pm, were Nicolas, Pierre and Daniel. They had taken their time since leaving Lugo- celebrating their reunion and stopping at every bar along the way. They’d also bought supplies for dinner and everyone gathered outside, sitting on the low stone wall, leaning against the albergue wall.

I talked to the three guys for awhile, sitting outside with them after everyone else had gone to bed. I was curious about how Nicolas and Pierre could spend all of their days together on this Camino, given how different they were. I was curious how Daniel fit into this mix: when they met him, how he joined their group. So they told me stories from their Camino, and they were so full of joy. It was a beautiful thing to see but it also made me a little wistful- it all goes back to the push and pull of my own Camino. To be with others, to be alone.

I’m sure I’ll process this all more when I’m done with the Camino and back home, but for now, it continues to be on my mind. I talked about this with the guys, how special it was to find a group to be with, how it can be a difficult thing to find. And also about how I envy it a bit, but how I made a choice to really walk on my own. And I suppose I still don’t really know what the answer is for me, or if there really needs to be an answer, right now. I know that I’ve felt a strong need to be very free on this Camino- to be so spontaneous each day, to follow my feelings, to stay with people when I want to stay with people but to be alone and on my own. And that has been a wonderful, wonderful thing. But I still couldn’t shake that wistful feeling when I watched Nicolas and Pierre and Daniel, and I suppose I was also mourning, just a bit, the loss of my own little group.

I don’t know how this will end for me, if I will be very alone or surrounded by people I’ve met on this walk, but either way I think it will be okay. That was the idea for me, coming into this Camino: I wasn’t sure how I wanted to do it, I knew I just wanted to follow my feelings, to live the moments as best as I could, to give myself every opportunity to be happy. And I think, up until this point, I’ve been doing pretty well.

    

Next Post: Day 27 on the Norte/Primitivo

A New Camino Family; Day 24 on the Camino, Grandas de Salime to Padron

I have a new Camino theory, though maybe it only applies to me, on this particular Camino: every other day is a good walking day. It’s been the pattern, lately: I have one really strong day, then one day when the walking is tough. Then a strong day, then a tough day.

Today’s walking wasn’t the easiest. It wasn’t a difficult stage, but I think that after yesterday’s marathon, my body needed more of a rest. Plus the weather was hot and muggy and there was no nice breeze (as there so often has been here), so I pulled myself through the kilometers and looked forward to my destination, Padron.

I walked with Moritz for the last hour or so, and it helped pass the time. Moritz is young, maybe only 18 or 19, but I admire him. He’s polite and smart and friendly and can carry a conversation with just about anyone. If I ever have kids and have a son, I wouldn’t mind if he turned out like Moritz. We talked about American football and how difficult it is to get a driver’s license in Germany, and of course we talked about the Camino. Those last kilometers flew by, and I was happy for the company.

When we arrived at the albergue, Guillemette and Nicolas were already there, sitting outside. Moritz and I looked at Nicolas and he just smiled back at us. “I’m not going to Cadavo today,” he said. Nicolas had planned to walk another really long day to catch up to his friend, but had lingered through the day with us, instead. And maybe this albergue was just a bit too good to pass up: not crowded yet, a big open yard, a view of the distant mountains, a vending machine that sells beer and a snack machine that sells sardines and tuna. And us, his new friends.

So my new Camino family was going to have another night together. I smiled at Nicolas and then turned to go into the albergue when I saw Christine. She was standing on the stoop and we looked at each other and for a moment neither of us moved or said a thing. It was Christine! I hadn’t seen her since Guemes, which was nearly two weeks ago. She and Annalissa had started walking slightly longer days and the last I’d heard, Christine was thinking about walking the Primitivo, but I didn’t know for sure which path she’d chosen.

But now here she was, and it was that old Camino magic, back again: I hadn’t known if I would see Christine again, but I’d been hoping I would. I’ve lost so many others along the way, but Christine was someone I would have really regretted not seeing again. We gave each other a huge hug and started talking, exclaiming about how we were both here, how it had happened, where we’d each been. My French had gotten a bit rusty but nevertheless I heard Nicolas in the background, saying, “Wait, she can speak French??”

The night was perfect. I’ve had some great Camino nights in these past two years, and this one was up there with the very best of them. Nicolas, Guillemette, Christine, Jordan (another French guy we’d met that day) and I walked 1km back to the previous town to find a bar to have a drink. We stayed there for a few hours, drinking wine and picking at the pinxos delivered to our table. The conversation was entirely in French so I mostly just listened, but I preferred it that way. I marveled at the combination of people the Camino continues to bring together: old friends and new friends and everyone fits together so effortlessly sometimes, like we’ve known each other forever.

It was Sunday and we’d planned poorly. Shops were closed and we hadn’t been able to buy any food during the day, and had arrived in Grandas too late the day before to find an open store. Our food supplies were low, and our dinner was looking pretty meager: a couple packets of pasta and a few cans of tuna for 6 of us (well, for me that’s a solid meal, but the others weren’t as pleased). Nicolas had the brilliant idea of asking the barman if it would be possible for them to make us a big salad. It seemed impossible that it would work, but it did. We left the bar with a bag full of wine and beer, and another bag with a large, large container of salad.

Back at the albergue we pulled the table over to the lawn, positioned in the fading sunlight. We set out plates and poured glasses of wine and toasted being together. It was a beautiful meal and afterwards the guys played frisbee, neighborhood dogs ran through the yard.

Guillemette, Nicolas, Moritz and I had our own room- two bunk beds in a square room with a window that looked out to the mountains. Nicolas said how it was like a little home, and as we went to sleep, Moritz said, “It was really great being with you guys these last two days.”

And it was. If the day before- the long and crazy walk with new friends- was just what I needed, this day was even MORE of what I needed: to feel like I was part of a Camino family again. I had it briefly in the beginning of my Camino with Iria and Amy and Richard and Misako, but I felt it even more strongly this time: this was my group.

We’re close to Santiago now and we all have different plans for the next few days, so as it always goes here: this won’t last. But I fell asleep with a feeling of deep, deep content: this is a great way to be spending my time at the end of my Camino.

        

Next Post: Day 25 on the Norte/Primitivo

A Whole New Camino; Day 20 on the Camino (Day 1 on the Primitivo), Oviedo to San Juan Villapanada

For the first time in seemingly weeks, I woke up this morning to other pilgrims, and not my alarm. The last days on the Norte had felt so relaxed, with not many pilgrims in the albergues, with everyone “sleeping in”. I often felt like I was one of the first to get up, but that wasn’t the case this morning, as alarms started going off before 6am. The Primitivo pilgrims are, so far, early risers.

Everything felt different, and as I walked out of Oviedo, I thought about how unexpectedly strange it is to be starting a new Camino. All along I was so focused on the Norte, and even though I knew I’d be walking the Primitivo, I didn’t actually THINK about it all that much.

But now that it’s here, and now that I’ve completely lost everyone that I knew on the Norte (except for maybe Guillemette, who showed up at the albergue here but it was full and she had to walk on), I’m understanding that this really is a new Camino.

I have to keep practicing being open to all the experiences here, which was my word when I started: open. As I walked through the still wet streets of Oviedo this morning, I was immediately caught in a group of three other pilgrims. I led the way to the cathedral, but then ducked into the first open bar I found to separate myself. But for much of the walk today, I wasn’t alone- always someone ahead of me or behind me, until the last hour.

Compared to the Frances, this is nothing… you can’t exactly call this route crowded. But compared to my last few days on the Norte, this feels chaotic. I’m hoping things will thin out over the next few days, as people stop at different places and towns; I think it will. As it is, multiple people were turned away from this albergue as they arrived this afternoon.

It almost made me feel that I should have kept walking and gone further. So many people have just started their Camino today, and while it wasn’t too challenging, it also wasn’t an easy day. I arrived at the point where I could turn right for the albergue or continue straight for the Camino, and I hesitated. It was 2:30 and the albergue was yet another one in the middle of nowhere, with no town or bar or shop nearby.

I was a little tired, so I decided to stop. And all I can say is… this place is kind of strange. The albergue itself is nice, it’s on a hillside with a nice view down to the valley we hiked up from to end the day. There are picnic tables outside and a nice kitchen, a coffee machine, the option to buy beer or wine (I’ve learned my lesson after carrying that bottle of wine for 40km… even in the middle of nowhere, you can usually get wine).

But the hospitalero, he is something else. When I arrived he wasn’t here, but the albergue was open and people were milling around. I was told that I could claim a bed but I wasn’t allowed to put anything on it. I hung around for a bit, uncertain about what the procedure was like here; normally you hand over your credential to get it stamped, pay the night’s fee, choose a bed, spread out your things, take a shower then wash your clothes.

Here, everything was backwards. The hospitalero showed up and marched around, removing walking sticks from the bedroom, pointing to packs and telling people to hang them from the hooks on the end of the beds. He took dishes from our hands and told us they needed to be cleaned, he asked if we had clothes that needed to be washed. Most people staying here are Spanish, the hospitalero speaks no English. One girl tried to translate a bit for me; she asked if I had clothes to be washed and I nodded, pointing to the shirt on my back. The hospitalero looked at me and told me to give him my clothes. “I’m going to shower first,” I said. “No,” he shook his head.

Everyone in the room laughed, and it WAS funny. I was given a basin to put my clothes into, and sent to the bathroom to change. I realized that he was going to start a load in the washing machine (not that he was making me wash my own laundry), but it was still bizarre. He’s done at least 5 other loads since then, so I’m not sure why I had to give him my dirty clothes in that moment… but that seems to be the way things are here.

It’s now 7:00 and the hospitalero has been roaming around for at least 3 hours, constantly checking on things. At first I couldn’t decide if he was being super accommodating, or if he was a micro-manager, or if he just likes an audience. I’m thinking it’s a bit of all three. Twenty minutes ago someone said to me, “I think it’s time to have our credentials stamped,” and I looked outside and saw the hospitalero set up at a table, a line of people around him. He’s strange, but he’s kind: he offers water to pilgrims as they arrive, he is doing our laundry at no cost, he is checking to make sure we have what we need.

Right now I’m sitting at a table with two guys and two girls from Poland, and drinking some of their boxed wine (0.59 euros). We’re very much in the minority here, being non-Spanish speakers, and one of the Polish guys who speaks good English befriended me earlier this afternoon. He’s walked about 6 Caminos and did the Frances in 20 days. He’ll do the Primitivo in at least two days less than I will; his group wakes up at 4 or 5am to begin walking. I’ll probably see them for the next day or two, but then will lose them. Already I’m regretting it a bit- I’m sure I’ll run into some other English speakers in the next few days, but right now there are not many.

There’s one other thing that unsettled me just a bit: the hospitalero just passed around a sign up sheet to make a reservation at a private albergue that would end tomorrow’s stage. It’s the albergue in Bodenaya, which I’d heard lots about and had made a note to stay there. There are only 18 places, and the Polish guy and I were strategizing about how to get a bed there. But it turns out that the hospitalero here will call ahead and reserve a spot for us if we want it, and I’m not sure what to do.

Right now my name is on the list but I don’t like it. I really want to stay at that albergue- it has a communal meal and is supposed to have a wonderful atmosphere, a bit like Guemes. But it doesn’t feel right that I should get to have a spot just because someone called ahead, and it doesn’t feel right that others will show up there tomorrow and be turned away.

Even today, to see other pilgrims struggling and arrive here so tired, only to be told that there were no more beds… it almost made me want to give up my place so that I could walk on instead of them.

The Polish guy said that I should just try to get there early, so that I am one of the first 18 to arrive, and that way I won’t feel bad because I know I’ll have earned my spot. I see the sense in that, but I still don’t like this. If I don’t put my name on the list, there may only be a couple of beds open, and I’ll need to be the second or third to arrive in order to get a spot. And I COULD try to get there as fast as I can tomorrow, but I don’t really like that, either. I’m not here to rush through the days.

But this is just part of the Camino. I remember last year, how Mirra and I waited for nearly 2 hours in front of an albergue we wanted to stay in, to find out that it was already full even though we were the first ones there. People had called ahead to reserve their spots- something you can only do for private albergues- and we were out of luck.

I remember being disappointed but also believing that it was just the way of the Camino; Mirra and I ended up having such a good afternoon and a great evening, and I was happy to have needed to walk on that day, that it all worked out okay.

So maybe this will also be the way of the Camino, having a bed reserved in a great albergue. Sometimes I miss out, sometimes I get a spot.

(a little later…)

I just ate dinner with a French woman (the Polish group went to bed around 8:00; no wonder they can wake up and start walking so early). The French woman was the only other person I could really communicate with here, so we shared a bottle of wine and had a basic conversation (considering my level of French- it’s improved in the past few weeks, but it’s still not great). She also commented on how many Spanish people are here, and how strange it is that there are no other French. I wonder if this is typical of the Primitivo, to be predominately Spanish? In any case, this will be the group I’m with tomorrow evening as well, if I decide to stay in Bodeyana- I think most people here reserved their spots.

This day and evening have been completely different than a few days ago… and those days were very different than a week ago… and it amazes me how much this experience can change in the day to day. But for this moment, right now, I can’t complain: I’ve met new people and had a good meal (spaghetti and tuna fish, an old favorite!), I’m finishing my glass of wine as I write this, sitting outside with a beautiful view down to the valley. The night is cool and everyone is wearing a jacket or a fleece: some are talking, others are writing, and others are just sitting here, staring out to the view. It may be a different kind of experience, but it’s still a beautiful one.

      

Next Post: Day 21 on the Norte/Primitivo

Alone in a bar, alone in an albergue (almost); Day 17 on the Camino, San Esteban to Sebrayo

I’m sitting at a wooden table outside the albergue in Sebrayo; with me are Carlos and Guillemette and Charles, and a German guy named Teto. It’s just the 5 of us in this albergue; compared to this afternoon though, it’s a crowd.

I arrived at the albergue just after 3, and the place was deserted. I looked at a sign on the door saying it opened at 3:00, and to come to house #7 for the key. I stood around for awhile, trying to decide what to do. My visions of a big Camino reunion with all the friends I’d met over the past weeks were dashed- clearly, the others who had been ahead of me on the path had passed this place and continued on. And I wasn’t sure how far back the others were, but I had a feeling I had gained a stage, and that they wouldn’t catch up.

This place is similar to where I stayed last night- just a building on a road surrounded by a few houses and not much else. After the past few quiet days, it would be nice to be surrounded by more- if not a busier town, at least a busier albergue.

So to reach this quiet building on a quiet street in the middle of fields and cows and horses… it felt too still, too isolated. I opened my pack and pulled out my guidebook, put the guidebook back, opened the pack again to check the guidebook one more time just in case I missed something. I didn’t have any good options- the next big town was about 6km away, which was do-able, but there were no pilgrim albergues and I didn’t want to spend more money to stay alone.

So I decided to stay here. Once I found the hospitalera and she let me in the albergue, she explained that yesterday, by 3:00, the 16 beds were full- people had been waiting at the door for the place to open. I picked my bunk and took a shower and washed my clothes and still no one else had shown up.

I decided to walk up to a restaurant 800 meters away; it was more than I expected since my guidebook warned that there were no provisions in town, only a food truck that came by in the evening. I had brought food with me and planned to cook a meal in the small kitchen, but it was 4:30 and I was alone and it seemed like a potentially long evening ahead.

The restaurant was a little bar that sat on the side of a small highway. The waiter asked if I wanted a menu del dia so I figured why not? A large salad with hard boiled egg and tuna, battered fish and french fries, rice pudding and bread and another bottle of wine.

It was just a strange afternoon, this Camino continues to throw different things my way. It was almost funny, being in the middle of a very no-where kind of place in Spain, all alone. Very alone- I think there is a large group of pilgrims ahead of me, a large group behind me, and in this middle place, this no-where kind of place, it’s empty.

I walked back to the albergue, down a long pebbly hill, and I saw Guillemette talking to the hospitalera. Behind her were Carlos and Charles- the three of them have been walking together for the past few weeks. They are all very young, in their early twenties, and ever since Carlos bought a tent in Santander, they’ve sometimes camped out. I figured they were at least a day behind me but this is always what the Camino does: it brings people to you that you think you may never see again.

I’m not sure what my feeling is about being in an albergue with this group. I had a nice night in Santillana del Mar with Guillemette and Carlos, but I could sort of feel my age with them- I felt like I was young enough to hang out with them, but too old to really fit in. I like them, but I’m not completely at ease around them, and I think that feeling is probably mutual. And it’s the same with Charles, maybe more so- I don’t feel comfortable around him and he notices and it makes me more uncomfortable. It’s fine when there are other pilgrims around, but now it’s just us, along with a young German guy.

But this night has been fine, and right now- 10:30 and the sun has set and the clouds are clearing and the sky has a pale purple tint- it is beautiful. We’ve been sitting at this picnic table for the last 4 hours- it is scattered with breadcrumbs and small chunks of chorizo, bits of cheese, empty beer cans, the stubs of several dozen cigarettes. Charles is reading a book and Carlos is smoking his last cigarette, Guillemette has already gone to bed. There are horses in the field just next to us, and two cats have just appeared. They sit just in front of us, on the road, as if they were drawn here. And I think how strange and wonderful this is, because we- myself and Carlos and Charles and Guillemette and the German guy- we were all drawn here as well. To the Camino, to the Norte, to this very spot, to this quiet albergue. For tonight, and only tonight, this is where we are.

    

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Next Post: Days 18 and 19 on the Camino del Norte (the in-between)

Camino Angels and a few luxuries to mark the halfway point of my Camino; Day 15 on the Camino del Norte, Pendueles to Celorio

I had a few walking options for today, and I talked them over with Richard and Jill and Nia at breakfast this morning. My plan is to arrive in Sebrayo in 3 days, the last town before the Caminos split and Primitivo pilgrims separate from those continuing on the Norte. From Pendueles it’s about 75 kilometers to Sebrayo, and with three days to walk, it would make a neat 25 kilometer/day distance.

But that’s almost a bit too easy. I had that big 40km day yesterday, and I thought it would be nice to take it easy today, with a short day and time by the sea. A 14 kilometer kind of short day (which at this point, is practically like a rest day). Tomorrow I’d like to stay at Casa Belen, an albergue I’ve heard great things about, and that would be about 20km, leaving another whopping 40kms for the last day into Sebrayo. That’s the plan, and I told Richard I would see him in Sebrayo, in three days. He’s continuing on the Norte, and my hope is that some of the other pilgrims I’ve met along the way will be there at the same time. As much as I understand that this is the Camino and sometimes you don’t get to say goodbye… I’d still like to say goodbye, if I can.

But today didn’t got as expected (because, after all, this IS the Camino and you can really only plan things so much here).

I started off leisurely, taking my time to pack my things after I finished the cafe con leche and tostada provided to us by our hospitalero, Javier (this was another great albergue, he even did our laundry! Albergue Aves de Paso). I started walking and almost immediately was on a dirt track leading towards the coast. The tracked weaved in and out of the trees and sometimes ran close to the water, and the entire walk to Llanes, my destination for the evening, was beautiful.

I wandered down to a little, deserted beach and found a perfectly smooth piece of sea glass. It was so perfect that I imagined it must have been tumbling in the sea for at least 100 years.

I took photos at nearly every turn, I stopped in a town for my second breakfast of the day and got a cafe cortado (a shot of espresso cut with just a bit of cream) and three pieces of what looked like a homemade cake. I only asked for a little of it (or, I think I did), but I’m pretty sure the woman working behind the bar thought I must be a hungry pilgrim, because she loaded the plate with three slices of the cake and handed it to me with a smile.

I arrived in Llanes and felt like I’d barely walked. It wasn’t even noon and I slowly made my way through the town, stopping for a map in the tourism office and finding my albergue. But it turned out that the albergue was ‘completo’, full, and didn’t have rooms reserved for pilgrims like my guidebook said it would. The only other albergue (also not just for pilgrims) was on the way into town, at least 2 kilometers behind me. I headed most of the way there, running into several of the pilgrims I’d been with last night. They were all walking on, saying there was another albergue just a few kilometers away in a town called Poo (ha!), that would open at 3:00.

The only problem with walking on was that Nicole was potentially going to meet me in Llanes. She had taken a rest day and then tried walking for a few days; her foot was still hurting and she was thinking about bussing around for a few days to beach towns. I went back to the tourism office where I could get wi-fi, messaged Nicole to tell her that I would be headed to Poo, and then settled in at a restaurant in Llanes for a long lunch.

A menu del dia was on my list of things I’d wanted to do today. A short walking day gets me to a town in plenty of time to catch restaurants still open and serving lunch, so I found one with a reasonably priced, 10 euro menu del dia: melon con jamon, grilled salmon, a small salad, yogurt with honey, bread, and an entire bottle of wine.

This is something else I’ve never done on the Camino: drank in the middle of my walk (though there are pilgrims who swear by it!). I figured that I only had a few kilometers to go, and that I wouldn’t drink TOO much of the wine…

I didn’t leave Llanes until at least 2:00, and felt so happy and content on my walk out of town. The wine was good, the meal was good, my legs were still feeling so strong, and I was walking with the mountains to my left and the sea to my right and the day was sunny with a cool breeze. I try to really notice the moments when life feels beautiful (on and off the Camino), and this was a moment I felt so deeply: it’s a beautiful life.

I got to Poo and the albergue was ‘completo’; this was another albergue that wasn’t strictly for pilgrims, and it seemed that a group of camp kids and their counselors had filled the place. I walked around the back to see if Nicole happened to be there, and the woman who worked there asked if I needed help. She showed me to a bathroom, told me to sit down for a few minutes, asked if I needed water and told me she would call to the next town and see if she could reserve a bed in one of the pensions there.

She spent a long time on the phone and when she hung up, told me that I had a bed. “There was only one bed left and a boy was about to get it, but I said, “No, that bed is for Nadine!”

This woman- Maria- gave me a strong hug before I left, wishing me a Buen Camino and I felt, maybe more strongly than ever before, that I had just met one of my Camino angels.

The walk to the next town was about 2.5 kilometers, and there was a point where I felt like I was in the most beautiful place I’d ever been. The feeling was probably a combination of things: being in the very middle of this Camino and feeling good, walking on a beautiful day, indulging in a decadent lunch, being graced with the help of a truly kind woman. And, also, being in a stunning location.

Celorio is a really small beach town, with just one Main Street, a few restaurants, a couple hotels, a hole in the wall supermarket, three tiny beaches. I found my pension and introduced myself to the old woman who was tucked away in a back room of the narrow building. “Mi llamo Nadine,” I said. “Si, si, Nadine,” she replied, and she nodded to me and walked me up a tight staircase and unlocked a door, gesturing me inside.

And I walked into a little wing: my own entryway, my own bedroom, my own bathroom. I have a double bed and a tiny TV and a fridge and MY OWN BATHROOM!! Everything about the place is old and rickety and wobbly but I love it. I’ve unexpectedly stumbled on a mini vacation in the middle of my Camino, and since this IS the middle, Day 15 out of 30, I’m taking it with open arms and am enjoying the small luxuries.

The only thing wrong with how this day turned out is that I lost Nicole (or, I never found her). We’d exchanged a few messages throughout the day on intermittent wi-fi, and I knew she was walking on from Poo, but I haven’t seen her yet in Celorio. Maybe we’ll luck out and somehow see each other in the next day or two before I leave for the Primitivo, I hope so.

So this will be a quiet night: alone in my room and soaking up the privacy. I’m going to spread out on my bed and have a picnic dinner of cheese and bread and tomatoes and apples, put on the TV just because I can, and then go to bed really early so I can be well rested and ready to go for the second half of this Camino.

            

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Lost and Found; Day 13 on the Camino del Norte, Santillana del Mar to Comillas (back to Santillana and then back to Comillas…)

I’m in Comillas and I like this town. Santillana del Mar, where I was yesterday, was great too, but in a different way. It was like this perfectly preserved medieval village that is now one big tourist attraction (but I read that as recently as 20 or 30 years ago, it was “undiscovered”, and cows roamed the streets. Maybe that’s an exaggeration, but I definitely didn’t see any cows on the main drag).

Comillas is not as polished, not as quaint… but it’s still got cobblestoned streets and a beautiful old church and great architecture. There are tourists here, but there are locals, too. I’m sitting on the outdoor deck of a quiet bar/restaurant with a drink, and I have a view down a long street where I can see the corner of the church and the spire of another off in the distance.
It’s only 6pm, and I feel like I’ve done everything today. I started walking at 7am (which is pretty typical for me on the Norte, and sometimes I don’t start until 7:30, once not until 8:00. It’s later than on the Frances, when I would start by 6:00 or 6:30). I walked for 30 minutes then passed a bar, where all the pilgrims were stopping for coffee. I had my cafe con leche and some toast, and I tried to linger there a bit so I could space myself out from the other pilgrims. I wanted to walk alone today.

But after another 30 minutes of walking I saw Jenna (New York) sitting by the side of the road, and as I approached, I wondered if she was waiting for me. We’ve gotten to know each other a bit in the last few days, and the group of people she had been walking with have either ended their Camino or bussed ahead, so she’s back on her own.

I asked Jenna if she was okay and she admitted to having a bad morning, and asked if she could walk with me for awhile. I hesitated, just a bit, but then immediately said ‘sure’. I know how some days on the Camino can be hard, and it’s not always about blisters or knee pain. Often the hard days are because of emotional reasons, and sometimes that can be harder to deal with than the physical stuff.

So we walked and talked for about 40 minutes, and even though it wasn’t part of my “plan” for the day, when Jenna lingered in a small village and I walked away, I felt happy. We had talked about how sometimes on the Camino, you give what you can: if you’re a nurse or a doctor, you might give medical advice or help. If you can speak Spanish, you might help translate. If you have extra food, you share what’s in your bag. In my case, I think the thing that I can sometimes give is my company: when someone is lonely, when someone is struggling, when someone needs a smile.

I’ve always been good at this- it’s why I became a counselor. So in my life, I do this a lot. But as I’ve walked these Camino’s I’ve been so focused on what my own needs are, what I want from them, how I need to do things in my own way. That is still my priority here- nothing is more important to me than being able to feel free and able to walk my own way. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t sometimes put my own plans to the side for a moment, and help someone out. And it doesn’t mean that I want to stay solo for the whole walk- sometimes it’s good to sit with someone and have a coffee, sometimes it’s good to have a meal together, and sometimes- even for me- it’s good to walk with someone.

After I left Jenna I had a good, strong walking day. The terrain was pretty easy, with just some slight hills but mostly flat walking. The views were decent but not incredible, though most importantly the day was overcast and felt 20 degrees cooler than yesterday. So I sailed along, not wanting to stop, and not stopping until I reached my destination for the day, Comillas.

I arrived just after 12:30 and found Richard sitting on a bench in the main square, finishing an empanada. The albergue didn’t open until 3:00 and he was going to continue walking. I stood around for awhile, trying to decide what to do. The town looked great and judging from my guidebook, there wasn’t any place too interesting to stay in, in the next 10 or 15 kilometers.

So I said goodbye to Richard and settled in at a small bar where I ordered a beer and fried calamari, and I pulled my day bag out of my back pack and reached inside and discovered that my money wallet- with my money, bank cards, and passport- wasn’t inside.

I could feel my heart start to beat really fast and I felt a quick panic, but I let it pass. I took a deep breathe and told myself that I just needed a plan, and that I would figure things out. There were 30 euros in my pocket and I knew that I could figure out the phone number to the albergue where I stayed last night, I could find a taxi to take me back to Santillana, I could track down a familiar pilgrim and ask for help to make a phone call or to borrow money.

So I drank the beer and ate the calamari and looked in front of me and saw a line of taxis, waiting for passengers. It seemed perfect. I paid my bill and walked over to ask how much a trip to Santillana would be. We stashed my pack and my walking stick in the cab and drove off, back to where I came from, and the drive took 15 minutes.

15 minutes!! During the drive I would point to places I had been, hours before. An entire day of walking seemed to be erased as I backtracked, and backtracked quickly.

Everything worked out perfectly- I went back up to the room I had stayed in last night and new pilgrims were just checking in. They pointed to the woman who was cleaning the room and she had my money wallet in her hand; she had just found it moments before. I think I said “Muchos gracias” about a dozen times then I ran back out to the cab, who was waiting for me. 15 minutes more and we were back in Comillas, and I was deposited at the door of my albergue. It was now 2:30, I still had 30 minutes before the albergue would open. Just before he left, I think the cab driver suggested getting coffee, but I’m not really sure since I don’t speak Spanish. I just smiled and waved and lugged my pack over to the albergue.

I had just been thinking that it was great that I hadn’t lost anything or left anything behind so far on this pilgrimage; and then I forget the most important thing. I was so lucky that everything worked out okay, and now that wallet is glued to my side, at all moments (which it usually is, but I just wasn’t careful enough this morning).

It was kind of amazing and awful to take that taxi ride; I’ve walked about 350 kilometers over the past 13 days, and it feels like I’m really moving and making progress. I am, and yet, when an entire day’s walk was reduced to a 15 minute cab ride, it made me feel that what I’m doing is an awful lot of work.

The albergue is another good one; an old building that used to be a lady’s prison; 5 euros for a bed, there’s a “kitchen” (really just a sink, a fridge and a microwave but that’s better than nothing), it’s in a great location of the city and the building has a lot of character.

I was the fourth into the albergue, so I picked a corner bed in the room upstairs and went downstairs to take a shower. When I returned, I found a young, good looking Italian man spreading out his things on the bed next to mine. Oh, Camino. A reward, maybe, for the stress of the lost passport…

All jokes aside (because really, I AM joking), there are a bunch of people I know at this albergue: Jenna and the French-speaking Spanish couple and the drink-offering Austrians and Fernando and the German couple. Jenna and I are going to make a big salad for dinner tonight, and I told the Austrians to come and have some wine with us.

I’ve been out to explore the town, and took a tour of the Capricho de Gaudi, a private residence that was one of Gaudi’s first important works. I’ve seen the church and have had a drink, and will sit with some of my pilgrim friends tonight for a little food and conversation. All of this, AND a full day’s walk plus returning to the town I started in to retrieve my passport. I’m amazed at how much life is packed into these days.

    

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Bridge Crossing! Day 12 on the Camino del Norte, Santa Cruz de Bezana to Santillana del Mar

I’m still sitting here in this bar in Santillana del Mar, finishing a beer (what?? Not wine? Maybe I had my fill yesterday, and needed a change. But this, too, has been something that’s a bit different for me on this Camino: normally I don’t really choose beer if wine is available, and last year I think I had one glass of beer on my entire Camino. Not the case this year).

Anyway, this town is amazing, but also super, super touristy. I arrived here with Jenna and Guillemette and we stood around, trying to find the albergue, and two women came over and asked if they could take out picture. “Pilgrims, they’re real pilgrims!” I sort of felt like I was part of the tourist attraction: this is a medieval village with cobblestoned streets, narrow and winding. Even though I’m a modern-day pilgrim, people stared at me like I was from another world (but there was part of me that liked this. This pilgrimage to Santiago IS medieval, it’s modern but it’s also from another time, and I kind of felt like I represented that. In some ways, I feel like I belong in this town more than the tourists do, even though that’s probably not true at all).

I said goodbye to Nicole this morning, and it wasn’t easy. Nicole had planned to walk the Norte in April but broke her foot just before, so she delayed her pilgrimage by a few months. She knew that the decision to walk was a bit risky and that she might not be able to make it all the way to Santiago, and for the past couple of days her foot started to hurt. Last night she told me that she needed to stop walking, and she was pretty upset about it (but also handled it beautifully). In any case, even though I felt like we’d only really become close in the last few days (and even though I only met her a week ago), she already feels like a close friend. It doesn’t seen right that I’m continuing to Santiago and she’s not. And it reminded me a little of saying goodbye to Mirra, last year: a strong hug in the morning, holding back a few tears, wishing that my Camino friend could continue all the way to Santiago with me.

But I walked on, because that’s the Camino: you make these beautiful connections, and then you walk away. Or they walk away. Sometimes you see people again, sometimes you never see them again. I had a lot of practice with this last year but I have to say- it doesn’t get easier. I still wish that I could take all the people I’ve met on these journeys and carry them with me to Santiago, I wish I could fill the cathedral with all of them, to sit at the end with them. Them, and maybe everyone I’ve ever known and loved in my life. Saying goodbye, losing people, it’s hard. I still wish that I could hold on.

The walk today wasn’t great- there has been a lot of pavement walking in the past few days, and an entire day of it today. I walked a lot of the morning with Jenna (from New York), and together we navigated the short cuts explained to us by Nieves last night.

We had a decision to make at the train tracks over a bridge: hop on the train in Boo and take it to Mogro (the safer option), or risk walking on the narrow footpath next to the tracks. This option was explained to us multiple times: in Guemes, in Santa Cruz, by a local just before the bridge. Everyone said this: there is plenty of room to walk, and it is safe if you are not foolish.

I don’t really like walking along train tracks, and I don’t like risk, at all. If I had been alone today, I would have taken the train. But I approached the bridge with Jenna, and a German man was just ahead of us. And as we looked at the bridge and debated crossing it, a train appeared in the distance. We let it pass by, and knew that we had 30 minutes until the next train would arrive. Crossing the bridge took about 2 or 3 minutes, and I wasn’t worried for a second (well, maybe just a bit. I walked fast and was kind of relieved when I made it to the other end).

So that was the adventure of the day: as Christine and I have been saying, everyday brings something new.

After the excitement of the bridge crossing, the day was just tough. And I continue to think: this is definitely a different kind of Camino for me. The actual walking wasn’t hard- it was all on pavement but mostly flat. What got us today was the heat. It’s been hot here, but today was something different. I don’t know the exact temperature, but it was stifling by 9:30. After stopping for a coke with Jenna and running into Guillemette and Carlos, we all walked for about 5 kilometers and stopped at the first bar we came across. We all sort of dragged ourselves in and got bottles of water, and let me say- that cold water was the best thing I’d ever tasted. We continued on and I wasn’t having any fun, just walking until I could get to my destination.

But I’m here and before finding an albergue, Jenna, Carlos, Guillemette and I had a long lunch in a shaded courtyard. We found an “albergue” (it has a couple rooms for pilgrims and then rooms for everyone else), there are 4 of us in the room right now and it only sleeps 6. We have our own bathroom and a little terrace and wi-fi so it sort of feels luxurious. I met two more Austrians out on the terrace (Austrians are quickly becoming my favorite pilgrims on this Camino!), and I spent an hour wandering through the town, taking photos.

Carlos, Guillemette and I had a small dinner together- just bread, wine and a cheese plate- and we talked about the Camino and what brings us here, who we were before and who we might hope to be after. We stayed outside late and if it had been a clear night I might have been able to see the stars.

   

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Wine, cheese and friends; Day 11 on the Camino del Norte, Guemes to Santa Cruz de Bezana

I’m again just a bit behind on writing- I’ve actually just finished my 12th day of walking and am sitting in a bar in Santillana del Mar. But the post on today will come later- maybe, if the words flow and I write quickly, I’ll catch myself up again.

Wi-fi has been intermittent on the Norte, it seems like I find it every few days. It’s pretty nice though; I love checking-in after being offline for awhile and reading emails, seeing the comments on this blog. Speaking of those, I wish I could find time to reply to all of them, and I hope to catch up a bit or at least answer some questions (especially for those of you who are going to or want to walk the Norte!). But it makes me so happy to know that you are all reading and following along with me on this journey.

So, the walk from Guemes to Santa Cruz de Bezana. It felt like a day with a bit of everything: a little country walking out of Guemes; walking on narrow, winding paths on rugged cliffs along the coast; a few kilometers on the beach (my favorite!); a ferry ride to Santander (the perfect way to enter a city… no need to walk through noisy, congested industrial areas!); a walk through a bit city with shops and bars and restaurants; and the long slog out of the city.

We had a communal breakfast at the albergue in Guemes, and since the albergue draws so many people, there seemed to be a big crowd leaving together (and by big, I’d say about 20 or so were in the albergue the night I stayed there).

I tried to leave separately, but I soon caught up to other pilgrims… then others caught us, and we all tried to figure out how to take the ‘alternate’ coastal route towards Santander.

We figured it out, but I felt a bit trapped in the crowd. I was walking separately, but just ahead of me was Henri, and just behind was Guillemette. The walk along the coast was so beautiful, but I think I would have preferred to be completely alone. Maybe the Norte is spoiling me, with all the days of isolated walking. To have pilgrims surrounding me felt claustrophobic!

Soon I saw Nicole sitting on a bench, resting her feet. She and I walked together down to the beach that would lead us to the ferry that would take us to Santander; we talked as we walked on the hard sand, a cool breeze made the walking feel easy, and we ended up going past our turn-off. So we climbed over some sand dunes and found our way back on track, then boarded the ferry with some other pilgrims.

Nicole and I stayed together for the rest of the day: having a coffee in a bar with some wi-fi, hitting the supermarket, buying stamps, postcards, soap, finding an ATM. It’s so funny how sometimes (like the morning), I wanted to be completely alone. But others times, I don’t mind company. Often it depends on who the company is, and Nicole has become a good Camino friend. She’s someone I felt a bond with pretty quickly, and being in her company is so easy. So we walked out of the city together, through those awful industrial zones, and as usual here, the last few hours of walking were tough. It’s been so, so hot lately, and walking with the sun beating down and the sound of the highways all around us wasn’t fun.

The albergue we wanted to find was further away than we expected, and when we finally arrived we saw that it was next to a giant supermarket (which means we lugged chunks of cheese and packets of ham, peaches and apples and bread all the way out of Santander for nothing. But it’s good to stock up on food while you can!).

We were feeling just a bit defeated when we arrived at the albergue- I know that I was hot, tired, and wondering why we’d walked an extra few kilometers for an albergue that seemed to be practically on the edge of a highway. But then we walked inside and, like the albergue in Guemes, I knew that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. The building has a small albergue on one side and a family’s home on the other: Nieves is the hospitalera, and she lives with her husband and two kids (I think). We were instantly greeted with glasses of cold water and the invitation to take off our shoes. Nicole and I were the first to arrive, so we each chose bottom bunks in the large, comfortable sleeping area.

After the usual chores- showering and washing clothes- I ran over to the supermercado to buy a couple bottles of wine and a bag of potato chips. We spread out in the small yard behind the albergue, to sit in the shade and drink wine and eat the cheese we had lugged from Santander. Jenna (New York) soon joined us; she and Nicole soaked their feet in buckets of warm water, the family’s two cats wandered in and out of our conversations, the first bottle of wine disappeared quickly.

There were only five of us in the albergue that night (two Germans joined us later in the evening), and together we had such a great Camino dinner. Nieves cooked for us: salad with tuna (yay! at some point I became known to a few people as the American girl who loves tuna fish), tortilla, rounds of goat cheese with strawberry jam, bread and wine and fruit. With just five of us the meal was so comfortable, and I truly felt like I had been invited into someone’s home and made to feel like part of a family, even if it was just for a moment.

After the meal Nieves sat us down to explain the next day’s walk (there were five different route options and one section involved a tricky railroad passing… more to come on that in the next post!). But this also made me feel so taken care of. You’re never really on your own here- I knew that last year, but in some ways I feel it even more strongly on the Norte. Maybe because it’s far less crowded here, with less pilgrims and less Camino infrastructure. So people look out for each other a bit more, you kind of know everyone who is walking within a day or two of you (and if you don’t you quickly introduce yourself), and care is taken to have tricky sections of the route explained to you. The locals continue to be wonderful- people wave as they pass in their cars, bikers shout “Buen Camino!” as they pedal past, old men with canes stop and speak to you in Spanish and you nod along, not understanding a word but knowing that whatever they say, it is from the heart.

By the end of the night, as I was in my bunk bed about to drift off to sleep, I was so happy. Even though I’ve been here 11 days, I still don’t know quite what to expect. Each day is a bit different: the places I walk through, the albergues I stay in, the people I surround myself with. But this day had so, so many things that I loved: a long walk on the beach, coffee in a cool bar in Santander, the company of someone who I know will always be a friend, sitting in the shade with a bottle of wine. Today I felt so safe, comfortable, content. A great, great Camino day.

    

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The Camino of Life; Day 10 on the Camino del Norte, Santona to Guemes

I didn’t get my own room last night after all; three Spanish bikers showed up around 9pm. I knew it seemed too good to be true!

My walk today was… just okay. The beginning was amazing but right from the start I felt sluggish. Sometimes I just know that I have good energy or am feeling strong, and I just didn’t feel this today. By the end I was moving so slowly, and it wasn’t even a super tough walk. Maybe it’s just the accumulation of all of these miles, all the ups and downs, all the blister woes, all the rocky terrain.

But the first several hours of the day- despite feeling a little weighed down- were like a dream. I got to walk on the beach! It’s just such a beautiful aspect of this Camino- the coastal views, the beach walking. It’s an incredible thing to get to experience. After the first beach I climbed steeply up a hill and then followed an equally steep descent back down to a second beach. I roamed around the rocks, searching for sea glass and finding a few small pieces. And then I walked on the hard sand for several kilometers into Noja, where I stopped for a cafe con leche and a tostada con tomate (a first for me on the Camino, but something I’ve wanted to try: just a large piece of toast, covered with tomato, a little salt, and olive oil. It was delicious). I ate this breakfast at an outdoor table with a view of the beach, tourists at the tables around me, but no other pilgrims.

The rest of the walk was long, and I just wanted the kilometers to pass by quickly. I took a lot of breaks, including a nice long one for a lunch of a grilled chicken sandwich and a coke. My eating habits have been a little strange on this Camino; yesterdays’s lunch ended up being a large scoop of ice cream (great, but maybe not quite enough). By the time I arrive at my destination it is usually too late to find a restaurant for a good menu del dia (the Spaniards usually eat their midday meal between 1-3), and the evening meal is too late for my pilgrim schedule, not served until 9pm or sometimes 10. On the Frances this wasn’t a problem, the route catered so much to pilgrims that it was rare to not find a bar or restaurant serving a pilgrims’s menu, at pilgrim hours. Here, it’s different.

So I think I need to make more of an effort to carry back up food with me in case I can’t find a place to eat. But today, it wasn’t a problem. I ate well at breakfast and lunch and then arrived at the albergue in Guemes, a place I’d heard about from multiple past pilgrims. Even my guidebook calls this albergue the best on the Norte.

And having just finished my evening here, I can see why. I was greeted with a glass of water when I walked in (my peregrina friend Nicole was also offered cookies… not sure why I missed out, hmm…), I was asked if I needed to eat lunch, I was shown to my room which is set up a bit like a cabin, with a pitched roof and wooden bunk beds. I took a took a top bunk gladly because for the second time on this Camino, the bunks were in tiers of three! And these were even better than the beds in Islares!

This place is almost like a compound; Ernesto is the owner and we were told about his history and the history of this place during a community meeting just before dinner. If I remember correctly, construction on the property took about 33 years and it has offered beds to pilgrims for 16 years. But we were also told that it’s not really an albergue for the Camino de Santiago, it’s an albergue for the Camino of life. Anyone who is working to help others, to help take care of the earth, who is trying to make the world a better place… this is their home. I liked that.

There are probably about 20 of us here tonight, and we sat at two long tables for a wonderful communal dinner: two different kinds of soup (sopa de ajo again, and an amazing vegetable purée), a dish of potatoes and chorizo, fruit, bread and wine. All around me were people I’d met in the past 10 days, and a few new faces as well. Not long after I’d arrived this afternoon I saw Richard walk by- I haven’t seen him for almost a week and assumed I wouldn’t see him or the others again. I hoped to also see Iria and Amy and Misako but Richard explained that they were all further back. Still, it was good to see Richard, and it felt like this was the sort of place that could reunite you with old friends.

After dinner Nicole and I wandered around the property; after a day of mostly overcast skies and still air, the evening felt cool and fresh. A soft light was covering everything- the buildings of the property, the big green lawn, the lone towel that hung on the clothesline.

So this is the end of my day 10, as I finish typing out this blog post from my perch high above the others in the room. A beautiful morning walk on the beach followed by a tough journey to my home for the evening… but what a home it is. It was worth every step to get here.

              

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Inspiration

 

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

-Lao Tzu

 

 

“… For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”

-Wendell Berry, The Peace of Wild Things

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Nadine and backpack on beach, Camino del Norte

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