time Archives - Nadine Walks

To Summer, To Travel, To Time

June 23, 2016

The great summer trip of 2016 begins in less than a week, so I thought it was about time that I check back in here with an update. And the only update I really have has already been said: I leave in less than a week!

Does time seem to be moving fast for anyone else? Like, really really fast? Until only a few days ago I was convinced that it was still May, that I had over a month to plan and prepare for my trip, that the days are continuing to lengthen, that summer was still far off.

But all of a sudden it was summer, and work had ended for the year, and the only thing that was looming before me was my big trip. I should be used to this by now, it’s been my pattern for the last three years: work ends around the middle of June, and I promptly hop on a plane for Europe.

So why does it feel like this trip is still weeks and weeks away? Last year, on the first day of summer, I was doing this:

I’d already been walking on the Camino for a few days, life at home felt like it was another world away.

My trip begins a bit later than usual this year, maybe that’s part of it. Or maybe it’s just that life is speeding by so fast that I yearn to hit a pause button, and give myself some time to catch up.

But there’s no stopping time so here we go. I think that finally, in these last few days, I’ve accepted that summer is here. I’ve gone to a baseball game and drank a coke slushey and had a dish of ice cream and spent a day at the beach. I’ve stretched in the lounge chair on my porch with my feet in the sun and read a book that I was too busy to finish months ago. Two days ago I went on a 10-mile hike; tomorrow I’ll try for 12-miles. This is the most hiking I’ve done in a long, long time, and well, it’s about time.

And then next week, I’ll leave for Europe. My first stop is England, something I don’t think I even mentioned in my Summer 2016 blog post. It sort of got lost in the shuffle of my mind, and stayed lost until just a couple days ago. But- oh yeah!- I decided to fly into London because it’s been a solid 15 years since I’ve been there and I thought it could be nice to do something a little new.

This photo is from my last trip to England, all those years ago:

My friend reminded me that our original plan was to spend a few days in London, then head to Stonehenge. But in 2001, Stonehenge was closed for 5 1/2 weeks because of foot-and-mouth disease, so we went to Liverpool instead (and honestly, this was probably my vote all along… Long Live Ringo!).

It’s a bit crazy to think back to that trip- parts of it that feel like a lifetime ago, other parts that are so recent in my memory I could swear that I was just there. Wasn’t I just there? Leaving notes for our friends on scraps of paper at the hotel lobby because this was just before any of us had a cell phone; crossing the street at the wrong end of Abbey Road (and causing quite the pile up of traffic in order to get a photo); battling a cold on the train to London and the endless cups of tea to soothe my throat; noticing that a small magnolia tree was growing in the front yard of the house where George Harrison grew up.

These memories are creeping in because I finally sat down and planned some things for my three days in England. I focus on these details for a moment- there’s a Jane Austen Centre in Bath! I can finally make it to Stonehenge!- but then an email pulls me into another part of the trip. It’s from the writer’s retreat in southern France- our host has forwarded a suggested shopping list so that we’re not overwhelmed when we arrive and are whisked off to the grocery store. And then I think back to my time there three years ago, and how I was overwhelmed, and didn’t buy quite enough food. Will that happen again? What will the village be like- will it be just as I remembered, or will there be changes?

And what am I like, this time? Three years wasn’t all that long ago, and yet, I know that I am different. And certainly, I’m different than I was 15 years ago, on that first trip to London and Liverpool.

Different, and yet… still me. Always me.

There’s more, too: another Amazon package arrived at my door, it’s a guide to walking the West Highland Way. And then I need to push the days in England and the writer’s retreat from my mind, and focus on Scotland. Scotland! I know nothing about Scotland! Shouldn’t I learn something, shouldn’t I do some research? A friend warns me about the haggis, and I wonder if I will try it.

And then, finally, in the very back corner of my mind, I remember that I’m also walking a Camino. That I’m returning to Spain. I’ve barely given it any thought, because this is the thing that feels the most familiar, the most comfortable. Other than breaking in a new pair of shoes, I haven’t done much in preparation. I have all my gear, I know where I’m going; this is the thing that I don’t have to plan for.

But remember just two years ago? My fretting and my fear in the weeks before I left for Spain that first time? Wasn’t I just memorizing the Spanish words for ‘I’m allergic to nuts’ and wondering how, exactly, I was to go about hand-washing my clothing?

Ah, time. I still don’t know what to make of it, of how quickly life is streaming past, yet of how far I’ve seemed to travel in what feels like very fleeting moments. I know that in August, I’m going to be back here at my computer, in my apartment, marveling over how fast the summer just went by.

Of course I will. But I’m not at the end yet, I’m only at the very beginning. So, here’s to summer! May it be the best one yet.

Still Walking

December 5, 2014

This afternoon I found myself walking (hiking?) down an empty, paved road through a wooded park. It was 4pm and the day was turning dusky, light rain drops were falling and I could see my breathe. I walked quickly, my pack a comfortable weight against the small of my back, the hood of my raincoat pulled across the top of my head so I could stay dry.

I took a few walks in the cold, a few walks in the rain, in my pre-Camino training days. Back then, it felt like every walk mattered (and maybe each one did; only a couple tiny blisters and minimal physical pain on my walk across Spain), but why am I walking in the cold, wet weather now? The answer you might want to hear is that I’m training for another Camino, but that’s not it (although, I reason that if I never really stop walking with my pack, then I’ll never fall entirely out of “Camino shape”).

I’m walking because it’s still the thing I want to do most. I don’t think a day has gone by since I returned from the Camino that I haven’t wanted to be outside, walking.

It takes coordination and effort to walk, these days. Here’s a photo of my kitchen this morning, of all of the bags I needed to take out the door with me:

Five bags full of stuff for one day. Compare that to my summer: five weeks of walking and only one bag. What happened to the simplicity?

And what happened to my time? A few miles into my drive to work I realized that I had left my hiking shoes in my apartment (I may have left behind multiple things on the Camino, but I never started a day without my shoes). I would be late for work if I turned around to get the shoes- I didn’t have time, not even 10 minutes.

There wouldn’t be time to return to my apartment after work, either. Some days I’m lucky enough to finish work by 3:00, which means if I leave on time and don’t hit traffic, I can make it to my state park and fit in a 75 minute hike before the sun sets. But everything has to be planned and scheduled and running on time. Luckily, I keep piles of shoes in my car (don’t ask me why), and I routed around to find my first pair of Camino shoes, bought in the spring- the ones that caused me a few tears and a few blisters. I’d always meant to return them and eventually I will, but in the meantime, they served as the perfect pair of backup hiking shoes.

So I hiked- or walked- and it was great. The park was empty and I like it like that. It was cold but not so cold that I couldn’t warm up after walking a mile or so. I passed Christmas ornaments hanging from the bare branches of a tree, and I paused to take a photo.

It was good to go on that walk, but it didn’t fill me like my Camino walks filled me.

A month ago I was lucky enough to meet up in New York with a few of my Camino friends. I had a great conversation with Saskia, a high school teacher in Boston (this was fitting, as she was someone I’d had a very needed and timely conversation with on the Camino, as well). We talked about the frustration of returning home to regular life after an incredible and transformative experience. Others are making changes: for these Camino friends, their walk this summer marked a large transition in their lives, and I watch them enviously. Now, they are full of energy, a similar kind of energy that we all felt on the Camino, an energy that I’m afraid of losing.

I thought about this on my hike today, how I need to steal small moments of my day in order to hunt down those energizing feelings. There are days when I struggle to find them at all, days that are too cluttered with other stuff, or when there is no time.

I’m not sure where, exactly, this post is going. I guess it’s a not very clear way of saying that I’m still working to find my direction. I’m still walking to find my direction. I know that the Camino changed some things for me, and I’m a little impatient while I’m in the in between: feeling in my gut that I need to make a change, but uncertain of a hundred different things. Not changing yet, wondering what my life will look like in a year, wondering how I will get from here to there.

So in the meantime, while I work to figure it all out, I’ll keep walking.

On Blogging While Traveling

November 15, 2014

Several people have asked me how I blogged while I was on the Camino: Did I take a computer? An iPad? Use just my phone? When did I find the time to write?

I think I attempted to answer some of these questions while I was away, but I always intended to give more thorough answers when I got home. While I was on the Camino, I always saw and read the comments left on my blog, but my replies were sporadic. There were technical glitches, too: sometimes people would leave a comment, I would attempt to ‘approve it’, and it would disappear. That happened to a post or two of mine, as well.

So this is a very long overdue apology but also thank you to everyone who read my blog (and are continuing to read!). I know that I’m writing to an audience (albeit a pretty small one), but writing is such a solitary thing. I think of a topic and I work it out in my head and I sit down to write and I hit the ‘publish’ button… and then sometimes I forget that other people actually read what I say.

But ever time I get a reminder of that- that someone is reading this blog, that someone can relate, that it sparks an idea for someone else- I still get a thrill. There are lots of reasons that I write, and community and connection continue to have a great deal of importance to me.

I loved blogging while I was on the Camino. It was fun to write about all of my preparations in the months leading up to the trip to Spain, but it was pure joy to write while I was on ‘the way’. I wanted to write every single day, both for myself and for everyone who chose to follow my blog. I wanted to record my experiences and feelings for my own sake, but to take all of you along on the journey, as well.

But boy oh boy was it difficult to find time to blog. I tried to write in my journal on most days as well, and managed this fairly easily during my early morning cafe con leche stops. Usually I’d find a bar that wasn’t too crowded, and scout out a table that was tucked away in a corner so I could sip my coffee and pull out my journal and write. Sometimes others sat with me, but mostly people saw that I was writing and left me alone.

Blogging was different. I blogged in the late afternoons or evenings or nights, but this time of day was also ‘social time’. Sometimes I was able to sit in a courtyard and write, while others napped or read or did yoga. But often, just as I found a table or a shaded spot under a tree, set up my little keyboard (more on this in a minute), and started to type, someone would come by. Or many people would come by. And usually, I found that I didn’t want to be tucked away by myself, but that I would want to join in on the conversation or the fun. I decided that blogging could wait.

In the end I didn’t have time for it all: to socialize and to post every day. But I tried my best. Some of my posts were written late at night, sitting on the cold floor of an albergue hallway next to an outlet. Or from my top bunk, typing away when I should have been sleeping. Many posts were written on the days that I “got away”, when I found a small village with pilgrims I didn’t know. One post was written sitting around a large round table in a restaurant on the Meseta, while a dozen others watched the final World Cup soccer match.

Something that helped my blogging immensely was a gift from a friend: a bluetooth wireless keyboard. It was light and small and folded up smartly into a little case. Durable and practical. I’d clip my phone into a stand on the case, unfold the keyboard, and type away as easily as if I had my laptop in front of me.

The keyboard, in addition to helping me blog, also attracted a great deal of attention. I think that every single person who saw me use it had a comment to make. I can’t begin to count the number of conversations I had as a result of that keyboard, or the number of people I met because of it. A Danish woman asked if she could take a photo of it (a lot of our conversation was lost in translation, but she was so thrilled about the keyboard that she kept clapping her hands and laughing), and an Italian man shook his head and said, “Of course. The Americans always have all of the new technology.”

I’m happy that I kept a blog while I was on the Camino, and if I ever do another Camino (can’t get the idea of the Norte out of my head!!), you’d better believe I’ll be blogging while I’m on that one, too.

To Summer, To Travel, To Time

Still Walking

On Blogging While Traveling

Inspiration

Camino Packing List