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“We’re going to see a sunset”; Day 35 on the Camino, Cée to Finisterre

October 6, 2014

It’s a late afternoon, early fall October day, 65 degrees of cloudless skies and warm sunshine. I’m sitting at a picnic table in a local park, a cup of Starbuck’s carmel apple cider within arms reach. I’ve got my “Camino writing setup” here: wireless bluetooth keyboard connected to my iPhone. I haven’t used this keyboard since the Camino, and my fingers are getting used to typing on it, again.

It’s fall in Pennsylvania, and these might be the last days of sitting outside in the sunshine. The last days until next year, that is.

I had an entire summer of sitting outside in the sunshine, typing away with a drink by my side. Actually, if anything was missing from my last day on the Camino, it would have been more sunshine. But I did have the sun when I most needed it, and here’s that story (the very detailed, extremely long story. You’ve been warned):

I can’t remember what time I woke up and started to walk on my last Camino day. Early, I think. Even though we didn’t have far to go- only 11 km to Finisterre- there was a lot I wanted to do with the day. I wanted the early start not only to keep up with my routine of the previous 5 weeks, but also to enjoy as much as I could. To soak it all up, because I didn’t know when, if ever, I would be back.

Which meant, of course, stopping as soon as we could for the first cafe con leche and croissant of the morning. Emma had left before us so it was just Sonal and I as we walked away from Cée: through the town, past the beach, and over to the other side of the little cove, to Corcubión. Less than a 2km walk, and the perfect time to stop for coffee. As we were leaving the cafe and walking back to the Camino route, we saw our hospitalero from the night before coming towards us. We greeted him with a smile and he stopped directly in front of us with a stern look on his face. Reaching his arm out and opening his hand wide, he muttered, “The key, please.”

Whoops. We’d been given a key when we checked in the day before, and I’d been in charge of it. We’d never needed to use it and I’m still not sure why we had it, but I’d forgotten all about it. Sheepishly I routed around in my pack and placed the key in his palm. “Gracias,” he growled, and walked back to his car. The night before, Sonal, Emma and I had been convinced that he knew we’d taken wine glasses to drink by the water. It seemed as if he’d been waiting for us when we’d gotten back to the albergue, watching us with a suspicious eye.

Sonal and I walked away quickly. “How did he find us?” Sonal whispered. “Do you think he was driving along until he saw us?”

“I don’t know but I feel like he’s always watching. Lets get out of here!”

Giggling, we left the town of Corcubión, climbing up a steep, narrow track, through tall trees. We walked along a road for awhile, then noticed a small path leading down to some sand. Taking a detour we explored a tiny, private beach, where the blue-green water lapped onto the shore, where I found smooth pieces of emerald sea glass.

We headed back to the road, following the Camino onto a path that hugged the side of a hill, leading us on a high route that paralleled the water. Parts of this walk had great blackberry bushes lining us on either side, and we stopped every few steps to pick the ripest berries, their juice dripping down our fingers.

Closer now to Finisterre, we talked about stopping again for coffee if we passed a cafe. About 2km from Finisterre we ran into Emma, who was sitting on a stone wall on the side of the Camino, just before a beach.

“I was waiting for you guys,” she told us. “I decided that I didn’t want to walk to Finisterre alone. Is it okay if I join you?”

“Only if you’ll agree to stop for some coffee, first.”

Just ahead was a bar that overlooked the ocean. We grabbed seats outside and drank our cafe con leches and ate our tostada, and waived Mo-mo and Silka over when we saw them passing. When we finished we took off our hiking shoes and our socks, and walked down to the sand. The beach would take us the final two kilometers into Finisterre, and I couldn’t imagine a better way of finishing the walk: in my bare feet, walking next to the ocean.

The day had become increasingly cloudy, and as we posed for photos, standing on the sand with our packs and big smiles, we worried about the chances of the day clearing up. It’s tradition for pilgrims to head to the lighthouse once arriving in Finisterre, and camp out on the rocks to watch the sunset. “I think we’re going to see a sunset,” I said. The others nodded.

We finished our walk on the beach, wiping the sand off our feet and putting on flip flops, and then walked up to the road. All at once, I remembered that I had a note in my phone about a place to stay in Finisterre. I’d read about it on a blog months before, and I’d copied the information down, stored it in my phone, and had completely forgotten about it until that moment. I don’t know what made me remember- Camino magic? Albergue do Mar was the name, and we walked up the road, rounded a corner, and there it was, looming in front of us. Three stories, big balconies, right next to the ocean. We walked in, doubtful about the chances of there being any beds left. We were early- it was only 11am- but this was the kind of place that filled up fast.

We asked about beds and what do you know? There were four left. “We’ll take three of them,” I said with a smile. We were lead upstairs and into a room and given the two sets of bunk beds closest to the floor-to-ceiling windows that had a view that was nothing but ocean. This time, for the last time, I requested the top bunk. After spreading out my sleeping bag and climbing up the ladder, I laid on the bed and stared straight out onto the ocean. A 10 euro view. Amazing.

We changed into bathing suits, thinking we might go to the beach if the sun would ever come out, and then walked into town. We found a bustling seaside restaurant and sat down to one of the best meals I’d had in Spain: a menu del dia lunch of pulpo, fresh seafood paella, ice cream, more baskets of bread than I can count, and two bottles of wine. We were at that table for at least two hours- I think we waited for our paella for nearly an hour- but it was perfect. This was the end, we had walked to Finisterre, the ‘end of the world’, and there was nothing more that I wanted than to sit there with my legs stretched out, sipping a glass of wine, and talking to my friends.

And then, just as we were paying the bill, Emma looked up at the sky. “I see blue. I see blue! The sky is clearing!!” We immediately headed out and walked 20 minutes to one of Finisterre’s beaches, the clouds moving out as we moved towards the ocean. And five minutes away from the beach, the sun came out for the first time that day. We cheered, and when we got down to the beach, we sat on the sand and let the warmth of the sun wash over us.

“This might be just what I need to be able to go into the ocean.” I walked down to the water in my bathing suit, not convinced that I would make it in. The day, despite the sun, was cool, and the water even cooler. But standing at the water’s edge, feeling the sun on me and looking out to the expanse of the ocean, I knew I had to do it. So before I could talk myself out of it, I jogged into the water, to my knees, to my waist, and then I dove under.

I’ve always loved the ocean but this was about something more. When I dove under and let my feet come off of the ground, it meant that I had walked until I literally couldn’t walk any further. It was something I didn’t realize I needed to do until the day before, when I saw the ocean. Not only was I walking to the ocean, but I was going to walk into the ocean. My final Camino steps.

I popped out of the water, sputtering. Sonal and Emma were on the shoreline cheering, and then just as quickly as I went into the water, I ran back out. Too cold! I dried myself off as best as I could with my super absorbant, super small REI towel that didn’t even fit around my waist, and then sat on the sand and watched as Emma swam in the water. And then, as if timed just for us, clouds rolled back in and the sun disappeared.

We headed back to the albergue and showered. While the others rested I took my journal and headed out to a bar around the corner, where I ordered a cafe cortado (an espresso shot with a dollop of milk, it was my first of the trip and I think it will be my afternoon coffee drink if I ever make it back to Spain), sat outside, and wrote all of my thoughts about the last day.

I’d told the others I would meet them back at the albergue at 7:30, and that I would pick up some food that we could take up to the lighthouse. I stopped by a small supermercado, picking up two baguettes, a bar of dark chocolate, a bag of potato chips, three peaches, and two bottles of wine. When I met up with Sonal and Emma they nervously asked about the wine I bought (in only a few days with them I’d earned the reputation of being frugal- why buy a 6 euro bottle of wine when you can get a perfectly good one for 2 euro?). But on this night I splurged: 12 euros for a bottle!

I loaded up my pack with all of the food and wine, plus most of my other things. Even though I’d taken my ‘last steps’ when I ran into the ocean, we had another two kilometer walk up to the lighthouse. I still wanted to feel like a pilgrim. So with my walking stick in hand, we set off, climbing on the path that ran alongside the road, walking through fog and mist and thick, heavy clouds.

Every five minutes or so we would turn to each other and say, “We’re going to see a sunset.” Doubtful, dubious looks on our faces, but we kept repeating those words. “We’re going to see a sunset.”

Closer and closer and then we were there, at the 0.00 kilometer marker. We posed for more photos, nothing but thick clouds behind us where there should have been an ocean. The lighthouse was just ahead, and around the corner we’d find the rocks where pilgrims set up to watch the sunset.

I looked to the others one last time. “We’re going to see a sunset.”

We walked past the lighthouse, Emma anxiously climbing the stone steps up the side of the rocks. I looked at her face when she got to the top and she was beaming. Sonal and I arrived behind her, and there, out across the ocean, was the sun. It was straddled by thick lines of clouds, but it was there, a band of glowing, orange light spreading out over the water.

We settled on the rocks and opened the 12 euro bottle of wine, poured it into small plastic cups and stretched our hands out to toast, everything illuminated by the golden light. We broke our bread and talked about the Camino: about our experiences, the things we learned and the things we would take away from the journey. And then, as the sun began to dip down towards the horizon, we became quiet.

At first so much ran through my mind: my first, nervous steps out of St Jean Pied de Port. Those beginning days of walking, the people I had met, the friends I’d said goodbye to. The wonderful moments and the harder moments. Arriving in Santiago. It was all spinning around in my head and then it stopped, and all I thought about was something Rudy from Chicago said to me, about three weeks before. We’d just sat down to dinner in San Nicolas, and I swept my hand around the church. “Can you believe this?” I asked him. “How did we get so lucky? To sit here, in this amazing place, with these beautiful people, to eat an incredible meal. Why do we get to do this? Why do we get to be here?”

Rudy’s face was beaming and he nodded as I spoke. Then he tilted his head back and looked upwards, up to the heavens. “All you can do,” he said, “is be thankful.”

I sat there on the rocky cliff at the edge of the world, watching the sun set over the ocean. Lower and lower and just as the last sliver of sun disappeared, I smiled.

“Thank you.”

In Corcubión, looking back towards Cée

The last 2km to Finisterre

Room with a view

The best lunch

At the end

Walking to the ocean; Day 34, Olveiroa to Cée

October 4, 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Endless coffee, top bunks, and delirium; 7 things I miss about the Camino

September 29, 2014

Today is National Coffee Day, and as I sit here in my apartment, listening to the rain, I think about all that great coffee I drank in Spain. And that gets me thinking about the Camino, and the walking and the people and the food and the conversation and all of the things that I miss. So here are a few things that come to mind:

1. Giving myself permission to drink as much coffee and wine as I liked.

Was there anything better than multiple café con leches or the 1-euro glass of (really, really good) wine? Sometimes an entire bottle of wine was only 2 euros. I could sit and drink coffee and write in my journal, I could sit and sip wine and talk with new friends, and I could do this every single day.

2. Spending my days outside.

It just felt so healthy: the cool, fresh air of the morning. The sunshine on the back of my legs. Walking through forests and vineyards and mountains. The sound of the wind blowing through a field of wheat.

3. The moment just after I finished doing my laundry.

One day I was hand washing my socks and underwear and t-shirt, and I turned to the person next to me and said, “This is my favorite part of the day!” This person stared at me and responded with, “Doing laundry? Are you crazy?”

“No,” I explained. “Just after this. When everything is finished. After those first kilometers when you haven’t had coffee, and the last kilometers when your legs feel like lead. After finding an albergue and showering and charging your phone and washing your clothes. Just after it’s all done, that feeling of complete relaxation and open time. You’ve done all of your work for the day, and it’s 2:00pm and you can eat and drink and meet up with friends or just do nothing. That’s my favorite time.”

4. An open church.

It was so easy for me to get caught up in all of the other stuff on the Camino: the physical aches and pains of the walking, the socialization and new friends, the changing Spanish countryside, the language and the culture, the nagging thoughts in my head. But when I passed a church, it was nearly always a reminder that I was on an ancient pilgrimage route. The churches connected me to a sense of the history of the Camino, and to my own personal pilgrimage.

When passing a church I usually tried to open the door to see if it was unlocked, and often it wasn’t. But that made the time when I could find an open church pretty special. I loved the little chapels, especially. So small and simple, with tiny details and still spaces. I loved when I could stand alone in an empty church- stand at the back and look up towards the altar, close my eyes and say a little prayer- and then quietly continue on my way. It always brought me a strong sense of peace.

5. A top bunk by an open window.

By the middle of my Camino, I started to get used to sleeping on the top bunk. I think my ratio of top to bottom bunks was 8:1, and at first this seemed like bad luck. But eventually I found my upside: sleeping by an open window. Sometimes this was purely chance. But whenever I got to an albergue on the early side and could choose a bed, I’d opt for a top bunk if there was a window close by. These were some of my best nights of sleep, when I could bundle into my sleeping bag, sometimes with a wool blanket stretched across the bed, and feel the cool night air blow in through the window. In one albergue I had a view of stars and a nearly full moon. In another, I could hear distant howling (and the next day someone mentioned that there were wolves in the hills, could this be true?)

6. Those hilariously delirious moments when you’ve simply been walking too long.

I think everyone had them. I kind of hope that everyone had them, and it wasn’t just me. Because usually by the last few hours of a really long, hot day, I could get a bit loopy. Once, I was walking with my friend Mirra and I looked ahead and exclaimed, “Look! A horse!” There was no horse. It was just another pilgrim, walking along.

There may or may not have been a time when I was walking alone down the very long, very straight, old Roman road under a very hot sun, looked around to make sure no one was within earshot, and shouted out, “Caesar!!” Just because he also walked down this road, a long time ago, and it seemed like I should somehow acknowledge it.

And there was definitely a time when I sang American Pie over and over and over because it was my 7th hour of walking on a hot day when I had lost my earbuds and all I wanted to do was listen to music. “Drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dryyyyy…”

Caesar!!

7. Waking up every day and feeling like anything was possible.

I know that some people got a bit bogged down in the routine of the Camino, but for me, I felt like every day was full of possibility and surprises. This feeling increased after I lost my guidebook; I didn’t always know what the terrain would be like, if I would have to climb big hills, if I would pass through large towns. Where would I get my coffee? Who would I run into? Where would I stay at night? Would I make a new friend, would I have an inspiring conversation? Would I see a castle or a cathedral or a field of sunflowers or a long line of cows? When else in life do you get to ask yourself these kinds of questions?

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

September 4, 2014

I’d thought that my Camino had ended in Santiago. I was continuing on to Finisterre with a friend, but when I last wrote from ‘the road’, on the first day’s walk out of Santiago, I said that I felt like I was on a long walk to the beach with a friend, and no longer on the Camino.

Oh, famous last words. If the Camino could laugh, it was laughing at me then. She thinks I am finished with her? Has she not learned anything on this walk?

After that first day, walking from Santiago to Negreira, I felt like it was a sort of ‘in-between’ experience: I was still a pilgrim, and it was a Camino of sorts, but very separate from the journey I had just been on. My pilgrimage was done.

But things started to change on the second day. Sonal and I walked to Olveiroa and met so many other pilgrims on the way. It reminded me of the beginning of my Camino, that first week out of St Jean when everyone was new and eager and forming friendships and connections. Maybe it was because we were new to each other, and there weren’t many of us on the road. But suddenly it felt easy, once again, to meet people and to make connections.

We stopped at a quirky place for a second breakfast: a family’s home, the patio and grounds opened up for pilgrims to stop and have a drink or a bite to eat. Hammocks were stretched out between trees, picnic tables and multicolored adirondack chairs were scattered across the lawn. I was excited to find this place: a Camino gem. But just before Sonal and I arrived a group of loud Spanish pilgrims, probably in their early 20’s, had descended on the place. We’d been trying to move away from their group for the past two days but they always seemed to show up wherever we were. We hesitated outside as the Spanish group took over, and just as we decided to leave, an older woman came out of the house. She gestured over, motioning for us to come inside.

We did, and settled into cushioned chairs in a quiet room off of the kitchen. High, wooden beamed ceilings, antique furniture, old musty books, black and white photographs on the walls. I couldn’t figure out what this place was: a family’s home, it seemed, but also an establishment for pilgrims. The mother was bustling around the kitchen, a daughter came out to take our order. Our coffee was served with little orange flavored pastries, and our tortilla was warm and fluffy, with a basket of soft, crusty bread. When we finished I signed the guestbook, and I wrote that it was like a small paradise: unexpected and magical.

And unexpected and magical are the words that I would use to describe the rest of my experience on the Camino.

After a long day’s walk we arrived in Olveiroa, and as I walked through the bar to find the hospitalero to check in for the night, I noticed Richard, a British guy we’d met earlier in the day. I stopped to say hi and sitting with him was someone I’d known from my “real” Camino (as I thought of it at the time). Since I’d started walking to Finisterre nearly a week after arriving in Santiago, all of the people I knew had already moved on, or gone home. “Everyone from my Camino is gone,” I kept saying. So to run into a familiar face, even if it was someone I didn’t know well, felt a bit mystical. I was walking to Finisterre, he was returning from Finisterre. We greeted each other with a strong hug, and later, stayed up late into the night- each of us, I think, clinging to our last Camino moments.

And that night Sonal and I made a new friend, Emma. She had walked the Camino Frances six years ago, ending in Santiago, and vowed that she would return one day to complete the walk to Finisterre. She kept her promise and had started out from Santiago the same day as Sonal and I did. We talked with her that night, sitting around a long table outside of the albergue’s bar, as the stars came out and the air grew cool. People kept joining our table, sliding up chairs, laughing at jokes, pouring shots of hierbas from a tall bottle. We toasted, all of us. I looked around the table and marveled at the combination of people sitting with me: a pilgrim who had left St Jean on the same day that I did, but who I hadn’t talked to until the very end of my journey. New pilgrims I had just met that day. A pilgrim who had walked six years ago and had just returned to complete the journey. And my friend from home, a brand new pilgrim two days into her walk, but someone I’d known for 20 years.

So many different connections: so unexpected, so magical.

As I drifted off to sleep that night- top bunk, muffled snoring from the corner of the room- I realized that my Camino hadn’t ended after all.

“What’s next, Camino?” I asked. “What comes next?”

The Camino Provides

August 31, 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Camino provides.

The Camino continues; Santiago to Negreira

August 2, 2014

Back on the Camino! I was only gone for 5 days, but man, it’s good to be back. What am I going to do when the walking is actually and finally over?

I’m back, but it’s different. I don’t feel like I’m on a pilgrimage anymore, I feel like I’m taking a long walk to the beach with an old friend.

Which is exactly what I’m doing.

Sonal met me in Santiago on Friday morning, and we spent the day in the city: stopping by one of my favorite bars for cafe con leche and tostada, walking through a park to get a sweeping view of the city, attending mass in the cathedral, drinking wine, eating a big dinner of grilled fish and vegetables.

It was a great day, but it didn’t really feel like my Santiago anymore. I saw one familiar face the entire day; there is a brand new class of pilgrims in the city, just like there is every single day. It reminds me that even though the Camino feels like mine, I share it with hundreds and thousands of others. I was just a blip in its history.

We headed towards Finisterre this morning at 7am, bundled up in our rain jackets. If I needed confirmation that my pilgrimage is over it was this: a gray day full of rain. I know I was incredibly lucky on the Camino, I only really had one rainy day, and even that wasn’t so bad (it did rain several times on my trip, but I timed it perfectly by hiding out in cafes and bars until the rain passed). But there was no hiding from the rain today. We walked 6 kilometers before finding a bar for coffee, most of it in a steady rain.

Where’s the Camino magic that I’d gotten so used to? The perfectly placed bars for my much needed morning cafe con leche? The sunshine and cool morning weather? After climbing 200 meters today, I should have been treated with a stunning view, not fog and rain clouds.

Or maybe the magic is still here, but in a different form. I was so mentally focused on the end of the Camino and Santiago and saying goodbye to my friends that when I started walking this morning, it hit me: I get to keep doing this. I get to squeeze all of my things in my pack again. Don’t forget the bar of soap! Where’s my Icelandair pillow that I stole from the airline and have been lugging around for a month just in case I might need it even though I’ve never needed it? Make sure the sleeve of Maria cookies is accessible in the front pouch of my pack; coat Vaseline on my feet before putting on my socks; grab my walking stick and take my daily selfie before starting the walk.

I get to keep doing all of this for a few more days. And today, after the steady rain stopped and we walked in a cool mist, after the strong and milky cafe con leche, and somewhere in the middle of a 200 meter ascent, my face broke into a smile. I was back on the Camino, and I get to keep walking for a few more days.

And I get to do this with a friend. It’s a completely different experience from what I’m used to, and I had to remember to slow down my usual fast pace just a bit, and I had to remember that what has become second nature to me is all brand new to my friend.

But it’s great to have someone familiar here, someone from home. Even though I had friends surrounding me on the Camino, it’s different to do this walk with an old friend, and there’s comfort in always having someone to eat with, someone to pick an albergue with. And what a great experience to share with someone I’ve known for 20 years.

So we’re in Negreira, staying at a new and modern albergue with one of the kindest hospiteleros I’ve met yet, getting a small history lesson on Galicia. We went to a local place for a cafe con leche and in addition to the coffee we were given a shot of some sort of very strong liqueur. We made a spaghetti dinner in the albergue kitchen and shared it with John, a man from Arizona with long blond hair and a sweet nature. Two Spanish boys just spent 20 minutes trying to open a large can of peaches that probably weighs several kilos, and I took a victory photo for them with their opened, mangled can. There’s a guy outside whittling and carving a walking stick, and I’m drinking the last sips of a decent, 3 euro bottle of Rioja wine.

This part of the Camino might feel different, but it’s still the Camino. And I still have a few more days of getting to be a pilgrim.

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

July 16, 2014

I have a ‘note’ in my phone of things that I’ve jotted down since starting the Camino. Advice from others, tips on albergues, song and movie recommendations, etc. I just glanced at it and at some point I’d written: ‘Leon- DON’T stay at the monastery’.

Guess where I stayed in Leon two nights ago?

It could have been worse, but it was the second night in a row of not great accommodations. Hot, crowded, not super clean. But the shower pressure was great and they provided breakfast so I really can’t complain. And this is what I’ve learned when it comes to albergues and towns on the Camino: it’s all hit or miss. Sometimes I’m going to stumble on an amazing place or stay in an amazing town, and sometimes I’m going to stay in some real dives. But especially as I’ve let go of planning, I’m realizing that I just need to take what comes: the good, and the bad.

And really, the bad isn’t so bad. My Camino continues to be pretty amazing, and I’m still not sure how I’ve gotten so lucky. I want to believe that some of it is my outlook (today’s walk was super hot, next to a busy road for just about the entire 30k; I tried to find the alternate, scenic route but somehow was fed back to the main road, and at some point I lost my headphones. And my feet hurt more than they ever have, I think because it’s been so hot and they started to swell. But sitting here, settled into an albergue, drinking a glass of red wine with lemonade (it’s delicious!), I’m feeling good, despite the sub-par day). So some of it is my outlook, but some of it is just pure luck. My body is holding up, my spirits are holding up, and I’ve met the best people. I’m lucky.

Getting through the Meseta, and coming in and out of Leon, presented some challenges. And some were challenges that I hadn’t been expecting. I came into this walk knowing that I was walking alone, and the more I walked, the happier I was that I was here alone. Mirra and I paired up, and I think we were a great match for each other: we usually walked separately, and I think always felt that we could each go off and do our own thing when we wanted or needed to.

After Mirra left I was looking forward to truly walking some of this Camino on my own, but then I met some new people, and one in particular who I liked being around. In Leon I was faced with a decision: continue on by myself and do my own walk, or stay with someone and no longer have a solo Camino.

Maybe the decision never had to be so black and white, and maybe the decision I made- to continue on my own- will change and evolve as I keep walking. Maybe I will meet my friend at some point on the way, or at the end, and I will want to make a different decision. But for now, what has felt right, is to go off on my own for awhile.

Trying to figure all of this out- the social part of the Camino and the friendships and the connections and the hellos and goodbyes- has probably been the most challenging part for me. In real life, I don’t meet people like I do here. Every day, on the Camino, I have so many conversations, sit with so many different people and have coffee, or lunch, or wine, or ice cream. And I’ve loved this part so much. So much more than I expected.

And if I’m not careful, this Camino could turn into one big party. It would be so easy to stick with the people I’ve gotten to know, to always have meals with them and drink bottles of wine, and walk and listen to music and sing and dance. And there’s some appeal in that- a lot of appeal.

But I’ve realized that I’m not just here to meet people and have fun. That part has been important, and I think I’ve done a stellar job of it. But I’m here for something a bit more, and now is the time to figure some of that out.

So today I walked very much alone. I’d stayed at an albergue just on the outskirts of Leon last night, and I expected to now know many people there but it turned out that so many of my favorite people were there (this happens a lot). But it was also just what I needed: to make a big salad and share with a few people I’d gotten to know, but weren’t close with. To sit after dinner and play cards with the four Italians I always see in the mornings when we all stop for coffee. To stay up with Laura, the 12 year old Italian girl, and Nolan, the 10 year old Vermont boy, and have them show me card tricks.

Today’s walk was challenging, but overall I was happy that I made the decision to be on my own. I stopped for coffee, I stopped for ice cream, I stopped to put my feet in a cold river and eat tuna and cheese and cherries. Since I lost my headphones I sang to myself- long songs, like American Pie and Thunder Road.

I passed through a tiny town and wasn’t sure if I should stop or continue on for another 15 kilometers, and then I saw the albergue. A yellow building with painted blue shutters. I glanced in through the open door and I swear I saw a little paradise, and then I was convinced of it when I walked in further. This is the most beautiful albergue I’ve stayed in: a small courtyard in the middle of the building, a wrap around porch on the second floor with wooden chairs and an old couch and pots of bright red flowers. My room is beautiful, with wooden floors and large French windows that open up to the main village street. The bathrooms are modern, there is a small kitchen, and I was offered coffee when I checked in. Perfect.

And for tonight, this is just what I needed, and what I’ve been craving. A beautiful, peaceful place where I don’t know anyone too well. Time to sit by myself and write. Sitting here at the village’s only bar, drinking wine and lemonade, with two Germans at the table with me. Sometimes we talk, sometimes they talk and I write. It’s easy and relaxed, and always a reminder that even when I choose to be alone, I’m never really alone. But for now, alone in the way that I want to be alone.

Next Post: Day 21 on the Camino Frances

Walking in circles (with a perfect pack).

May 26, 2014

One month until I start walking.

Man, these days are going by fast. My lofty Camino goals (Learn Spanish! Back-to-back-to-back 15 mile hikes!) have been put on the back burner. At this point, all I’m really focused on is buying a few more items, reserving a train ticket to St Jean Pied de Port, and hiking when I can.

I know that I’m not as prepared as I could be, but I think I’m prepared enough. And I still have a month to go.

4 months ago I had visions of doing lots of long hikes with my loaded pack and well worn-in shoes. The reality is that I can fit in a long hike about once a week. Because, surprise surprise, long hikes take time. They take a lot of time. (I know this is the most obvious thing, and yet, I may have underestimated just how much of my day would need to be devoted to 15 mile hikes. I just can’t fit in a 15 mile hike after a full day of work. Darkness catches up with me).

But I’m continuing to walk, a lot. I drive to the same local state park, wind my way through the same trails which I now know like the back of my hand. I’ve begun to recognize the same people, too. I try to smile and say hi to most people I pass, and now others have started to recognize me and give me friendly greetings in return.

Two days ago I passed a man and a woman as I walked along a paved loop trail. The man said, “Looks like you’re preparing for a backpacking trip!” We talked about the Camino for a few minutes, and as I walked on, he called out, “Remember! The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plains!”

“Yes,” I replied. “I still need to get my rain gear.”

I passed another group further on that path, and a man in the group said, “I definitely recognize you. You’re walking at a really good pace.”

That made me smile.

About a week ago I bought a pack and I love it. It’s a Deuter 24 liter and I know it’s small for a 5 week walk. Maybe really small. I went to REI prepared to buy something in the range of 28-32 liters, 28 being the lowest I would go. I tried on pack after pack, adding and removing the 5 pound weights, walking around the store. I switched back and forth between the Deuter 24 liter and Deuter 28 liter packs several times, wanting to like the bigger pack better. But I didn’t. Something about the 24 liter pack felt just right, it felt perfect (even though I’ve never owned a good backpack and I’m not really sure what perfect should feel like).

But after several hikes, with about 10 pounds in the pack (less than what I’ll be carrying on the Camino, but a good start for now), I still think that pack feels perfect. I was on mile 10 of a 12 mile hike the other day, and I found myself thinking that the weight of the pack pressing against my lower back felt sort of comforting. Not heavy or intrusive or weighing me down. Just comforting.

I’m curious- very curious- to know how I’ll feel about my pack in two months, after walking for hundreds of miles and having the pack nearly permanently attached to my body. ‘Comforting’ might not be my go-to word. But for now, loving my pack is a good thing.

My mom thinks it’s too small. She saw it and exclaimed, “You have to carry everything you’ll need for 5 weeks in that thing! There’s not enough room!” But I disagree. I’m walking in the summer so my layers will be light, plus a small-sized pack is going to force me to weed out all the stuff I don’t actually need. That’s not to say that in two or three weeks when I finally have everything I need and put it all together, I won’t be running back to REI for a larger pack. But, my instincts tell me that this is the one for me.

I’ve got a pack, I’ve got a good pair of pants, a good t-shirt, a new pair of shoes that I think are going to work. Slowly, it’s all starting to come together.

Here’s a photo of me with the pack that I didn’t get:

52 days. 3 countries. Suddenly, this trip has become real.

April 2, 2014

I booked my flight last night. And just before I hit the ‘confirm booking’ button on my computer screen, I could feel my heart beating in my chest, sweat forming on my palms, my breathing becoming shallow.

Man, I was nervous. I’ve been preparing for this trip for three months now: reading everything I can, writing about all of my reasons for doing this long walk, training and hiking and learning how to take care of blisters. I’ve told everyone that I’m walking the Camino, I’ve told myself that I’m walking the Camino, and yet, until yesterday, it wasn’t actually real.

Without a flight, I could back out. I could have decided that I am indeed crazy for doing this, that I didn’t want to go alone, that walking for 5 weeks was not how I wanted to spend my vacation. I could be on a beach instead, I could be in Maine, I could go back to France and write.

And all of those thoughts have gone through my head. Am I crazy for wanting to do this? Do I want to be alone? Do I want to be on a beach in Maine instead?

I always knew that the answer was ‘no’, but it didn’t stop those questions from tip-toeing around my mind. And even though I have been so certain that I will walk the Camino this summer, until now, it’s all been words. Only words, and some hikes through a local park.

But now I have a plane ticket, and I’ll be away for 52 days. I look at that number and I have some disbelief. I just committed to a 52-day trip in Europe. 52 days. Right now, it feels a bit daunting. And… incredible.

There is still so much planning to do, but for now my trip looks kind of like this: fly into Paris. Get down to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port and start walking. Walk for about 5 weeks. Arrive in Santiago, possibly on my birthday. Meet up with a friend and (maybe) walk to Finisterre. Fly/train back over to France and spend time in Provence. Return to Paris.

And here’s the final twist. In Paris, get on a plane, and on my way home, stop in Iceland for 17 hours.

I couldn’t resist! I’ve been looking at flights for months, and trying different combinations of dates and airports and airlines. Flying in and out of New York, rather than Philadelphia, was $300 dollars cheaper on Icelandair, and when I saw that I could fairly easily roam around Reykjavik and experience the midnight sun, I was sold.

There are now so many parts to this trip that I feel overwhelmed, but it’s a very, very good kind of ‘overwhelm’. I’m just relieved that I still have several months to prepare.

So I just put a giant check mark next to ‘purchase flight’. Phew. Next up: a new pair of shoes.

Worries & Excitement

March 11, 2014

As I near the 100-day countdown to my Camino (right now, my projected start date is June 26th), my mind fills with fears. I still have a lot of time time prepare, but also time to think about what could go wrong, what I might not be ready for, the unexpected, etc.

But is it really fear? Am I actually afraid, or am I just worried?

I’m going with just worried. I’ve already written a post about fear, and that was all about the big stuff (mostly, how to change).

What’s on my mind now are the worries, and I have a lot of them. I think (hope) that most will vanish once I start my Camino, but until then, I have a feeling they will be nagging at me.

In no particular order, here are the things that are worrying me:

1. I’m going to get huge, painful blisters on my feet.

2. I’m going to get injured on my walk (and/or sick) and not be able to finish.

3. I’m going to be too shy to make strong connections with other Pilgrims.

4. Bedbugs.

5. Wild dogs.

6. Staying in refugios/albergues (basically, hostels) with dozens of other people.

7. Snoring pilgrims and not being able to fall asleep.

8. Wishing that I could stay put for a few days and not constantly be on the move.

9. Being in the middle of my Camino and wanting to come home.

10. Ending my Camino and not wanting to come home.

11. Not knowing how to speak Spanish.

12. The possibility of having to pee in the woods.

13. Hiking over the Pyrenees.

14. Walking all day in the rain.

15. Losing my way.

That’s a big list. But on the other hand, I’ve got some stuff that I’m not too worried about at all. Here are some things that I’m confident about/excited for:

1. Navigating my way down to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port (and being able to speak French!).

2. Enjoying the food/having enough to eat.

3. Being friendly to everyone I see and saying ‘Buen Camino!’

4. Walking for hours every day (there’s a tiny bit of worry with this, but not much. I think I’m going to love it).

5. Getting to walk to a new place every day, not getting bored.

6. Having a lot of time to think/be alone with my thoughts.

7. Experiencing a different country/culture.

8. Wearing the same clothes every day/simplifying my life.

9. Not making plans and not knowing where I’ll be sleeping day-to-day.

10. Walking in the summer (maybe I should be worried about this one, but I love the heat of summer. Check back with me sometime in the middle of July and I might be singing a different tune, but for now I’m excited for this).

11. Writing about my Camino every day, having something to say.

12. Knowing that regardless of how far I walk, I pushed myself to go on an adventure and a journey.

Camino Planning: Time to Begin.

February 26, 2014

It’s nearly March, and it’s time to get serious about my Camino.

It’s not like I haven’t been serious; at this point, there’s not much that can stop me from going to Spain this summer to walk. My mind has been made up for awhile, I’ve done a ton of research, and most of my friends and family know about my plans.

But everything else? I feel like I haven’t even begun.

Let’s run down where I stand on training, supplies and equipment, and logistical stuff that needs to be planned:

Training hikes completed: Zero.

Equipment purchased: Zero. (As ever, all I currently have for this walk is a Spork. And a headlamp that either belongs to my ex-boyfriend, or my handyman. Either way, it’s mine now).

Spanish learned: Zero.

Flights/hotels/trains booked: Zero.

Aside from work, a major portion of my time is spent thinking about and focusing on the Camino, but I don’t have much to actually show for all of this. What, then, have I been doing?

For starters, I get lost in reading blogs and books about people who have walked the Camino or are preparing to walk (and on this note, I’m so excited that several bloggers I follow will be walking the Camino in the next month or two. It’s so great to be able to follow along in “real time”, and makes me even more excited about this crazy adventure).

What else have I done? I signed up for the Y, and I’ve been pretty consistent about driving out there, lacing up some sneakers, and walking/running on their indoor track. It’s not a training hike, but walking 4 miles is certainly better than nothing. It feels so easy and I feel like I’m walking so fast, but then I think about wearing a 12-15 pound pack, walking an additional 4-5 hours, and doing it every single day. Yikes.

And, finally, I watched ‘The Way’. Again.

So with approximately 4 months left until I leave for Europe, I know that it’s time to check some items off of my Camino to-do list. I’ve got a few goals for March; nothing too difficult, but all stuff that is going to push me into the reality of the Camino.

I’ve got a lot of time to purchase all of the items I need for this walk, but the two big things I want to have by the end of March are a backpack and shoes. This is the perfect time to try out different models and find a pack and shoes that really fit and are comfortable. Then, moving into April and better weather (hopefully), I’ll be ready to find some long trails and begin my practice hikes.

I’m also hoping to buy my plane ticket by the end of March. I’ve held off on this mostly because I need to wait and see how long the school year is going to last, and whether winter is going to hit us with any more snow days.

I also really need to pin down my plans for this trip: how many days to set aside for the walk, and what my post-walk plans will be. I’ve been considering a dozen different options, many of which involve spending some time in France. The latest plan is to have a friend meet me in Santiago, walk with her to Finisterre, and then travel over to France and spend time exploring Provence. Just typing this all out seems unreal. Walking across Spain, meeting a friend and walking to the coast, roaming around France, spending the last day of my trip in Paris… it’s just unreal.

My plans keep getting bigger and bigger: at first, I figured I’d spend 5-6 weeks in Europe. Now I know I’ll be there for at least 6 weeks, but I’m leaning towards 7. And then there’s this crazy part of me that thinks, “But Nadine, you have 8 weeks off in the summer! Why not spend that entire time in Europe?”

I may never come home.

But first, before any of this craziness and fun, I need to get some things done.

How do you say, “Let’s begin!” in Spanish?

Settling in

July 13, 2013

I’m sitting at the desk in my room, windows open, cool(ish) morning air, mountain view, House Martins flying around and chirping incessantly. There are fresh flowers on my desk, a mug of coffee within reach, some notebooks scattered around. A single church bell chimes, signaling half past the hour.

Though this was only my third morning here, I’ve already fallen into somewhat of a routine. Wake before 8, go down to the kitchen to brew coffee and gather some food (yogurt, fruit, BREAD), say hi to Jean-Christophe and Artis, the other two residents who are always up at the same time, and take my breakfast onto the terrace. This morning went just a bit different: Alain, who arrived last night, brought a little espresso machine with him. My enthusiasm was obvious. I helped him set it up this morning, and tried the first cup. C’est bon. We talked about how the fancy new technology of the espresso machine is at odds with the old and simple ways of the village. And then I enjoyed every single sip of my espresso.

There is too much to describe of my first days here, too many details, too many new experiences. The friendly villagers who all say ‘bonjour’ and give you the biggest smile, the winding paths of this tiny village set on the slope of a mountain, the opera-singing resident whose voice fills the little chapel and spills into the streets, buying fresh baguettes from the truck that drives into the village twice a week, sampling wines from a local vineyard… it goes on and on.

There are also funny things and mishaps and mistakes. Trying to shop for a week of groceries directly after being picked up in Carcassonne and not having slept for over 24 hours (myself and the two other new residents are now strategizing on how to make our food last), getting into the wrong car on the train in Paris, deciphering the hand drawn trail map and walking miles in the opposite direction of where I intended to go, navigating the personalities of the other residents, remembering the best technique for using a French shower… this goes on and on as well.

I’m beginning to feel settled in. It was nearly impossible to sit and focus for the first few days; all I could do was stare out the window and want to get outside and explore. So I did. There is still so much to discover and routines that I need to fully settle into, but I’m getting there. Thank goodness I have three weeks.

directional sign on tree, Labastide