traveling Archives - Nadine Walks

Surefooted

June 20, 2019

Today as I walked I thought about the word ‘surefooted’. I thought about it as I was descending a small, steep path in the woods that was covered with stones, some of them wet. I had to watch the ground, I had to be careful about where I placed each step, how my foot landed, making sure not to slip or stumble.

All the hiking experience in the world can’t always prevent you from taking a fall, but I do think experience counts for a lot. I’m not so nervous stepping on/over/around rocks anymore. When I first started hiking, before my first Camino, I was slower and shakier. I wasn’t sure where to place my feet, my steps were hesitant.

But sometime in these last years I’ve realized that I’ve become surefooted. I know where to step (most of the time!). But it’s my ease, too, my confidence and competence when I’m hiking. Inside, I can often be full of small worries and concerns, but when I start walking, the worries and concerns seem to quiet down.

Today’s hike required lots and lots of surefooted-ness; the path ran up and down through the woods, on often uneven and muddy ground. The trail was narrow, sometimes hugging the side of a steep slope. Parts were overgrown with thorny branches (wore my long pants- best decision of the day!), sections were covered with thick black slugs, and I nearly stepped on the absolute largest toad I’d ever seen (so maybe that’s not the best example of being surefooted…)

I began to feel tired today, the muscles in my legs started aching, my feet demanded a break. But this is being surefooted, too: knowing when to take a break, knowing that despite the fatigue I’ll be able to carry on.

Now it’s night, I’m alone in the gîte in Borce, I cooked a dinner of spaghetti and tomato sauce, I’m wrapped in blankets in my bunk bed. Inside, again, worries are starting to nag: tomorrow will be a day of steady rain. I have a difficult and long climb up to Somport. What if I’m tired, what if there is no place to stop for a break, what if my feet get soaked and I get blisters?

But then I remember that, when I walk- in the sun or wind or rain, through moorland or meseta or mountains, on pavement or grass or mud- I am surefooted.

So bring on the mountains and the rain, I’m ready.

Becoming French through Tears, Espresso, and Surrealism

December 3, 2014

I woke up this morning and, for some reason, thought about my time as a student in France, when I was 20. Maybe it’s the weather- chilly and gray and damp, it reminds me of the winter I spent in Toulouse, where I would wake up and open the large shutters of my bedroom window and peer out onto the black morning. I’d eat breakfast with various members of my host family- hot chocolate and toast (hard to believe that there were ever days when I didn’t drink coffee in the morning)- and then I’d hitch a ride with Etienne, my 13-year old host brother and another neighborhood kid. The father would drive us in his van to the center of town where I’d hop off at the metro stop, Etienne always calling out, “Bonne journée Nadine!” as I clambered out of the van into the gray, misty morning.

I both miss those mornings and I don’t. I love my memories of that year in France, I love that I studied abroad when I was 20, but would I go back, if I could? To some moments and places and people, of course. But it was also a very challenging year, of uncertainty and confusion. Feeling like, in a life immersed in all things French, that I was always missing something. I wasn’t sure who I was supposed to be; my program strongly emphasized complete French immersion. ‘Becoming French’, I called it. Speak no English, live with a host family, make French friends. Shed your old life, discover a new one.

That year was a coming of age experience for me, and some of my most frustrating and gratifying moments were as a student. In addition to classes I took at our American college’s satellite campus, I took 3rd year Art History courses at the French University, Le Mirail. I still think it was a mistake to put me into this level- most students in my program were in 1st or 2nd year courses- but I was serious about studying art history and the program was good. My level of French, however, was not so good, and many compared 3rd year courses to graduate courses.

It was a comedy of errors, at least I can say that now. I remember showing up for my very first class (we studied nothing but stained glass windows), and waiting in a hallway outside the classroom with two other girls. We were early, but the longer we waited the more we realized that something was wrong. I tried to ask them about the class and they stared at me like I had three heads. Suddenly one of them shouted something (probably, “Mon Dieu, we have the wrong building!”) and they shot up and bolted down the hallway. I ran after them, not knowing what else to do. We weaved through the campus, in and out of buildings, down walkways and across grassy fields, then finally into a large room where a class- my class- was already in session. At least 100 heads turned to look at us as the door banged shut and when the professor saw that we were trying to sneak into a back row, she shook her head and pointed to the front. It was a walk of shame: paraded through the room, the class put entirely on hold as we found three open seats. My face burned and I sank into my chair, wanting to disappear out of that room, out of that campus. Out of France, maybe.

The only class I could remotely understand was Surrealism, which is maybe a bit ironic. But I loved it- we’d often begin class with the lights dimmed and classical music piped through the room, while we sketched for 10 minutes. The French hated this. “We’re not artists!” they complained, furiously scrubbing their papers with large squares of rubber eraser. But those 10 minutes were an equalizer for me, and sometimes, the only chance I ever had to excel in class. Language, culture, it didn’t matter when we sketched. I felt like I fit in. And it helped give me confidence for the rest of class. I learned how to take notes like my French peers- in graph paper notebooks with different colored pens, a ruler to underscore the important parts and white out to conceal mistakes. I didn’t understand all of the lectures but I understood enough, and when I didn’t know a word I would make tiny sketches of the paintings in the margin of my notebook, to jog my memory.

My other classes were nothing like this. History of Architecture lectures might as well have been delivered in Greek, for all I understood. Many mornings I would sit in the middle of a darkened room as slide after slide was projected on the screen and tears would fill my eyes. Students around me filled pages of notes and I could barely follow the professor and his complex lecture.

Some mornings I never made it to this class. I’d hitch a ride with Etienne and the neighbors, squeeze onto an impossibly crowded metro, walk to campus in a daze and stand with other students in the cold as we waited for the library to open. And I’d sit there from 8-10am, in a soft chair in a corner next to the photography books, ditching class. I remember begging the director of my study abroad program to let me drop the class, but he thought I was exaggerating my difficulties. My final grade didn’t prove him wrong, either, somehow I managed to get an 18 in the class (French grading is on a scale from 0-20, and an 18 is unheard of, even for the brightest French student). I suspect that the professor had a soft spot for me; in the beginning of the year he told me that he had a niece studying in the states. Maybe he imagined that he was giving his niece an A+, rather than me, the girl who didn’t understand a thing.

These are my memories: the chilly gray campus, my graph paper notebooks filled with fragmented French. The automatic coffee machines, strong and bitter espresso pouring into small plastic cups. I would drink this espresso like a shot- down in one gulp, hoping the caffeine would fortify me for the day ahead. When it was over, I met my American friends as we took the metro back to the center of Toulouse, where we’d stop for an “I survived Mirail” pastry before heading home for dinner.

Travel forces us out of our comfort zone, and as I’ve been doing more traveling in these past few years, I’m reminded often of that time in Toulouse. I’ve thrown away most of the notes I took in those art history classes, but I still have a few of my Surrealism sketches. They remind me of trying to become French.

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

August 23, 2014

I left Hontanas with a spring in my step. It was- for me- one of those perfect Camino villages. Small, a couple albergues, one bar/restaurant where all the pilgrims sat and drank and talked, a pretty church, lots of character. I’d gone to bed the night before in a room of 8, sleeping on a top bunk next to an open window. There was a view of the village rooftops, a fading violet sky, a bright moon.

That morning I’d woken early, shoved my things in my pack and went downstairs to the bar to have a cafe con leche and a croissant. One of my favorite things on the Camino was when a bar would be open by 6:30 so I could have coffee before I left for the day’s walk, and it was for this that I left Hontanas with a spring in my step.

I was feeling good. Still adjusting to being without Mirra and for the first time (except for the beginning of my Camino through the Pyrenees), feeling like I was truly on my own. I was nervous, but I was also excited. That night I would be staying in a place where, most likely, I wouldn’t know anyone: La Ermita de San Nicolas.

I’d heard about San Nicolas before leaving for my Camino, and it was on my short list of must-sees/must-dos. A 13th century church now converted into a pilgrim albergue, run by a confraternity of Italian men. The building had no electricity, there was a communal dinner with a pilgrim blessing, and some sort of ritual foot washing. I’d purposefully stayed in Hontanas the night before so that I would have a short walk to San Nicolas, ensuring that I would arrive early enough to secure one of the 12 beds.

The morning walk was beautiful, and with the help of the cafe con leche, I sailed through the kilometers. I arrived at San Nicolas at 10:30, the earliest I’d ever arrived to my evening’s destination. On the door of a church was a sign that said the albergue would open at 3:00, but luckily the door was cracked so I pushed it open and stepped inside. Several pilgrims were there, looking around the building and getting stamps for their credentials. One of the Italian hospitaleros was there too, and he greeted me warmly.

“I’m hoping to stay here tonight,” I explained to him.

He looked around, then looked down at me. “Yes,” he nodded. We don’t sign anyone in until 3, but you can pick out a bed and leave your pack, and then come back.”

I smiled, thrilled that I would be able to stay for the night. As I spread my sleeping bag out on a bottom bunk, he came over and asked for my name.

“Nadine.”

A flash of recognition came over his face. “Ah yes, Nadine, you are the American? We were expecting you.”

It’s a strange and unnerving feeling to be in the middle of northern Spain, standing in a small church surrounded by nothing but wheat fields and to be told that I was expected here, in this place.

I stammered. “How did you know I would be coming?”

“A boy told us.”

I’m still not exactly sure who this could have been. Possibly Etienne, a French guy I’d met the day before. We’d had our morning coffee together coming out of Burgos, and later ran into each other for lunch as well. He’d been walking for over a month at that point, having started in France, and averaged about 40 kilometers a day. I had told him that I planned to stay in San Nicolas, and we looked it up in his guidebook. He had left Hontanas earlier than me that morning, and so I suppose that as he was passing through, he might have stopped in San Nicolas and told the hospitalero that he knew a girl who planned to stay for the night.

I never saw Etienne again, so I’ll never know for sure if it was him or not. But whoever it was, I was grateful. It was the first time on the Camino that I was branching off on my own, and I had walked into a place and instantly felt welcomed, and like I belonged there.

So I stashed my pack and threw some necessary items into my day bag: flip flops, my fleece, bottle of water, can of tuna fish, bread, cheese, peach, spork, journal. I set off towards the nearest town, 2km away, planning to find a nice spot to eat lunch, and then hopefully a bar to have a coffee or a drink. As I walked a car drove past me, slammed on its brakes, then reversed to come back to me. The window rolled down and the hospitalero I’d spoken with 20 minutes before leaned out, asking me if I would like a ride.

I only hesitated for a moment. As I’d been walking I thought that I would not only have to double back and walk these kilometers in reverse, but that I would walk them again the following morning. So when the offer of a ride came, I was tempted. I would still walk these Camino kilometers, but I would walk them the next day, as part of my actual Camino.

But as quickly as the thought entered my head, it vanished. I smiled at the car and shook my head. “No thank you, I like walking.”

The late morning and afternoon ended up being one of the best of my Camino. It was the first short day I walked, and it almost felt like a rest day. I found a shaded spot next to an old church to eat my lunch, and when I saw Ibai walking past I waved to him and he came to sit with me. I ended up walking further with him into the town and to a bar where we met up with Vinny and Vicool and Hyoeun and Jiwoo. They were breaking for lunch, and were tired. Sitting with them, I thought about how nice it felt to be done for the day, and how happy I was that I’d decided to stay at San Nicolas.

And the experience at San Nicolas was, indeed, a special one. I returned to the albergue and went about the normal “chores” of the day: showering and washing clothes. But from the moment I returned I felt a different kind of energy around the place. There was nearly always a feeling of kindness and peace on the Camino, but it was more present at San Nicolas. Pepe, another one of the Italian hopsitaleros, told me that I was home. “For today, and tonight, this is your home.” Jerome, a French boy with a wide brimmed hat and a sly smile, shook my hand as soon as he saw me. I met Eva, an Italian woman with dark eyes and a soft voice, and Alice, another Italian woman who laughed like a child and kept repeating, “I am so happy to be here.”

I sat outside in the back courtyard with my journal, and throughout the afternoon people came to sit with me: Jerome, Alice, Rudy, an American from Chicago who I’d encountered a few times before. The caretaker of San Nicolas, an old man wearing a long, worn sweater, came over to me a few times. He only spoke Spanish, and I nodded along, trying to understand his words. But it didn’t matter that I couldn’t understand; he smiled at me, then pulled several Maria biscuits from his pocket and placed them down on my journal.

Pepe came over, squinting against the sun. “You’re a writer,” he said in his raspy voice.

“Yes, I like to write,” I replied.

“Okay, okay,” he paused for a long time looking off into the distance, and I wondered if he’d forgotten that I was there. But then he looked down at me again. “You should keep writing. Maybe you should write a book.”

And then he walked off, leaving me to wonder if this place, like some others along the Camino, held a bit of magic.

Before dinner we sat in the altar of the church, in upright wooden chairs. Pepe and the other hospitaleros wore dark brown cloaks, and read a pilgrim blessing in Italian. Then the moved around to each pilgrim, asking that we place our right foot over a basin of water while they read a few words and rubbed a wet cloth over our feet.

We sat down for dinner at a long wooden table, candles at each place. A cucumber, tomato and olive salad; pasta carbonara; bread and cheese; melon and wine. Food was continually passed around, the candles were lit, coffee was served. I spoke with a German man on my left and Eva across from me. We joked that both the coffee and the wine were like fuel on the Camino. “To more fuel, more energy!” the German man cried, pouring us wine and lifting his glass for a toast. We echoed his words. “To more energy, to the Camino!”

The night slowed down, quietly. At 10:00pm I stood outside, wrapping my arms around my body for warmth. The sun had set and there was a soft orange glow over everything. A wind blew through the wheat fields and it was all you could hear: we were alone. No buildings, no roads except for the Camino, no pilgrims passing at this hour. Alone, but exactly where I was supposed to be.

In the morning we drank coffee and ate toast by candlelight, and slowly packed our things to leave. I thanked the hospitaleros, and Pepe gave me a hug. “You could stay here for a few days, if you want,” he rasped. “Help cook, and clean, and then continue on your Camino.”

I wasn’t sure if he was serious. But in any case, my pack was on my back, my shoes on my feet. Every day on the Camino I wanted to walk, and I did walk. It wasn’t time for me to stay put yet, even if staying put only meant a day or two.

“Yes,” Pepe nodded when he saw I was leaving. “Keep writing. Write a book.”

I walked away from San Nicolas, leaving before anyone else. Feeling strong, feeling at peace, feeling energized. Ready for whatever would come next.

Coming Home

August 15, 2014

I just took a shower in my apartment, and my hair feels clean- truly clean- for the first time in a month and a half.

Right now I’m marveling a bit at the normalcy of this: sitting on my couch with my porch door open, a breeze blowing through my living room, the sound of the fountain trickling outside. I woke up this morning and didn’t know where I was: I looked around my room and everything was familiar but my brain couldn’t figure it out. After a minute it came together; I was home.

For the past several weeks I’ve craved a morning like I just had- sitting on my couch with a cup of coffee and nowhere to go, nothing to do. (well, the first thing I had to do this morning was to put on my shoes and take a walk to the nearest food store to get supplies to make coffee. My car is at my parents house so I have limited options… but at least I just finished a pilgrimage across Spain so walking to find coffee wasn’t a big problem). In any case, I’ve loved this morning. I got very used to all the traveling, the packing and unpacking of bags, a different bed every night, but having some routine and comfort back is welcome.

And yet. One of the first things I did after I sat down with my coffee was to start thinking about how to get back to Europe, or how to do another Camino. It’s all just thoughts at the moment, because for now I need to be back (and I need to make some money). But my traveling this summer- and certainly the Camino- has had a profound impact on me.

There has been so much on this trip that I’ve wanted to write about, and a lot in the last few weeks (Finisterre! The Côte d’Azur! Provence! Paris! Iceland again!), and I’ll get to some of it. I also want to write more about my experience on the Camino, and my thoughts now that I’m back. So there will be more to come.

But for now, right now, I just want to appreciate that I’m back home. When I passed through customs as I was flying out of Iceland, the man working behind the counter asked how long I’d been in Europe.

“How long?” I paused, mentally doing the calculations. “Uhh, 7 weeks.”

His eyebrows immediately shot up and I laughed, saying, “7 weeks, I know. I’m lucky.”

7 weeks was a long time to be away and traveling, and I was, indeed, very lucky to take this trip, and I was very lucky while on the trip.

I think about what’s changed in that time, because mostly things look the same. I suppose that on the outside, I’m just a bit different: my hair is lighter and my skin is a bit darker (not to mention the crazy tan lines on the backs on my legs; I have a picture when they were at their worst, but I don’t know if the public will ever get to see that). I stepped on the scale this morning and I’m four pounds heavier than when I left. It figures that I can spend 5 weeks walking across Spain and gain weight: I blame the bread, cheese, and wine. And the ice cream/gelato.

So there are tiny changes on the outside. On the inside? I’m still very much the same person. But there are some changes. The light and the magic of the Camino got to me, spread through me, and started to shine out, and I think it’s going to take me to some great places.

But first, I’m going to sit here, drink more coffee, and appreciate being home.

Kids and shampoo and gummy bears and getting away; Day 6 of the Camino, Estella to Torres del Ria

July 2, 2014

Day 6 of walking is finished, and I’m still feeling good. I walked a lot with Mira today, and we decided to finally go “off stage”, and do a little more than was recommended for today’s route. So we walked about 29 km from Estella to Torres del Ria, and we were commending each other for doing so well. The bulk of the walk was great, and it was just the last few kms, with the sun shining strongly and some road walking, that felt a little oppressive.

I’m sitting on the terrace of the albergue where we’re staying. It’s a small place, in a small village, off of a side street and tucked away. The view out of the back looks past the church and onto golden weight fields. There is a storm in the distance, with dark grey clouds on the horizon and a cool wind blowing. 20 minutes ago, there was a sliver of a rainbow beside the church.

Mira is sitting here, along with a Polish couple, and they are all writing in their journals. There are only 26 beds in this albergue and the place isn’t full; it’s a quiet and relaxed night, especially compared to the last few.

Yesterday’s walk was from Puente La Reina to Estella- about 20km- and the scene at the albergue, once we got to Estella, was kind of crazy. It was a big municipal albergue, with about 75 beds, and most people that we’d met over the past 5 days were staying there. I think people are getting more comfortable with each other and more social; in any case, the Koreans were having wine parties, people were hanging out in the courtyard and the lobby, there was a lot of singing and laughing and merriment.

I was enjoying talking to everyone. With each day I either meet someone new or have a conversation with someone I’ve seen along the way, and at this point, it’s hard to move through a part of the path, or an albergue, or a town, without stopping to talk to someone.

I’d set up my bunk in Estella (top bunk, again), and was intending to take a nap or do some writing, but I never actually made it to bed. I walked into our room- which held 26 people- and started talking to Connor, the boy who walked his first Camino day barefoot, and is on this trip with his brothers and mother. Somehow the conversation turned to my hair and how much I wished I had some shampoo, and the next thing I knew he had gotten a small packet of shampoo from his mother and handed it to me.

I walked to my bunk with the shampoo and a big smile, then saw three heads poking up from their top bunks like little eager birds. It was the group of teenaged American girls who were on a summer school trip with their history teacher and his wife, and I think they just wanted to talk to someone. I walked over and said hi, and asked about why they were walking the Camino. When I found out that they were on a school trip, I asked how they were doing so far. Instantly, the youngest, a blond 15 year old named Lani, said, “It’s hard, and I’m really homesick.”

The three girls launched into accounts of their past 5 days: the things they hadn’t expected, how tough the walking was, how they missed being at home with their friends. I loved talking to them, and just like I had reminded Steve and Peg, the other night, of home, these three teenaged girls reminded me of my ‘normal’ life.

“Someone farts every night!” Mimi told me. “We’re keeping track, and so far it’s happened every night.”

I nodded in agreement. “It’s hard to sleep with all of these noises, isn’t it?” The girls all nodded at me, their eyes wide. “We never expected that it would be like this,” Emily said.

I’m impressed that teenagers are doing this. Kids are, too. There’s an Irish couple with two small children (the mother nearly gave birth to her daughter on the descent into Roncesvalles, which gives the difficulty of that day a whole new meaning when you think about doing it 9 months pregnant). Connor, the barefoot pilgrim who found me shampoo, has a 12 year old brother, Matthew. I’d gone out to explore the town of Estella, and when I was returning to the albergue, ran into Matthew and his mother. We talked for a bit, and then she asked if I would mind walking Matthew back to the albergue while she searched for a grocery store. So Matthew and I walked down the cobblestoned street, and he talked about how there’s a house in Germany that’s constructed entirely of gummy bears. “Just think!” he said. “If you get hungry, you could take a bite out of the wall!”

I think about what it’s like for a 6 year old to do this walk, a 12 year old, a 15 year old. And any of my discomforts and concerns seem so small in comparison.

The last two days of walking have been good. Yesterday was probably the hardest day; I walked over 6 miles before I had my morning coffee, and I was just grumpy by the time I found a town with an open bar. But then I had a very large cafe con leche, and the biggest piece of potato and onion tortilla that I’d ever laid eyes on (along with a piece of delicous bread). After that breakfast there was definitely a skip in my step, and the afternoon’s walk was good.

The Italian guy, Paulo, has been walking with me, but I think I might have gotten rid of him today. He’s not a bad walking companion, but I’m not sure that he’s on this pilgrimage for quiet reflection. In any case, he caught up with a group of California girls who were giving him the eye, and I think he’s enjoying the attention. Hopefully, this means that I’ll have more solo walking time in the next few days.

It still feels like I’ve been walking for weeks, rather than just 6 days. But I think that’s because so much life is packed into these days: the waking and the walking and the conversation. The food and the exploration and the connections. I’m still marveling that I’m walking across such a large space: that I can look behind me to see where I’ve come from, and know that this line I’m making, this path, will continue for a long time. I’m pretty excited to see what comes next.

Next Post: Photos from Day 8 of the Camino Frances

Iceland Detour

June 25, 2014

I’m sitting at a wooden table in a cafe in Reykjavik, sipping a cappuccino. It’s 4pm, but here it could be 4am; the sky looks exactly like it did when we made the middle of the night ride from the airport to the hotel. They aren’t kidding when they call this the land of the midnight sun: I don’t think the sky was dark for one moment last night.

I’m not supposed to be in Iceland, not this long, and not yet. My 17-hour layover in Reykjavik was supposed to happen at the end of my trip, in the middle of August, and not right now, at the very beginning. This Iceland layover was only suppose to be 1 hour.

I worried about how I would get down to St Jean Pied de Port- my starting point for the Camino- after hearing about all the French rail and air strikes. My family joked that I might be stranded in Paris, or Iceland, and I joked back: “That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world!”

And so far, it’s not. My flight out of JFK was delayed about 4 hours, not because of the French strikes, but because the Icelandair system was down. When I got to the airport, I sailed passed the long line of people waiting at Icelandair, and breezed through security. Not having to check a bag made things so easy. I marveled at how fast I made it to my gate: less than 10 minutes after being dropped off at the airport by my dad. Incredible!

But I knew something was wrong when, after another hour, there were only a few people waiting at the gate. One was a woman named Julie, and after talking for a few minutes, we discovered that we were each walking the Camino, and that we each planned to begin on the 26th from SJPP. Instantly I could understand what everyone means when they talk about the Camino spirit. It was like I already had a friend: someone to look out for me, and someone I could look out for.

After awhile, we found out that our flight was being checked-in manually and that we’d have to go back to the line, go through check-in, go through security. All over again.

I made some friends with the people I was waiting with in line. We’d walked down together and joked about how backwards this whole process was. We were the very last in line, and I was the final passenger to be checked in for our flight. We were hours behind schedule and the workers at Icelandair cheered when they realized I was the last one. The man helping me said, “This has been a nightmare, but you know, so much of the personal interaction has been lost by using computer systems. It’s been nice to actually talk to people.”

And in some ways, I have to agree. This has been a hassle, but it’s also been nice. Our flight was delayed again on the runway, we were four hours behind schedule, our connecting flight to Paris was long gone by the time we reached Iceland, once we were bussed to the hotel there was only enough time for a few hours sleep. I was put on an afternoon flight to Paris but then changed it to an even later flight because of train schedules; I’ll arrive in Paris about 24 hours later than originally planned.

But. I stood in line and laughed and joked with three young people on my flight: Emily, who is spending the summer in Vienna, doing a law school study abroad program. Luke, who is traveling to the south of France for a cousin’s wedding. Heather, who will be working in a cafe in Paris for the summer.

And I met Julie, my first fellow Pilgrim; she sent me an email while we were on the flight, updating me on our connection and the rescheduled flights. She gave me a hug in the airport as we parted ways (she was put on an earlier flight to Paris, so the next time I see her, if ever, will be somewhere on the Camino).

A smooth flight and making all of my connections would have been great, but something would have also been lost. The camaraderie, the unexpected twists, the adventure.

I’ll make it down to the Camino, and really, it doesn’t matter when. I have a lot of time to walk. For now, I get to finish my coffee (good! strong! Is Iceland known for having decent coffee? I’ll have to look into this more on my way back), and I get to soak up this beautiful Icelandic landscape and roam around Reykjavik for a few more hours. For now, the Camino can wait.

2 days, putting it all together.

June 22, 2014

I leave for Europe on Tuesday. 2 days. I’ve read, however, that a pilgrimage begins the moment you step outside your front door. And if that’s the case, then my journey begins this morning. I’m heading to my parents’ for a couple days, and in a few hours, I’ll have all my stuff packed, my fridge cleared out, my apartment shut up. And my trip will begin.

These last few days- weeks- have been a bit frantic, but this morning I feel kind of relaxed. Most of my to-dos are done. My training hikes are over, and I’ve stopped worrying about the fact that I never did back-to-back 15 mile hikes with my loaded pack.

I got out for a small, 7 mile hike yesterday, which was all I had time for. I filled my pack with everything I’d be taking with me on the Camino, and did my first (and only) test run. Before I left I stepped on the scale to see how much my pack weighed. 18 pounds, with water, but no food. Ugh. I’d been hoping to keep the total weight (with water and food) to 15/16 pounds, and I actually thought it would be easy. No problem! A few tshirts, a few socks, a rain jacket… what else could I possibly need?

But the weight adds up. It adds up fast. As I began my hike and walked through the trails that I’ve come to know so well, all I could think about was how heavy my pack felt. I’d done lots of training hikes with the pack, and in the past few weeks, I’d been carrying about 15 pounds. Why in the world did the extra 3 pounds feel like an extra 20?

I mentally scanned through the contents of my bag, searching for items I could toss. I probably didn’t need to bring a tank top, when I already had two t-shirts. Did I really need the travel neck pouch?

But I couldn’t think of much else to get rid of. I’m taking a few ‘luxury’ items, but these are non-negotiable. I’m bringing a small point and shoot camera, in addition to my iPhone. I know that I don’t need it, I know that the camera, and case, and cord just adds weight. But I want to take photos on this trip, and I don’t want to be limited to what my phone can store. I’m also bringing a journal, and again, I know I don’t need it. But I don’t think I’ve ever traveled without a journal before, and I can’t imagine ever traveling without one.

And yet, my pack just felt so heavy. Uncomfortable on my shoulders. I sort of felt like my pack was betraying me: I’d opted for the really small size because it was the best fit. During all of my training hikes, the pack felt so perfect. And now, days before my trip, I was questioning the decision to buy a 24 L pack for a 5 week trip.

As I walked I thought about how I’d thrown my stuff into my pack at random. And then I thought of the articles I’d read about how to properly load a backpack. Ahh. I found a bench, sat down, and pulled everything out of my pack and then reloaded it, trying to remember the tips I’d read about weeks before. I repositioned my heavier items in the middle of my pack, close to my spine. I squeezed everything back into my bag, put it on, and began to walk.

It was like I had my perfect pack back. Still heavy, but this time my pack felt like it was part of me, rather than some foreign thing that was out to get me.

And this, I realized, is why it’s so important to do training hikes with your pack and everything that you’ll bring on your Camino.

So much has been running through my mind as I get ready to leave for this trip. Some of it is the small stuff, the little questions that linger: is it wise to go without sock liners? Now that my pack is fully loaded and packed to the gills, how in the world will I have any room to carry food? What will it be like to use one bar of soap to wash my clothes, my body, my hair?

Then there are the bigger questions: will I actually get down to St Jean Pied de Port by Thursday morning to begin my Camino? Not only has there been a huge train strike in France, but i just read that air traffic controllers will begin a strike on Tuesday. The day I am supposed to fly to Paris. Oh France and your strikes. They always come at the worst times.

And then there are even bigger questions: am I mentally prepared for this journey? What do I want to get out of it? Can I walk this distance?

But I no longer have much time to dwell on these questions. Now I just need to leave and begin taking my first steps. So for the first time, but most definitely not the last, I’ll say: Buen Camino! Let the journey begin.

10 days, rain, and stress.

June 14, 2014

I was one mile into a hike the other day when it started to rain. I swung my pack onto a picnic bench and reached into the bottom for the rain cover, when I realized that I’d left the rain cover in my apartment. Draped over a drying rack from my rainy hike the day before.

This illustrates two things: it’s raining. A lot. And I’m forgetting stuff.

I’m normally not a forgetful person, so when I start to leave things behind, I know that I have too much going on in my head.

And I do. I have 10 days before I leave for Europe and I feel completely and totally unprepared. I know that’s not true: some things are taken care of, like my flight and my train ticket and where I’m going to stay for my first two nights. And I have most of my things. I still need to find a long sleeved shirt, and I need to get to REI to pick up another fleece that I ordered (yes, I second-guessed the white one. If I had loved it-regardless of the color- I think I would have kept it. But the fit wasn’t great). Otherwise, I think I have everything I need.

I told myself, months ago, that all I really needed was a way to get over to St Jean Pied de Port (my starting point for the Camino), and a good pack and good shoes and a few extras. After that, the rest would take care of itself.

But I also know that I like to be prepared. And the closer this Camino gets, the more nervous I feel.

And what’s with all this rain? The one thing I had been doing really well was training for this walk, but in the last few weeks? Other than a great 8-mile hike with a loaded pack and some good friends, I haven’t done much. My days are too busy for long hikes, and when I do have a little more time, I strap on my pack and as if on cue, the skies open up and dump water on me. I’ve done a few smaller hikes in the rain- to test out my jacket and the pack cover- because at some point in my 35 days of walking this summer, I’m sure I’ll have to walk in the rain. But yesterday, as I set off on a hike and began to get rained on for the third time this week, I gave up and turned around.

All of this being said, I can’t wait for this time next week. Work will be over for the school year, I will be leaving for France in three days, and inevitably, I will have more items checked off my to-do list. And I suspect that the little kernel of Camino excitement that is currently buried somewhere in me is going to be making more of an appearance.

And today? Today the skies are blue and the sun is shining strongly. In a few minutes I’m going to go outside, stretch my legs, and soak up some of this little-seen, late spring sun.

testing out my rain jacket

A can of tuna and a white fleece (pre-Camino thoughts).

May 28, 2014

I was opening a can of tuna fish tonight and it slipped off the edge of the counter and fell down towards my bare feet. In my mind I was shouting, “No!!! Don’t hit my toes!!!!” I tried to jump out of the way, my big toe got nicked, but- you can rest assured- it was in no way a Camino-ending injury.

My feet, these days, are precious. My health is precious. The money in my wallet is precious. My time is precious.

It’s all so precious because my Camino is close. 27 days until I leave and I’m holding my breath that it all comes together and that I will somehow find myself on a trail, walking.

It still feels a little bit impossible. As more people are asking me about my summer plans and I explain this long walk, I find that I have some disbelief that I’ll actually do this. It still feels so far away, like there’s so much that needs to happen before I can believe that I can do this.

Isn’t there a point when I’m supposed to feel like a hiker? Isn’t there a point when I’m supposed to have a surge of confidence? Isn’t there a point when I’m supposed to feel certain about my pack and my shoes and my gear?

Some parts of this are slowly coming together, but other parts are a comedy of errors.

For instance, I bought a white fleece. A white fleece! To wear on a 500-mile summer walk through Spain! My best friend has been staying with me for a few weeks, and she’s been great at giving advice and opinions when I ask for them. So I even talked over the whole white fleece thing with her, and she looked at me and said, “White gets dirty.” And I agreed but what did I do? I bought a white fleece.

I get so overwhelmed with shopping and choosing the ‘right’ things that at a certain point, I usually give up and buy whatever strikes my fancy. In this case, I fixated on having something white to wear, because I love wearing white in the summer. It’s impractical and ridiculous but it still seemed like an okay idea. And then, today, the fleece arrived in the mail and I opened it and man, is it white. A pure, soft, beautiful white that is going to be so dirty and stained covered by the end of my walk… what was I thinking?

I’ve spent so much time reading and researching gear and clothing and sleeping bags and micro-fiber towels and sock liners and buffs and water bottles and rain jackets and my head is spinning. There always seems to be more to read, more to learn, more opinions to hear, more advice to receive. And usually, by the end of all of this reading and researching, I feel further behind than where I started. Confused. Clueless.

I’ve written about this already, but as ever, it’s a practice in letting go. It’s okay to have anxiety about this trip and whether I’m preparing enough, but I also need to let go of all the small worries. Is my fleece going to get dirty? Yes. Is my fleece lightweight and going to give me a layer of warmth when I need it? Yes. And both of these answers are okay.

What’s not okay is dropping a can of tuna fish on my foot and breaking a toe and being forced to delay my Camino. This, luckily, didn’t happen, but you’d better believe I’m going to be extra careful with my feet in these next few weeks.

This is bravery.

May 20, 2014

A few weeks ago I’d emailed a friend about my summer plans and the Camino. She wrote back, saying how great the trip sounded, and that she wished she had my courage.

My first thought when I read those words was, “No, this isn’t a brave thing I’m doing. I don’t have courage. In fact, I’m really scared.”

This idea of bravery and courage has been rattling around in my head for several weeks now. Am I brave to be doing this? Have I ever been brave to do any of the things that I’ve done in my life?

My immediate reaction is always to think, “No.” I just do the things that I do, and often, those things are accompanied with fear. Any big trip that I’ve taken has, initially, been full of nerves and anxiety. Change stresses me out. One of my nagging worries is that I’m living a small life and fear is holding me back.

I think about this quote: “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” (Nelson Mandela)

So often in my life I think I’ve assumed that because I have felt fear, I was not acting with courage or bravery. My fear usually feels so strong that it doesn’t leave room for much else. How can I possibly be brave if I feel so afraid?

When I went to France for my junior year of college, I was terrified. I was fine in the days leading up to the trip, and okay as I walked onto the plane. But as soon as we began the descent into Toulouse, my nerves hit. And I realized that I had no idea what I had just walked into. I was going to live with a host family- a bunch of French strangers- for 9 months? I wouldn’t go home for 9 months? I’d have to speak French for 9 months?

I struggled in the beginning, missing home and feeling uncomfortable and uncertain. What I was doing did not feel at all brave. It felt just the opposite: like I was somehow failing the experience because I was scared and timid.

Sometime in my first few weeks abroad, I received a letter from my uncle. I was the first ‘kid’ in the family to go abroad, and he told me how proud of me he was. How I had just hopped onto a plane without a clue, and flown to another country, not knowing what would meet me on the other end. That it was a brave thing to do.

He was right. I had hopped onto a plane without a clue. But he was also right in that it was brave. It still didn’t feel brave, but when I read his words, I was able to look at my experience differently. It was okay that I was scared and uncertain. The bravery was taking the steps: making the decision to study abroad, and walking onto that plane and into the unknown.

This has been a slow kind of acceptance for me, that making a decision and taking a first step- any kind of step- is bravery and courage. And that it is okay to have fear, that fear does not preclude bravery.

I am filled with fear for this Camino. Excitement, too, but also fear. So when someone tells me that I am brave to do this, I automatically think that I am not, that a brave person wouldn’t feel this kind of fear.

And that is not true. There is courage in this, in walking across a country in search of adventure and connection and discovery.

This is bravery.

Camino Countdown: 7 weeks.

May 8, 2014

7 weeks until I start walking. I don’t know where the last two months have gone; I remember thinking, in March, that I needed to start getting serious about my Camino preparation. I wanted to have my flight and my shoes and my pack. I wanted to stay on top of my preparation so I wouldn’t feel overwhelmed as my trip approached.

Life has just sort of gotten in the way.

This usually happens in the spring: the days are longer and lighter, the weather is warmer, everything blooms and the world is beautiful and I want to be outside, doing things.

How much have I done for the Camino, how much do I still have to do? Here’s an update:

1. Equipment: I still don’t have much. Still walking around in the first pair of shoes that I bought, still no pack. BUT, I have three pairs of Smartwool socks and they are the most comfortable things I’ve ever worn on my feet. I’ve spent years walking and hiking in cheap, thin, cotton socks, and those did no favors to my feet. Now, when I put on the Smartwool socks and start my hikes, I feel like I’m wearing soft, cushion-y slippers. Amazing.

My mom bought me a pair of hiking shorts, I have a t-shirt, and that’s about it. But I’m not too worried about getting everything I need. An afternoon of online shopping and a trip to REI and I think I’ll be set.

Speaking of REI, I went back for round 2 of shoe shopping. I only had a little time in the store before I had to be somewhere else, but it was just enough time to renew my hope and boost my spirits. I went in the evening on a weekday, and I had the shoe section to myself. The girl helping me was fantastic. We tried on more shoes, and I have a few options to think about. I’m going to bring in the pair I already have and compare those to a few other contenders. I’ll probably buy another pair to break them in and then decide on which pair I like the best. My first pair of shoes (the ones that I thought were ugly and maybe too tight for my feet) have grown on me. Maybe I’ve started to get used to the way they look, maybe I’ve broken them in and they feel more comfortable, or maybe I just get attached to things too quickly.

While I was trying on shoes, another salesperson was hanging around. At one point he came over and held a shoe out to me. “Look!” he said, pointing at the sides of the shoe, “If you ever decide to grow bunions, this shoe compensates for them!”

The other salesperson who’d been helping me gave him a hard look. “Dude, ‘if you ever decide to grow bunions’ is something you should never say to a woman.”

2. Training Hikes: I’m walking, a lot. I went on a 13 mile hike last weekend, which finally broke my 8-9 mile maximum. I’ve been wanting to do longer hikes, and it’s just been hard to find large enough chunks of time. But I’m hiking or walking most days of the week- even if they are small hikes- and already I can feel that my legs are stronger, and that I can climb hills a bit more easily than I could a month ago. If I can get a few more big hikes in before I leave, maybe do a couple big hikes back-to-back wearing my loaded pack, then I’ll be happy. I need to remember that part of the reason I’m walking the Camino is to physically challenge myself. I want to prepare, but I also expect- and want- this Camino to be hard.

3. Travel/logistics: Not much is planned. I have a flight, and I sent an email to the refuge in Orisson (which is about 10km from St Jean Pied de Port, my starting point for the Camino. If I stay the night at Orisson, I will only walk a few hours on my first day, but I think this could be a wise choice. Those 10 km are steep, and it will be a good way to ease into the Camino. Besides, somewhere I read the words, “When do you ever get a chance to spend the night in the Pyrenees?” and that made a lot of sense to me).

Otherwise, I spent about an hour looking up train schedules and times and trying to predict how long it will take me to make my way from Paris to St Jean Pied de Port. The answer? All day. I might gamble on an early train out of Paris- relying on my “knowledge” of the RER and metro to get me from the airport to Gare Montparnasse quickly- so I can get to SJPP in time to check into a hotel I’ve heard a lot about so I can experience their communal dinner. We’ll see. My head is spinning just reading that sentence. Travel plans and figuring out connections and timing is not very fun to me, but that’s also the beauty of the Camino. All I need to do is get down to SJPP, and after the first couple of nights of reserved lodging, I can just wing it the rest of the way.

So, I still have a lot to do. But in the meantime, here are a few photos of my shoes, hikes, and this beautiful spring.

Pre-Camino Visions.

April 22, 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I still think it looks like a deer…

A Perfect Camino.

March 22, 2014

I’ve been doing A LOT of reading/research about the Camino. I can’t get the Camino off my mind, and I don’t know if I want to: this summer is shaping up to potentially be one of the greatest of my life, and I’m feeling more excitement by the day.

But recently, I’ve wondered if I’m doing too much research. If I’m trying to over-prepare.

Right now, I’m a bit overwhelmed by everything I need to purchase for this trip. It’s not even that I need so much: a pair of pants, a pair of shorts, a few t-shirts, socks, a sleeping bag, a pack, shoes. A few extras, too: a lightweight fleece and a rain jacket, maybe a sarong because I hear those things can be used in dozens of different ways.

The thing is, I don’t really “know” anything about hiking/backpacking/travel gear. I’m learning about lightweight, moisture wicking clothing, about synthetic vs cotton, the importance of ounces and grams. I’m weeding through review after review, curious about what others have used on the Camino, what worked, what didn’t.

I’m finding myself wanting to get everything just right.

And it’s not just my gear, it’s everything else, too. What camera should I bring? Should I break up the monstrous first day with an overnight in Orrison? Which albergues should I stay in? Which ones should I avoid?

I haven’t fallen down the rabbit hole yet, but I’m dangerously close.

I’m beginning to fool myself into thinking that I can have the perfect Camino. The ideal pack, not an ounce too heavy. Bringing every essential item and leaving behind all the non-essentials. Walking 500 miles without a single blister. Seeing all the “must-sees” along the way, staying at the best albergues.

There is something that I must remind myself of repeatedly in the next three months, as I continue to prepare for my trip: There is no such thing as a perfect Camino. I will not get everything just right. There will be beauty in my mistakes. There will be discovery in the unknown.

I can’t fly off to Spain completely blind, with no idea what I’m getting myself into. If I took that approach, I’d probably never buy a plane ticket or walk a single step on ‘the way’. I’d be too scared. At times, I envy a “blind” approach: knowing little about the towns and cities I’ll be passing through, throwing a few things in a pack and figuring it out as I go along. Some people will approach their Camino in this way, and I think to do that would be an incredible thing.

But that’s not my way. Instead, I’m finding my balance, my own way to approach this Camino. I’ve given up on the idea of trying to do everything ‘just right’, and it’s taken the pressure off. I’m going to research the things I need to buy for this trip, but I’m not going to obsess: I’ll buy some pants and a light sleeping bag and if something is not right: if I’m too hot or too cold or uncomfortable with my gear, I’ll figure it out while I’m in Spain.

In the reading that I’ve already done, I’ve discovered a few things and places along the Camino that I’ve very curious about: my own ‘must-sees’. But I’m keeping that list small. I want to be able to set off on my Camino with a vague and flexible itinerary. I’ll stop walking when I want to stop walking, keep walking when I want to keep walking. Maybe I’ll stay in the “popular” places, maybe I’ll take detours, maybe I’ll walk with others, maybe I’ll walk alone.

There will be no perfect Camino. There will be only my Camino.

If Not Now, When?

January 15, 2014

I’d been thinking of walking the Camino this summer for the past few months, but it’s only been in the last 3-4 weeks that I’ve been giving it “serious” thought. As soon as I said to myself, “I might be able to do it in the summer of 2014,” I began to read everything I could about the Camino. I started with blogs, for day-by-day accounts of pilgrims who have walked in the past year or two. Then I started checking books out from the library (as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t make it through Shirley MacLaine’s account of her Camino). Then I went on forums, studying the questions that people were asking: learning about equipment, foot care, budgeting. I’ve probably overwhelmed myself with information, but to me, this is a fun stage to be in: before anything is real, before I’ve told anyone (with any certainty) that I AM going to do this; before any training or booking a flight; before taking any footsteps. It’s all fun and exciting and ideal.

But when, exactly, do I move from the pre-planning stage to the actual planning stage? I think it’s as soon as I say the words, “I am going to walk the Camino this summer.” Whenever I talk about my plans, the words ‘maybe’ and ‘if’ and ‘I’m thinking about it’ always come out of my mouth.

What am I waiting for? Well, there are some questions. The first one being: is this how I want to spend my summer? I work in a school and have two months off, from mid June to mid August. Most years, I take short trips, visit family and friends, and otherwise relax and lounge around. Not a bad way to spend a summer, by any means. But last year, I spent an incredible three weeks in southern France, and it reawakened a strong desire for travel and experience. With so many places I want to see, not to mention wishing that I could repeatedly return to France, do I want to spend my summer walking through Spain?

And then there is the question of money, and it’s what has stopped me from big summer traveling in the past. I never thought that I had enough, and the practical side of me heard warning bells every time I thought about spending the money I saved up during the year on month(s) long European travel.

Money needs to be a consideration, but so does the question: “If not now, when?” I may never again have two months of my life when I have nothing tying me down, when I do not have to work, when I am healthy and able, when I have the desire and willingness. I may never have this time again. So if that means scrimping and saving throughout the year, sacrificing other things so I don’t have to sacrifice this, then I know that I can afford to travel. Besides, I’ll be traveling like a pilgrim: sleeping on mattresses or bunk beds with dozens or even hundreds of others in the same room, and cooking my own meals or eating off of the inexpensive Pilgrim’s menu.

My plans are still hazy, but as my desire to walk the Camino grows every day, my vision of this becomes clearer. I’d like to give myself about 6 weeks in Europe, which should be more than enough time to walk from St. Jean Pied-de-Port to Santiago. It allows for a few travel days and rest days, and maybe even a return to southern France for a week, or the chance to spend a few days in Paris or Barcelona.

And as these plans become clearer, the questions begin to be answered. I will have enough money to do this. I do want to spend 5-6 weeks walking through Spain. Slowly, I am moving into the planning stage of this journey. I have a lot I want to do: talk with people who have done this before, walk and walk and walk and then do some practice hikes, learn some basic Spanish, buy a backpack and shoes and everything else. I don’t really need to do any of this (except for acquiring the backpack and shoes), but I can only do anything remotely adventurous with a lot of preparation.

So. I am going to walk the Camino this summer. Let the planning begin.

Preparation, fear, and forgotten words

July 6, 2013

I leave for France on Tuesday, and I’m not ready.

What does it mean, really, to be ready for something? My bags aren’t completely packed, but they will be, soon. I don’t have a detailed plan of work for while I’m there, but I have ideas, and I think that’s all I need. I’ve taken care of the details: flights and trains and hotels, money and plug adapters. My passport is practically glued to my hand, that’s now nervous I am about forgetting it.

The other day, my grandmother asked me how to say ‘pull’ in French. I felt like the word was on the tip of my tongue; I opened my mouth to say it, but nothing came out. I searched through my mind, at first confident that I could find it. I couldn’t.

I’ve forgotten a lot of the French that I learned in college. When did I lose the word ‘pull’? Last year? 5 years ago? Slowly, and without my knowledge, words have been slipping away. Going back to France makes me realize how much of the language I’ve lost, it makes me wonder how much of the language I can, and will, get back. I think to myself- “Why haven’t I been preparing? Why haven’t I been studying vocab, watching French movies?”

It wouldn’t have mattered. What I learned in France during my first week abroad was equal to or greater than everything I’d learned in the classroom over the previous 7 years. I’ll go back to France and the language will be there. It will be around me, and it will be in my head. The word ‘pull’ might appear, effortlessly, along with all the others that have gotten lost.

But this trip isn’t really about the language. I can focus on not feeling prepared to speak French, but that’s not what I’m really worried about.

I’m worried about having three weeks to chase a dream, and wondering if I can do it. I’m worried about sitting down and writing. I’m worried about how to be an artist.

I’m worried, but my excitement is a bit stronger. I’m excited about giving myself a chance to focus on a dream. I’m excited to see what happens when I sit down and write for three weeks. I’m excited to find out what kind of artist I am, I’m excited to let myself be an artist.

Right now, I’m about as prepared as I’m going to be. It’s time to get to France and speak the language and eat the bread and take some photos and start to write. I’m excited to share this experience, because I think it’s going to be a great one.