To An Enchanted Island

When I left home, it was important to me that I reestablish my belief.  Belief in the goodness and kindness of people.  My belief in the possibility and hope of redemption.  Redemption available, as I'm daily reminded, through desperate grace alone.  My belief in vulnerability as a lifestyle, and maybe the only road to true transformation.  I needed to reaffirm my belief in the power and beauty of the divine feminine, of my own femininity, despite living in a world that daily works to devalue and denigrate us.  I wanted to believe in myself, in my competence and ability as a little woman alone in a big, big world.  Most importantly, I deeply needed to believe again in the audacious power of hope.

Upon arriving on Santorini, I was nearly knocked off my feet by the mystical weight of the air.  There was something sanctified, something ancient and very alive here.  This tiny island deep in the Aegean sea has a prehistoric history of habitation, and is speculated by some to be the origin of the lost city of Atlantis.  Even its myth of creation is derived from a divine love, in which Euphemus is said to have impregnated one of the nymph daughters of Triton.  In effort to create for her a safe haven from her father's wrath, Euphemus threw a clod of earth into the sea and created "the most beautiful", now known as Santorini.

Phenomenal (and hilarious) Pandora player

I quickly began to understand why so many Greeks had questioned my intention to do the island alone.  It is a place created and sustained by a special kind of creative force, a force of love.  I remained undeterred though, determined to see this dreamy place for myself.  I hadn't yet allowed my solo status to limit my adventure, so I certainly wasn't about to  stand in my own way of experiencing the loveliness, the lovely magic of this enchanted island.

Though the temperature was quickly descending,  the sunlight remained strong enough to give my freckles freckles, and light the paths I daily hiked.  I befriended a few of the island dogs, most of whom were abandoned by residents who moved off the island.  I discovered favorite places for my favorite foods, and favorite people who embraced me with what can only be described as perfectly Greek hospitality.  They welcomed me into their off-season daily lives, teaching me the Greek origins of all things, and including me in their evening festivities.  My originally planned 4 days slowly unfolded into 10 as I allowed Santorini to respond to some of my traveling prayers, in the gentlest of ways.

Thira

What better to remind me of redemption and transformation than a people who have not only lived, but thrived on the cliff face of a rock for more than 5,000 years?  The warmth and kindness extended to me, as well as the respect and even reverence with which I was treated, a reminder of the power and beauty inherent in being created a woman.  Wholly, uniquely, divinely woman.  Not at all the curse we're taught, but a compelling power, and a gift for which I'm becoming ever more grateful.  So though I did the island alone, I didn't do it lonely.  Santorini gifted me a heart full; full of promise, and full of hope.  And if that's not love, I don't know what is.

...To The Land Of The Gods

Deeply nestled into my friends' home the past several weeks, I required some serious oomph to get myself back on the road.  Once again I prepared myself for traveling solo, and living in hostels, and eating fewer than three square meals a day.  Living as a traveler is always an adventure, rarely very comfortable, and hardly ever cozy; I didn't take my Swiss respite for granted.  With a little wistfulness, I said my goodbyes and shoved some contraband cheese and a bit of anxiety into my backpack.  I was finally headed to the land of Homer, and Zeus, and my personal favorite, Tina Fey's mother: Greece.

I have been given by Athens a most chaotic welcome.  My olfactory senses are daily assaulted by the scents of too much cologne, and cat urine, and the burning diesel emitted from the mopeds careening through the city.  The street vendors spill off the narrow sidewalks into the streets, hawking food, and crafts, and junky junk.  Giant listless dogs sleep on every corner, seemingly unaware that the blazing heat of the Mediterranean summer has abated.  Street performers work the tourist traps, while savvy preteens play their plastic flutes for change they demand should you dare make eye contact.  I can't help but appreciate their confidence.

This is a gritty city with lots of edge.  East meets west, old meets new.  It is the city of the gods.  And while the presence of these infamous immortals can still be felt hovering over this ancient metropolis, they must now share power with their fiercely defiant, 21st century ancestors.  As history attests, the Greeks are not easily defeated.  They are not broken by the weight of their forsaken economy, but continue to boldly celebrate life.  They welcome strangers and are gracious hosts to tourists and refugees alike, but will not sacrifice their culture to outside influence.  They are a people who, instead of being silenced, blast their convictions and frustrations onto every available surface, creating some of the most powerful street art I've ever seen.



Athens has taught me some things, and reminded me of others.  It has reminded me just how much I love losing and finding myself in new cities.  Of how much I love befriending locals and trying mysterious street food.  I now remember how much I love to find a perfectly discreet seat in a bustling plaza from which to watch the world around me.   Entirely anonymous among the crowd, I try to observe as much as I can; parents feeding their toddlers souvlaki, lovers aware of only one another, and elderly civilians shaking the hands of the rookie police officers.

In only a matter of days, I have received no fewer than three marriage proposals.  I have been given a bracelet by a street vendor, accompanied by a special blessing that my presumed wish of bearing many children will come true.  I have received three phone numbers, invitations to both a backyard barbeque and a wedding, and heaps of advice about where to visit while I'm here.  I have become moderately obsessed with hunting their world-renowned street art, often in the least savory but most lively of neighborhoods.  I've made myself quite at home in what appears to be the skid row of Athens, and now know to return to my hostel before ten if I want to avoid the bewitching hour of the neighborhood ghosts.  Athens has invigorated me.  And I can't wait to see what's next.

... To The Confederation Helvetica

Ahhhhh, Switzerland.  Or the Confederation Helvetica, as it's formerly known.  Despite being landlocked in central Europe, it is a country that officially declines membership in the European Union.  It is the land of the Suisse franc, and four national languages, and of course, the Alps.  It is a land where cows wear personalized bells, in order that their farmers are able to find them when they wander from their alpine pastures.  It is a country known for perfection, and now I understand why.  It is the most placid, serene place I've ever visited.  And oh, how I  could use some serenity.

This is a gentle land of gentle people.  People who live peacefully among one another the way they have globally for generations.  Here they create and maintain meticulous systems for everything, from thwarting speeding by revoking licenses on the first offense, to providing a free note in the parking garage to assure you find your way back.  Public restrooms are everywhere and fully loaded with both toilet paper and hand soap (be still my heart).  They are also pristinely clean, tempting you to eat your $30 sandwich on the floor.    And speaking of $30 dollar sandwiches, oof.  One of  her few imperfections, the exorbitant cost.  Of everything.  That, and the radio.  If you’re lucky enough to get clear signal through the mountains, prepare yourself for cringey pop from all over the world.

Though I was not originally planning on stopping here, I was easily convinced by Zazou and her husband who relocated here earlier this year, following a world tour of their own.  In a quiet little village just outside of Lausanne, I've built myself a cozy little nest on the floor of their apartment.  I've unpacked my backpack, and stolen Pierre's hoodie, and familiarized myself with where things are in the kitchen.  I've studiously investigated the differences among their chocolate, and enjoyed a trilogy of Swiss French cheese dishes, la raclette, la fondue, and la tartiflette.  I've allowed the softness of this place to infuse my spirit and slow me down.  Quite simply, I've allowed myself to crash.

We've mastered a few killer hikes, up fiercely steep mountainsides.  We've had multiple dance parties in our socks and sweatshirts as we cook our oatmeal in the morning, and when we compare our Spotify playlists in the evening.  We've snuggled under thick blankets and watched too-intense-for-my-tender-sensibilities television shows.  In short, Switzerland has graciously shared with me her most valuable treasures: her peace, and her people.  I'm indebted to her.  I promise one day I'll gladly return to pay her back.

... With A Little Bit Of Magic

The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire.  Ferdinand Foch

I met him, of all times, during the brief week my mom and I had together in Portugal.  He was gorgeous, and kind, and I was more than a little dazzled.  I made a pale effort to maintain my I’m-a-woman-alone-and-don’t-get-near-me face, and made sure to wear my faux wedding ring.  Despite my weary old habits though, I knew immediately that something was happening, something bigger than me.  He was, quite simply, a force of nature.  And one with whom I would have to reckon.

We exchanged contact information and a few of our big, fat, crazy dreams.  He made me laugh and made me wonder.  I learned only a little about his story, but enough.  Enough to appreciate he is a proud man of great depth.  Enough to see an old soul reflected under the surface of his youthful playfulness and wit.  Enough to finally acknowledge, and believe in what we were sharing: indisputable, undeniable magic.

But timing, as they say, is everything, and we had only the maybes of our magic.  Because he'll need all of his to thrash the disease that keeps returning to drag him back into the ring.  To defeat once and for all the disease that doesn't deserve him.  Because he is oozing with life.  Powerful, mischievous, fiercely courageous life.  Life full of adventures yet to be lived.  Life generously shared with the countless who love him.  And ever so briefly, life he shared with me, too.  


For reasons beyond our control, we knew I couldn't stay to fight for him.  Instead he sent me firmly onward, to boldly persist on this wild, ridiculous ride.  To live worthy of having encountered a bona fide force of nature.   So I'll take a bit of our magic on the road, a Portuguese mojo of sorts.  And since I can't give more, I'll leave the rest with him, an extra right hook I hope.  To show this bullshit disease who's boss.  For it too, will have its reckoning.  And it too will learn; you don't mess with magic. 

... With My Mama

Mothers are the necessity of invention.  Bill Watterson

My mom and I have always had an interesting relationship.  I wasn't easy growing up.  Independent, self reliant, yes.  But never easy.  I was intense, and broody, and passionate about everything.  And I'm quite sure, exhausting for her to try to keep up with.  Our relationship isn't without complicated history, but requires effort and patience from both of us, always.  She is however, someone I rely on more as I get older, decidedly
so over the past 4 months, as she's become one of my primary supporters.  I don't know what I'd do without her.  Which is why I was tickled when she decided to join me in Portugal.

Lisboa

Mom is a woman of many roles, and many talents.  She has devoted her professional life to working with students with special needs, both learning and behavioral.  She relishes her role as grandmother, and has a bustling social life.  She's incredibly active, defying stereotypes often ascribed to women of a certain age.  She's a friend to many, a yoga student to few, and an identical twin.  She's also now officially a world traveler.

Palais de Pena, Sintra

Mom arrived in Lisbon the morning after I'd arrived from Porto.  She was jet lagged, and excited, and  practically spinning in circles when I overheard her in the lobby of our hotel.  It was a sweet reunion, as I crashed into her from the adjacent cafeteria, giving that sluggish crowd a bit of an early morning spectacle.  I knew what it cost for her to be there, both financially and otherwise.  To take the time away, to have to figure out international travel alone, to treat me to proper hotels and three meals a day (!!!!!), no small thing.  I didn't take her generosity, or courage, for granted.

Street Art, Cascais

As my mom is my mom, our time together was full of escapades.  We spent our first few days tackling all Lisbon had to offer, which for us meant a lot of fresh fish and Portuguese wine.  We then headed further up the coast, where we hiked old Moorish castles, explored pristine palaces, and of course, ate more fish and drank more wine.  We laughed our asses off, and talked about life, and bickered the way only we can.

Our goodbye came all too quickly, as goodbyes are wont to do.  It was awkward and a little hurried as we hustled in opposite directions at the airport, her home to the west, me northbound to Switzerland.  With a little sadness and a lot of pride I watched her walk away to find her way home from this international stage.  I had every confidence she'd figure it out, the way I have every confidence she'll do it again.  Like mother, like daughter, as they say.  I sure hope so.

... Into Portugal

Beautiful Brittany

Portugal is a country of startling beauty, and startling juxtapositions.  It is a country only just beginning to emerge from the economic crisis of 2008, with a citizenry who work long hours at multiple jobs to make ends meet.  More often than ever before, folks are impelled to work without a contract, as employers can no longer afford to pay the exorbitant government tax to keep their employees "on the books".  And while the unemployment rate is slowly decreasing, it remains a disquieting season for the Portuguese people, as they gently but firmly explained to me during my visit.

Parrot Play

I arrived in Porto raw, raw from the physical toll of the camino on my body, raw from the emotional toll of the my final camino goodbyes.  Most recently, to an American named Brittany whose wisdom and experience eclipsed her chronological age.  Brittany was terrific company during my final days in Spain, and someone I greatly admire.  She's someone who knows her own mind, and has a tenacious strength unlike many I've seen.  She also has a wicked sense of humor, a real homage to her northeastern roots.

A valiant (failed) effort to like Port wine

Upon my arrival, I was relieved to find myself in one of the coziest hostels I've stayed in to date.  A recently converted, six story home from the 17th century, nestled into a hillside in the heart of Porto.  A hostel full to capacity of people on their own adventures.  A contingent of spirited Dutch professionals, in town for a week of surfing.  A Kiwi and a Welshman, proudly representing their respective rugby teams as they moved closer to the rugby world cup finals.  A lovely, brilliant young German, living in Portugal to become fluent in what will be her fourth language.  An older Korean woman, traveling alone without any English.  So brave.

Porto

I spent my days exploring the city, hiking the coast, and trying to learn as much as I could from my roommates, both Portuguese and otherwise.  It was here I began to really fall in love with this country, and these people.  They are a people of great pride, with deep, complicated history, and passionate opinions.  They are a people of the sea, and like the sea they are known for the world over, they reflect the same limitless depth, bold diversity, and coastal temperament.  So while they may appear placid and serene on the surface, I think they, like their ocean, boast a depth and a power capable of producing the largest waves in the world.  They are a people to be reckoned with, these Portuguese.  And I think I love them.

... To Santiago de Compostela, Part III

The morning of our anticipated arrival in Santiago, we awoke early, our excitement tangible in the form of boosted endorphins and renewed momentum.  We had slept in a town only 5 kilometers from the cathedral, planning to arrive early enough in the city to breakfast and receive our official Compostelas, the certificate of the Camino, before attending the pilgrim mass at noon.  One last time, we headed into the dark together, and didn't look back.

Love Them

Percebes

As we began our descent off the hill and into Santiago de Compostela, I did my best to be present for each final step.  I knew enough to know I'd fully digest the experience later, as I'm much more an internal processor than external.  I was however, able to fully adore each of the people I was blessed enough to walk with, each final step my legs were able to take.  I was able to marvel over my relative lack of pain, and how very strong I felt.  I was even, at least for a few moments, able to appreciate the recent hilarity of the noises coming from our roommate the evening before, a camino miracle in itself.

I finally, finally, after nearly 6 weeks, arrived in Santiago de Compostela.  We sat down for one last breakfast together, and took stock of how far we'd each come.  We were then greeted by a most friendly Nicola at the cathedral, where we took our photos.  Photos with our cameras certainly, but also with our hearts.

Orujo

The following few days were filled with celebration, and laughter, and phenomenal Galician tapas.  There were reunions with friends from St.Jean, reunions with camino crushes, and even, unfortunately for some of us, reunions with the occasional camino creeper.  For many of us women, there was the purchasing of mascara and European skinny jeans, because oof, it's been since July that I've felt even a little girly, and it felt good.

Inevitably, our community began to dissolve, some flying home, others like myself heading out to the coast, or the end of the earth as it's known here.  Goodbyes were difficult, as I knew I'd be heading back out into solo travel and the consequent loneliness that comes with it.  It was what I looked forward to least, losing this exceptional, unusual community.  I didn't take them for granted.

Sunset, End of the World

I know that among the many camino lessons, and miracles, and hurts, and healing, we had each other.  We shared relationship, and community, and laughter.  We shared tears and vulnerability.  We shared braces for tendonitis, and medicine for illness, and electrolyte powder for puffy-face syndrome.  We shared bottles of vino tinto, and our secret hopes for the future.  We shared our confidence and our courage as well as much as our weakness and our failings.  And I think, at the end of it all, that's all that matters, all any of us can hope for.  So, to those who continue to live as pilgrims on this wildly painful, glorious, messy road that is life, a most sincere Buen Camino.

... To Santiago de Compostela, Part II

I began the ascent into the final mountains, and officially into autumn.  The trees were heavy laden with apples, pears, figs, castañas and walnuts.  I felt like Dorothy in Return To Oz, gobbling up fruit as I walked along, grateful to not miss out on apple season, even so far from my beloved Pennsylvania orchards.  The cool air was perfumed by the ripening fruit and the familiar smell of the surrounding pastures and friendly livestock.  It reminded me so much of home, during this most homesick of seasons, and I was grateful.  It was during the nostalgic wistfulness of these days that we were assaulted with the first and worst of the rains.

Nicola

In the midst of the sudden deluge of wild weather, I did my best not to focus on my purple fingernails, or the feeling of new blisters growing under my blister scars.  I tried my best not to visualize my boots as fishbowls, pregnant with water.  I tried my best to shield my eyes from the icy wind and rain, and to adjust my posture, as I was intermittently aware of how parallel I was walking to the ground.  I visualized the caffeine coursing through my veins, inspiring my muscles to do what they knew to do, to propel me and my pack forward, step by brutal step.  I pictured my cardiovascular system working overtime to keep me warm, and trusted my capacity beyond my longing to curl up and take shelter.  It was a primal experience of entrusting myself to myself.

As I forged ahead, I was reminded for the millionth time of how much I take for granted, of how grateful I am for shelter, and warm, dry clothes, and a home.  I was acutely aware that even here, we are among the most privileged, each of us with opportunity and resources enough to arrive in Spain, our $200 packs over-stuffed with what we believe to be our essentials.  Each of us able to find medicine to treat our blisters, and medical care to treat our illness, and cream to treat our bedbug bites.  Undoubtedly, each with a home full of closets overstuffed with more clothes than we'll ever need.  And for the millionth time, I was humbled.  And more determined than ever to honor simplicity and appreciate with intention.

I arrived over the last of the mountains, my poncho shredded beyond recognition as anything other than party confetti, to find Nicola, the most gentle of Italian giants working his way off the mountain and into the town.  I had spent the better part of the week walking with different men from different countries, and he had quickly evolved into a shining favorite.  An Italian sunshine, as someone once referred to him.  A man only a few years older than me, who has more friends than even Facebook allows, and more heart than maybe anyone I've ever met.  A man who, in answer to prayers he knew nothing about, softened some of my edges, and gave me a bit of hope.  And if this wasn't enough, was also funny as hell, and a great drinking buddy.

My Favorites

As we worked our way deeper into Galicia and past the 100k mark, the landscape evolved into misty, fragrant forests of pine and eucalyptus.  The temperatures continued to drop, and we gladly experienced a reprieve from the rains.  Friendships continued to evolve, walls continued to come down, and limits continued to be tested.  I wiggled my way into a quad of phenomenal humans who had joined forces way back in the Pyrenees, and enjoyed every minute of their company.  I was as powerfully grateful for the saints and pilgrims I was personally meeting as I was for any who'd gone before these past two thousand years.  I knew their sacrifice, what it cost them to walk these narrow roads.  Their commitment inspired me, and gave me the courage to see it through to the end, to see it through to Santiago de Compostela.  We were so close.

...To Santiago de Compostela, Part I

Castaña Tree

The last 300 kilometers have been fraught with rhythm and strengthening and snorechestras (thanks, Colin!).  There was the rhythm of our daily routine, walk-wash-(try to) sleep, the rhythm of our unique individual paces blending with each other on the path, the cadence of our boots and sticks bouncing off the various terrains through country and towns and cities, one step at a time.  A special kind of harmony.  There was the strengthening of our legs, and backs, and appetites.  The strength of our appreciation for each other, and sitting down, and earplugs.  We were in it together.   

After our night under the blood moon, we gradually made our way out of the arid Meseta and into the Bierzo, a region lush with vegetation and color and vineyards.  Also the last of the regions we’d traverse before conquering the final mountains and entering Galicia, the land of Santiago de Compostela.  This is where I learned that castañas, or chestnuts, actually do taste sweet and a little soft when roasted, but taste more like feet when eaten raw.

Coffee Break
 

It was here in the Bierzo that I began to feel infused with the energy and strength of this mysterious road, both physically and mentally, defying even my own expectations.  Many days, I'd walk well over 30 kilometers before I even realized how far I'd gone, shaking off the abstraction of the lost hours, feeling vital and alive and starving.  I continued to spend my evenings with all sorts of people, people walking to grieve dying loved ones, people walking to find God, people walking to lose Him.  It was humbling every time, to be afforded the opportunity to meet each of them, and share in a part of their day, and their lives.

During those hours of sweaty reflection, I found it impossible not to confront some of my ghosts.  A simple thing really, to realize the power of what we each carry, the things we believe about ourselves, truth and lie alike.  That disappearing into an 800 kilometer trek through a foreign country, even then, there you are.  

Gaudi in Astorga

Eventually, we began the ascent up the last of the series of mountains to the highest peak of the whole Camino at 1,505 meters.  This is the site of the Cruz de Ferro, where many pilgrims leave something behind, often a rock they’d carried from home.  I hadn’t had the forethought or the backpack space to do such a thing, but felt convicted, the higher I climbed that cool morning, that I too needed to leave something, or rather someone, behind.

I chose a small rock, pointy with sharp edges, to represent someone sharp and pointy from my not-too-distant past.  Someone to whom I gave far more credit than was deserved for reflecting the beauty of his surroundings, instead of the sharp edges that he actually bore.  A person whose potential I chose to believe instead of his actual character, whose words I chose to believe instead of his actions.  As I carried this pointy little guy to the foot of the cross, its edges scratching me one last time, I made some choices.  Some choices to forgive him, but maybe even more importantly, to forgive myself for putting myself in yet another situation with yet another sharp rock.  So as I placed him down on the pile of others’ hopes and hurts and losses, I said a prayer that maybe he’d allow his edges to be softened and shaped by those around him.  And that maybe I’d learn to do the same.

... Under The Blood Moon

Sunday in Burgos

This journey has been 1000 times more difficult than I ever imagined.  For every oozing, bleeding blister, for every crackling tendon and painful muscle spasm, there seems to be at least a dozen mental and emotional soft spots rising to the surface.  And, as I'm learning on a daily and even hourly basis, there is no escaping either the brutal physicality or the raw vulnerability that this trek demands.

I find myself preferring the company of the landscape, however barren, to the company of others as I walk.  It's more a reflection of my desperate need for quiet and solitude than anything else.  Of course, I remain grateful for my place in our pilgrim community, and continue to enjoy some entrancing group dynamics in the evening, as well as some riveting individual conversations.  As we wear ourselves down, body and soul, it remains one of the undiminished camino miracles, how honest and vulnerable people are willing to be.  Or maybe, how little energy there is to be anything else.

From the Clouds

One of the dearest people I've met this week is a dashing Dutchman who eagerly reminded me of the pending blood moon.  I knew immediately I wanted to try to gain my daily distance to Santiago by the light of this most rare of celestial occurrences, and was grateful that a few others were up to the mystical challenge.

When the night arrived, we made a point to pack our bags and go to bed completely dressed, foot bandages and all, in effort to make as little disturbance as possible for our roommates.  There's nothing like the shuffle-shuffle-zip-zip of others when you're still sleeping to bring out your not-so-pilgrim-like attitude.  We made certain the door was unlocked, as many albergues literally lock you in to prohibit said early departures, grabbed our boots, and quietly slipped into the night.
 

Daybreak

Our 3am departure was well timed for the beginning of the eclipse here in Spain.  It was perfectly thrilling, and perfectly freezing.  We followed the clear path of the Milky Way as so many thousands have done before, as this, the Milky Way, was historically another name for the Camino.  It is also the course by which ancient pilgrims plotted their way to Santiago de Compostela, Compostela literally meaning "star field".

Kissing Shepherd

I think it was an experience that defied clear thinking.  The contrast between the power of what we were doing, and the depth of fatigue we were experiencing was utterly absorbing, leaving no room for anything else.  I was grateful for the distance from my demons.  It's already surreal to recall the long night, but there are a few things that I'm determined to remember.

I remember feeling wonder beneath the different stages of the eclipse, and the consequent illumination or obscurity of the path in front of me.  I remember being in awe of the dark beauty, and the juxtaposing power of light.  I remember my breath catching at each shooting star.  I remember feeling a little like Fieval, heartened by the fact that people I love were watching the same sky, somewhere out there.  I remember fantasizing about warm beds with lots of covers and steaming coffee and wearing my brothers' hoodies.  And finally, I remember feeling grateful to be here, despite and maybe even because of all it's cost me.  So while I continue to not fully understand what in the world I'm doing here, I walk on.