... 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.

...To Being Thwarted, Again

Market Day, Estella

My reality today is that I am surfacing from a serious case of bronchitis that effectively benched me these last several days.  This only days after being sidelined by my knee.  I'm relearning how to breathe through my nose, and am hoping to be up and moving again by the beginning of the week.  In effort to spare my fuzzy brain from having to write too much, I thought I'd share some of my favorite photos from the last few days, as they've brought some light and life to my sickbed.  In the midst of my quiet little confinement, I did manage to find some shadows of truth, things I'm determined to remember and be grateful for.  Ahem:

1) My room shared a courtyard with a nursing home.  I knew, despite how I felt, that I would eventually heal and continue on my way.  The patients I saw so clearly from my window would do neither, at least this side of heaven.  Perspective.

2) Said hotel room included a big bed with an actual, non-plastic mattress, clean sheets, and even a blanket.  Ahh, linens.  Not a single bedbug or itchy roommate to be found.  And the bathroom.  With toilet paper!  And soap!  Glorious.

3) I busted out my trusty American credit card to gain access to such glorious sleeping arrangements.  Many folks, including the homeless refugees streaming into this very country, can do no such thing.  Again, perspective.

Pantano de La Grajera, outside of Logroño.  This was taken within the first few hours of being back on the road after being hobbled by my knee.

The morning of these two photos (above and below), I woke up on the wrong side of the bed after another sleepless night.  My mood further deteriorated when I realized I was unable to leave, as the proprietors hadn't yet arrived to unlock the doors and let us out.  Locked in.  It was as unnerving as it sounds.  I was, fortuitously for all who later crossed my path, tamed by the dawn.

Sunrise Over Rioja

The signs are not always so clear, but the Spanish work tirelessly to ensure we find our way.

Rioja vines, as tasty as they look!

And finally (and hopefully, and prayerfully), I'll be on my way once again...

...Through Navarra

Navarra

Basque Festival

As I enter into my second week on the Camino, I'm finding it a bit difficult to reflect on all that's already happened.  Reflection on the past, postulating about the future, these suddenly seem a bit luxurious to me, things I have to generate energy to be able to with any efficacy.  Putting in miles and miles a day necessitates being present in a wholly unique way, even beyond what I've experienced in my travels to date.  There is simply no room for pretense in our ever-shrinking packs as we make our way through Navarra, the first region of the Camino beyond the Pyrenees.  

Traditional Basque Costume

Most acutely, I am fully present and aware of my daily physical transformation, as my muscles grow muscles, and my gnarly knee brings tears of pain to my eyes.  I am learning the uneasiness of receiving medical attention in a foreign language, and how uncomfortable I am relying on others for support.  I am learning to slow down and to make my own pace, despite the competitive pace of those around me.  I am learning to give voice to my weaknesses, to own my limitations, and to ask for help in multiple languages.  It is so very humbling.  And I suspect, so very necessary.

Uno más, por favor!

I am pleased to report though, that in addition to getting my tail kicked, I am delighting in the evolving landscapes that I hobble through each day.  The landscapes of the land, and the sky, and the people are impressive.  I fully underestimated how much variation I'd see even within the course of a single day, sometimes even a single hour.  Spain is a country of warm, kind, approachable people who do all they can to support us as we make our way through their towns and villages and cities.  It's impossible to imagine doing this in any other place, among any other people.

Pamplona

And the pilgrims.  Let me tell you about the pilgrims.  There is nothing so unifying as comparing tortured toes and sharing communal showers to cast out whatever vestiges of modesty you may have hidden in your pack.  I've met people from all over the world, communicated without a common language, and made some fantastic friends.  There is something so deeply comforting about implicitly belonging to a community this far from home, and I don't take it for granted.  We share our dinner, we share our joint gel, we share insider scoop about which albergues offer massage, and which offer bedbugs.  We also, most evenings, share delicious regional wine and deep laughter, so much so that my abs are sore.  Which, like so many other aches and pains, is a soreness that makes tangible the reality of really being here.  A soreness that keeps me present.

...Over The Pyrenees

 

There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast.  Charles Dickens

Day one of my camino, I awoke long before my alarm went off at 4:30am, abuzz with nervous energy.  I tried to savor my pot of tea before I made the final adjustments to my pack, and headed out the door.  I was a bit surprised to find the moon still bright in the sky with all of her celestial friends, as I hadn't really considered the implications of such an early hour.  The mist was heavy, almost like the mountains were still under their own cozy blankets.  I spent the first few minutes mentally scrambling, trying to remember how to survive an animal attack.  Are there wolves here, or bears?  Even worse, what about skunks?  I managed to get over myself pretty quickly though, as I've long cherished the rarefied beauty of night.  

I began the ascent through the moonlit mist, above the quiet of the sleeping town.  I was grateful for the solitude, and even a little choked up.  I felt alone but not lonely, a little afraid but not unprepared.  I slowly realized I was heading up at the same slow and steady pace of the sun.  It was otherworldly, witnessing the dawn of the day, the first sleepy breaths of the mountains waking up all around me.  I did my best to stop every so often and take in all that was around me.  I didn't want to miss a single second, or in the words of my friend Libby, a single step.

Somewhere Between France and Spain

Thankfully the weather remained cool, as I was beginning to really warm up.  The ascent became considerably steeper as I continued to adjust to walking with sticks.  I am indebted to some jolly Canadian men for such sound advice, I'm already pretty sure those shiny aluminum poles are going to save my tail.  About a third of the way up, I paused to eat my second breakfast, and watch a pair of hawks circling below me, a vantage point I've never had before, and one I won't soon forget.

I found different rhythms along the way, losing track of time for hours.  I met people from all over the world, but spent the majority of the day pretty solo, which I preferred.  As I continued up up up through pastureland,  I was awestruck by the unique and dazzling beauty of each of the surrounding peaks and valleys.  The enormity, the majesty of being in the middle of such a place was so very humbling, I didn't want it to end.  Eventually though, I arrived to the dreaded descent, the part I maintain is always the most difficult.  Thankfully, with the help of those staggering down with me, I arrived in Roncesvelles.

Headed Down

I checked into the monastery along with everyone else before attending the brief mass held exclusively for the pilgrims.  I have no idea what was said, but it didn't matter.  It was rich, and a blessing.  I used the men's restroom several times, and was standing in line (in my towel) with several playful Frenchmen in their skivvies before one of them finally told me that there was in fact a women's restroom, immediately beside theirs.  They were more than accommodating though, "Of course you can shower with us if you want to!"  

I don't know what's to come, what the next 790 kilometers will hold, and that's okay.  For today, I climbed some mountains, met some charismatic characters, and got comfy in a men's restroom.  Not a bad start, I'd say.

...To The Camino!

St. Jean Pied de Port

When I learned about The Way of St.James, I knew right away I was going to do it.  Nearly 500 miles to Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain, Le Chemin de Saint Jacques has been a pilgrimage for a few thousand years.  Thousands of people from all over the world hike it each year, in part or in full, as its popularity continues to increase the world over.  There are several different paths to choose, but I’ve decided on the traditional starting point, St.Jean Pied de Port. 

l'Auberge du Pèlerin

St.Jean Pied de Port is a tiny town nestled deep in the Pyrenees.  As Zazou joked, and I quickly learned, it’s also considered the “end of the world in France”.  For me, it would take 12 hours, 3 trains, and 1 bus before I finally arrived, a pilgrimage in itself.  Despite inclement weather and delays, I made each of my connections, culminating in a bus ride through the mountains.  It was the most powerfully loaded bus ride I’ve ever taken, and that's saying a lot coming from Chicago.  A bus exclusively for pilgrims, each with his or her own reasons for making the trek. A bus full of hearts vulnerably worn on sleeves.  Folks were friendly, but also perceptibly nervous, and excited, and trying to absorb the reality of where we were, and why we were there.  The breathtaking way the sunlight illuminated the mountains despite the heavy laden, grey skies, combined with my gratefulness for being there was quite simply, overwhelming.

I had booked a room in advance, planning on resting a few days before heading out.  Upon arriving however, I was disturbed to find my hotel closed.  Fermé.  With the help of a Frenchman’s cell phone, I called the emergency number, only to learn they don’t in fact answer said emergency number.  This was probably the closest I’ve come to bursting into tears, and not the pretty kind.  That day I’d been reading “Letters From Burma”, by Aung San Suu Kyi, and remembered a line that resonated with me, “… as he and his family struggled for daily survival, he would always look up toward the heavens and know that behind the clouds was the sun.”  I took some deep breaths and looked up, only to find an enormous rainbow, stretching itself across both the mountains and the village.  A sign of promise thousands of years old, and so very timely for me.  

Prayers of Hope

I made my way to the pilgrim office, as this is a town who deeply cares for those of us arriving to start le chemin.  The office boasts about 6 “staff”, who volunteer on a weekly basis, working 16 hours a day, 7 days a week.  They are exceptionally gentle and patient, hugely comforting in such emotionally charged circumstances.  To my surprise, there were several pilgrims already waiting, all of whom needed a place to sleep, as the proverbial inns were full.  After a few hours of weary waiting, about 3 dozen of us were led through the night down the hill and out of town.  I felt a real comfort under the weight of my pack, which not only boasts all my worldly possessions, but feels a bit like home.  I couldn’t help but consider the thousands of refugees the world over, families risking and losing their lives for freedom.  They don’t have a cozy pack, the assurance of an eventual shelter, or accessible resources.  I can’t begin to imagine.

After about 15 minutes of hiking through the dark, we arrived.  I didn't realize it was a dojo until we stepped inside, finding nothing more than a big room with an unusually bright red mat.  People scrambled for space enough to stretch out, no small feat.  I made a valiant effort to ignore the nearby couple who appeared to be checking one other for lice, and did my best to get comfortable between some Italian athletes and a French farmer.  I tired of waiting for someone else to do it, so eventually turned the lights off, garnering a hardy round of applause.  I was reminded throughout the night that like laughter, snoring transcends language.  It was a veritable symphony, and a very long night.  I don’t know what type of martial arts are practiced in a dojo, but when I was awoken around 5:00 am, I know I felt inspired to kung fu the mess out of the next person to blast me in the face with their headlamp.

I’ve spent the last two days recovering, exploring the town, and preparing for my own departure.  This afternoon, I will light some candles for Ann and Noreen back in Chicago, warrior mothers with exceptional strength, and exceptional children.  I will eat a clean dinner with a special little chocolate for dessert, adjust my walking poles, and hopefully take a long, hot bath.  Tomorrow, I will rise before the sun, do some stretching, and head out to what is considered the most difficult day, 26 kilometers up and over the mountain into Spain.  I feel equal parts nervous, and excited, and tender.  I’ll be going with many I take with me in spirit, and maybe as importantly, with the many who’ve gone before.  I’ll be on my way.

... To A Secret World

Les Baux-de-Provence

There is a french expression, coup de foudre. It's used to describe an instant connection with someone, usually in a romantic context.  I happen to believe it can apply with friends as well, as this is something I experienced seventeen years ago as an exchange student in Arles, France.

Crevettes de Madagascar

Isabelle and I were just 17 when we spent the summer together, learning one another's language, and culture, and life. She was as long and lean and Mediterranean brown as I was thick and juicy and Pennsylvania pink. She was deeply introverted and an only child, whereas I was outgoing and the eldest of our little tribe. Despite these differences however, we formed a profound, lasting friendship that we've maintained to this day. My friendship with Zazou has taught me the value of so many things, things that have shaped the woman I've become, and the values ​​I hold dear today.

Arènes de Nîmes

Spending the last 5 days together with her ​​parents has been the absolute highlight of my trip so far. Arles remains as magical (and hot) as I remember. The colors of everything, the flowers, the flatware, the pants of the men are as bright and bold as the Roman buildings are whitewashed from the unrelenting Mediterranean sun. The olive oil tastes like it was just pressed, because it was. The fruit we pick from the tree for dessert tastes as bright as the colors of the flowers, and as nuanced as la Camargue smells. Her parents continue to treat me as their American daughter, a connection that means all the more to me now, having been relatively solo these last 6 weeks.  Zazou and I still laugh at for days at nothing, feast on French everything, and prefer to be bobbing around in the sea than anywhere else. We're also still quite good at getting ourselves into mischief.

"Hurry, hurry, they're coming!"

We chose a different beach to visit on our last full day together, a beach just beyond where they harvest salt, Salin de Giraud.  This is pink country, the water pink from the salt, the houses pink from the sun, and the flocks of flamingoes, just pink.   Upon our arrival, we were dismayed to see several kilometers of caravans impinging on the surrounding ecosystem. We attempted to drive beyond the revelers to find a quiet beach, when we realized we were surrounded.  Totally surrounded. The dirty revelers had transformed into naked revelers. And I mean naked. Eating lunch naked, playing frisbee naked, walking dogs naked. A naked village!!  So much pink !!   I would like to say we handled it maturely, but in fact it was just the opposite. I do not know if I laughed harder at the situation itself, or Zazou's reaction, "My eyes, my eyes!"  It was a fantastic disaster. Eventually we managed to find a little patch of not-as-naked, though this is France, after-all.  

Salin de Giraud

The grand final of our naked world experience occurred just before we left. We realized that the two beautiful horses riding through the waves were being ridden of course, naked. All of the naked friends in naked village were tickled pink (pun intended), posing for photos, cheering them on. I was tempted to sneak a picture myself, but I knew that was a cost my Pennsylvania pink self and I could not afford! 

** Apologies! French internet is translating my writing to French, to English and back again, argh.  It is SUPER frustrating, but alas, there's nothing I can do about it...  Thanks for your patience!