...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.