...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.