Blisters

I find myself in Logroño, city of candy stores. A girl needs her gummi bears. There are those among you who would criticize my consumption of such refined sugar on this arduous physical journey (you know who you are), and to you I say this:

Gummi. Bears.

The last few days have been hard. These are tough roads out here in the farmland at the edge of Navarre, sun-scorched and rocky. Not much shade at all. I ended up sitting under almond tree for a few minutes - a welcome surprise on that stretch of the camino, but still sunnier than I would have liked. The albergue I found last night had a foot bath. It was freezing cold, but still a beautiful sensation after the heat of the day and the strain of the walk. Now in Logroño, I've left the Navarre hills for the vineyards of La Rioja. Adios to Hemingway's beloved. We'll always have Pamplona.

Nightly I dream of my comfy black Walmart sweatpants. I miss them. Pajamas here are the same as the clothes we walk in. When I get home I am going to have a long soak in a bathtub, I shall only wear sweatpants and my Lord of the Rings T-shirt (or my  Star Wars one), and I will never walk anywhere again.

I still have almost 400 miles to go. If I already never want to walk again, how am I going to feel in June?

I've been thinking about pilgrimage. Is a pilgrimage necessarily religious, or can you have a secular pilgrimage, for the self rather than for some higher power?  (My guidebook, the most popular one on Amazon and the one every English speaker seems to have, is annoyingly preachy and more than a little precious when it comes to "the mystical path". "Will we notice the bumblebees on this path to Christ?" The saccharine nature of the writing is something that irritates me on a daily basis.) I am not a Christian. I have attended Mass, I have prayed - I find it helps as a form of focused meditation. Today in some little cathedral I prayed at an altar for Mary Magdalene, who I find fascinating and relatable. I see these characters as (historical) figures with a reputation and a history worth considering - but I'm not out here to walk to God. The search for purpose has been bothering me a little, but a friend reminded me that this journey doesn't have to be life-altering, and while reflection is good, "it can take away from the present". That, I think, is what I want to get out of this journey more than anything else: a mindful, intentional knowledge of who I am and an ability to be present. I can think of no better way for me to accomplish that than this grueling walk.

May your blisters always be the right color (mine are a little alarming),

Sam

Pamplona and more

To recap:  I arrived Pamplona Sunday the 24th, left Wednesday the 27th, arrived in Puente la Reina that night, arrived Azqueta the 28th, and arrived Sansol the 29th.  Tomorrow April 30th I'm off to Logroño.

Half an hour's walk out of Pamplona (above)

Left to Right:  We had trees like this in my backyard in Seattle; I got to pet two baby goats, a regular sized goat, and four dogs today; my blister; Speak of the devil. A wine fountain. It wasn't as cool as I hoped it would be, though; last night's albergue, La Perle Negra;  plaque: I do not know what this says. Something like "Drink this water, pilgrim, and the next fount you know will give you wine." I don't know, though; map of the Camino; sunrise selfie; Alto de Perdon; Santa Maria, Los Arcos

Where is she now?

Where is she now?

Three days: St. Jean to Pamplona

The beauty of the way and the goodness of the wayfarers:

Three days on El Camino de Santiago. Three days of walking through mud and dirt and even some snow, three days of mountains and perilous rocky slopes, three days of miraculously little rain.

I have never ached more in my life. And I have thirty more days of this.

I have also never felt myself smile so much. That's actually part of the aching, my cheeks hurting from smiling. Even through the misery of Friday, when I crossed the Pyrenees into Spain and all I wanted to do was turn around and quit, exhausted by the altitude and the distance and the climb itself, even through all of that, I have been awestruck by the uniqueness of this experience. The stunning vistas alone inspired me to keep walking. 

I meet no one who is not encouraging. I hear "Buen Camino!" from almost everyone, and I say it as often. I've met people from Korea, Germany, Ireland, New Zealand, a Capuchin brother from Slovenia, even a guy from Herndon, VA. Their reasons for the walk vary. For some it's an item to cross off a bucket list, for some it's a way to reconnect with their lives, for a few it is indeed a pilgrimage of faith in the tradition of Jesus and St James.

I flew into Paris on Wednesday and left for St Jean-Pied-du-Port by train on Thursday. St Jean is a sweet medieval town at the base of the Pyrenees, picturesque and charming. There were so many pilgrims, too! Even on the train from Paris I spotted several. I don't know why but it surprised me, even though I never expected to be the only one walking.

In bed by ten and awake at six for breakfast, I left the hostel at about seven and started the trek. That first day on the Camino, winding through the Pyrenees, was the most physically demanding thing I have ever done. How it ached to climb from St Jean at 200m elevation to Orisson at 700m, where I stopped for an early lunch, to Lepoeder at over 1400. But the view was spectacular. 

The pictures don't do it justice. If you have the chance to come to this part of the world to see it for yourself, do, whether you're walking the Camino or taking a drive through the Basque country. The Pyrenees are breathtaking. (And yes, that is snow in the distance, and yes, we did walk through some. The Napoleon route, that path through the mountains, was closed the next day because they're expecting three feet of snow. We were so lucky.)

I met Clare and John, a mother and son from Ireland, on the way up the mountain, and I don't think I would even have made it halfway if it hadn't been for Clare's encouragement. The strain of the walk becomes more bearable when you have friends beside you, even if you say nothing to each other. The shared experience, the sense of community, helps. I walked with them for a bit, and as we spread out into separate comfortable paces, I continued to meet them at various points.

For most of the afternoon I walked beside another Irish lady, Emear, who was hysterical. We laughed and talked all the way to Roncesvalles, our stop for the night. We were told that from Lepoeder it was only another 11k (roughly 5 miles) to get to Roncesvalles. Maybe it was, but that was the longest walk of my life. Thankfully most of that 11k was downhill, but that presented its own challenges. Picking your steps down rocky, uneven, slippery terrain is hard on the knees, especially after you've already been walking the whole day. I'm still in pain. 

But finally we made it. At the Colegiata albergue a gentleman welcomed us inside with a smile of understanding and words of kindness: "You are very tired, of course. But you have made it, and we have a bed for you. And you will be safe here." The pilgrim hostels along the Camino, the albergues, are only a few euros a night, and for a few more they offer dinner and breakfast. After a day of intense walking, it's the most amazing feeling to find yourself welcome and fed in a safe place like that.

Did I want to leave? No. I nearly cried when I had to get out of my incredibly warm sleeping bag the next morning. But as I set off, walking alone this time and for most of that day, I did find myself feeling energized and focused. The Camino was kinder this time, flatter and less intense. I fell into step beside Sarah Jane from Kentucky, Luka from Slovenia, and when I reached the town of Zubiri, where I had intended to stop for the night, reconnected with John and Clare. It was only about 1pm, so they and a few others were walking another three miles to the next town, Larrasoaña. I joined them, stayed with them and the others at the same albergue, and had a wonderful evening at the tienda across the street, owned and operated by a man named Angel who gave all the Irish and all the women free sandwiches. Good sandwiches, too.

And the next morning we began the walk to Pamplona. It only occurred to me when John mentioned it, but this is Hemingway country. When you look at these hills of Navarre brushed with sunlight, the country roads, you can understand why it inspired him. And Pamplona has so many shops and squares and streets and buildings named after him. They are proud of their city and the American who loved it so.

I've been in Pamplona for a couple of days now, trying to rest an aching knee. I love it here. It's not huge but it's busy, and I love the narrow streets and these old, old buildings. I went to Mass yesterday, which is unusual for me, but it was peaceful and the church was gorgeous. I didn't understand a word of the Mass itself, but it was still nice. Clare and John were only going as far as Pamplona on the Casino, so Clare went back to Ireland yesterday afternoon, and John and I walked around Pamplona for the rest of the day before he headed back home early this morning. I decided to stay here an extra day to do some laundry and buy a knee brace or support (suggestions are welcome), and then tomorrow morning I leave for Puente la Reina. 

I'd like to bring one thing to your attention: there is a 12th century abbey outside of Larrasoaña being lovingly restored by a South African couple. It is a beautiful old building with, as far as anyone can tell, a riveting history. I urge you to check out the Facebook page and spread the word. Consider donating if you can. www.facebook.com/theabbey.es

Until next time -

Sam

Just off the train in St Jean

I didn't really understand that I had to walk over those mountains when I took this.

Sunrise

Left to right: John, Clare, and Emear

New friend

Not a new friend. He did not like us.

Day 1, roughly 11am. Tired, sweaty, miserable mess

Day 1, roughly 3pm. Still tired, but no longer sweaty or miserable

On to Pamplona

Walking to Pamplona today.  So tired.  So sore.  But it's only 16k.

Paris

Currently I'm at the Montparnasse train station in Paris, waiting for the TGV to Bayonne and then to St Jean-Pied-du-Port, where I start my walk tomorrow morning. Travel yesterday was easy - two smooth, sleepy flights between Dulles and Charles De Gaulle, via Reykjavik, then a train from the airport and into Paris. Paris is still how I remember it: beautiful storybook architecture, winding streets full of the smell of bread, coffee, cigarettes, and the Seine. Not always pleasant, but it is quintessentially Parisian.

Stayed the night at the apartment of a family friend. I've known Sylvie since I was a baby, and she's lived in the same apartment my whole life. The view from her window and balcony is the same one I remember from being three years old and in Paris for the first time. I've been back since then, but that first trip remains vivid in my mind.

I'm pretty tired and have only been here for a day, so that's all I've got for now. I regret that I didn't take any pictures in Paris this time, but when I return in June I'll be sure to.

A proper send-off

Waiting for my flight at Dulles