Crone's Corner

Gemilas en Burgos - Part I

2010-07-24T19:43:00.000-07:00

After Doro and I split up from Ingeborg, we walked across a busy road towards the cathedral, whose spires we could see not far away. In fact, just about anywhere in Burgos you can see the spires of the cathedral, even though it is a fairly large city. We walked through a long, tree-lined paseo, where the trees were so dense and dark overhead that the street lights were on underneath even though it was early afternoon.

As we reached the end, we rounded a corner which would take us into the man plaza and we saw what was probably a mid-range hotel, so we decided to duck in and try our luck. As soon as we entered the small lobby and the man behind the desk took a look at our obvious pilgrim attire, I knew what the answer would be--no rooms available. No trouble. I was certainly not going to push to stay were pilgrims were obviously not wanted, so we headed out and back towards the plaza. Doro had a map, and so we eventually got to a church-run alberque that would open around 1 p.m. There was a cafe across just a few yards away so we sat gratefully at a table and (what else), got a coffee. I had already decided that I didn't want a dorm-style hostal so Doro was kind enough to let me use her cell phone to call a number that was on the map. Sorry, that one was full, but the woman on the line gave me the number of another place, the Hostal Manjon on Calle Gran Teatro. I called, and explained who I was and did they have rooms? Yes, certainly. Could I come see them? Yes? Around 1:30? Yes. Great! I thanked the woman and then just had to figure out how to get there. Doro decided to wander around some of the wide streets and shops:

And I decided to have some lunch at the little cafe and see if the man inside could give me directions. Luckily, he had some maps of the main area around the cathedral that were like placemats and so was able to show me where Calle Gran Teatro was. I was happy to see that it was only several blocks further on from the paseo and the hotel where I had just been, so I ate my lunch, thanked the gentleman again and headed off to see what my luck would be at the Hostal Manjon.

When I got to the address, it was simply a door off the sidewalk in between a couple of office buildings. There was an intercom buzzer, so I pushed the button and identified myself to the voice that answered and the door was buzzed open. For the first time since leaving the US, I found myself in a building with an elevator! The small entry way had a flight of about 5 steps going up to the elevator door, and to the left another flight of steps leading down to---I couldn't see. The voice had told me to come up to the 7th floor so I was incredibly grateful for the lift, even though once I got in, it was barely big enough to hold me and my backpack.

When I reached the floor, the opposite door opened and I stepped out into a narrow hallway. I could only turn to the right, and walked a few steps into what looked like the waiting room in a doctor's office. There were a few chairs and a coffee table with a lamp and a couple of magazines, but no people, and no place for a receptionist or similar. However, the long hallway in front of me on the left continued, so I followed it until it finally turned right into another reception type area, this one with a small, trim young woman in a white smock behind a desk. Again, I identified myself, and she said she was Elena and could take me to see the room.

I followed her through a maze of narrow hallways, some dark, some lighter, with old flooring and linoleum, turning and twisting until I wasn't sure I would be able to find my way out on my own. I also noticed, however, that everything, though well used and not new, was spotless. Finally, we turned one last corner and Elena opened the door to a room. It contained a sink directly across from the door, with a small tub/shower combo right next to it on the left and on the far left, a double bed by a window. There was also a TV! And a chair. It looked like heaven. I told her at once I would take it and could I have it for 2 nights? I could. We then returned the way we came, me following behind, frantically trying to remember the way, and at the desk we made all the arrangements. She gave me the key to the room which was an old-fashioned skeleton key and I spent the rest of my time there wrestling with that key. I think you had to hold your mouth just right in order to make that silly key work!

Elena was kind enough to walk back to the room with me to demonstrate the key and show me where the toilet was--just down the hall. She stood with me while I sweated and swore under my breath trying to make the key work. Finally I got into the room by myself and told her I thought I would be okay locking it later. Then she really surprised me by asking if I cared to have any clothes washed. What a blessing! I would be able to start the next leg of my journey with all clean clothes. I told her yes, I would have some for her later and thanked her very much.

Then, I went back to the room, rummaged around to see if I had enough snack type food for some kind of dinner and gratefully took a shower in my own room and lay down for a nap!

Moving On

2010-07-23T20:00:00.000-07:00

During the night in Santo Domingo, thunderstorms raged through the night and lightening flashed on and off. As usual, I didn't get much sleep because the man in the bunk next to mine (a good 8 inches away) snored like a chain saw, as did most everyone in the dorm. I continued to be amazed at the huge variety of sounds that human beings make when they're asleep! In the morning, the usual packing ritual ensued and Rita, Ingeborg and I made our way just down the way to a cafe that was open.

It was still raining, and Ingeborg saw the little cart above. We weren't sure if someone attached this to a bicycle or whether they simply pulled it, but it looked like she was ready for business! Inside, we had our usual cafe con leche and discussed what to do. I had to say I wasn't really thrilled about walking in the rain, but Rita decided that walk she must, so she left us and headed out into the dark, wet morning. Ingeborg and I decided to take the bus to Burgos. This was where I knew we would part ways, because her husband was coming to meet her there for her birthday and then they would walk a ways together and he would go back to work in Germany while she continued on.

For me, I was feeling the arrival of "Mother Nature", and so I thought staying a day or 2 in Burgos would give my foot a chance to rest as well as possibly finding a private hostal room to actually sleep for a couple of nights. Then, I would carry on. I expected that the rest of the journey would be on my own and I was both sad to lose Ingeborg's company and excited to be able to walk as I had planned, without escort.

We got the bus shortly after. The day was lightening, but still wet and dreary. As the bus passed each little stop, I thought about where I might have stayed if, like Rita, I had continued walking. At one point, I looked out the window of the bus and saw the little man from Jakarta who had encouraged me at Los Arcos and who had greeted me so warmly at Lorca. He was on the Path, walking parallel to the road, but through fields and farmlands, his huge pack high above his head, covered in a bright yellow poncho. I had no idea what such a small man would be carrying in such a large pack, but he bore it very lightly and had a spring in his walk, even in the chilly, driving rain. His image will stay with me forever.

The bus crowded and unloaded at each stop. The right was only 50 Km (approx. 30 miles), but that was at least 2 days walking and the little towns in between were little more than bars with a gas station here and there. I was glad to be on wheels. At maybe the third or fourth stop, several young men got on, and when they saw my hat, started snapping their fingers in appreciation. "Cowboy!" I heard one of them laugh. I smiled back at them and said "De Colorado!" and they nodded. Then as they sat down, I saw someone I did not think I would see again--Doro! She, Ingeborg and I had a great reunion right there in the middle of the bus. Despite having spent the night indoors, she was still wet and bedraggled. She said she had walked late into the evening the night before and had got caught in one of the thunderstorms. She had been scared to death that she would be stuck by lightening before she found shelter, so decided also to take the bus to Burgos rather than risk another stormy night. I was so glad to see her and we made potential plans to stay together somewhere.

The bus ride was quick after that, and soon we were all piling out at the Burgos main bus station, getting our packs from underneath and heading for a last coffee together before we went our separate ways. Afterward, amongst hugs and a few tears, Ingeborg left to find her hotel, and Doro and I walked towards the Burgos cathedral to decide our plan of action.

Getting It Done

2009-05-22T20:44:00.000-07:00

Note: This trip took place in the month of September, 2007. Life intervened but I am determined to get this narrative down in its entirety.
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After the early-morning birthday celebration, Rita decides to walk on with Gaby, and Ingeborg and I decide to take the bus to Santo Domingo de la Calzada. At that time I was beginning to think about walking only every other day for a while, since my foot was acting up again. We wait at the bus stop, and when the bus comes, try to get on, but the driver tells us it is going to the wrong place--backwards for us. Ingeborg thinks they do not want to pick us up because we are peregrinos, but when I re-read the schedule, it seems that we looked at it wrong. The way it's written is that there is one schedule for busses arriving and one for busses leaving. Finally, after being totally confused, we ask a woman who has come to wait and she assures us the next bus is the one we want. Twenty kilometers later, we reach our destination. Santo Domingo de la Calzada is another pleasant town, somewhat larger than some of the others, and it seems very pilgrim friendly. The "Santo Domingo" was a monk in the middle ages who founded a hospital for pilgrims where the cathedral is today.

This cathedral is actually connected to the albuergue where we find our bed for the night--in fact, the front part of where we walk in once WAS that hospital. When I step over the threshhold--and one must step up OVER it, it is into a cavernous area, almost stable-like. There is a smaller room, like a gift shop, off to the right where we go in and pay for our stay--donativo (donation) only. I pay 5 Euros. The office/shop is staffed by monks and one of them shows us up to the dorm area. I am quite happy when I see that due to the low ceilings in the room, there is no room for bunk beds! Everyone is on the ground and there are even storage shelves at each bed. Luxury! Of course, the bathrooms are miles away and down a flight of stairs, but I will worry about that in the middle of the night.

One snag--at the time we arrive, there seems to be a "water outage" in the town, so no flushing of toilets, etc. With 1 bathroom of 2 stalls for women and the same for men, to accommodate many pilgrims, this could get ugly soon. We decide to do a bit of sight seeing, and luckily by the time we get back, the situation has resolved. We go to the cathedral to pray and to look around. This is one of those places where the church has become more like a museum.

Apparently, there is a legend here about a young pilgrim who stopped here on his journey to Santiago. He stayed at an inn, and the innkeeper's daughter had "eyes" for him, but he, being a dutiful pilgrim, declined her advances. Scorned, the daughter put some of her father's belongings in the pilgrim's pack, and then when the loss was noticed, blamed the pilgrim for the theft. He was caught, returned to the town and executed.

Later, his parents having gotten word of what happened, they came to the town to retrieve their son's body. They appealed to the sheriff or lord at the time, who was at his dinner. He refused to give them the body, because it was already buried, stating, "Your son is as dead as this chicken on my plate!" Whereupon the chicken jumped up to life again and flew out the door! The parents rushed outside to discover their son, alive, and walking towards them.

Since then, the church has housed live chickens in a special cage (they are rotated every 4 hours), and if they crow when you are in the church, you will have good luck!

It seems that chicken has been a theme on this pilgrimage. The first place I stayed in in St. Jean was Le Chant du Coq, the Song of the Cock, or the Cock's Crow. My mother and I had this running joke about cooking chicken, which makes no sense to anyone but us, but all this chicken imagery on this journey makes me feel that much closer to her. It's just as if everything on this trip is meant to be, and no matter how it turns out, it will be just what I needed to have happen. It's an odd feeling, but it competely removes all of the pressure of making the trip "be" a certain way.

Later, I wander through the town a bit. I find a book shop/school supply store and buy a wonderful little Camino guidebook. It's in Spanish, which I can read well enough, but the best part is that 1) it's small enough to fit in my shirt pocket, and 2) it has maps with distances between towns and elevations of the walk. It is a complete jewel!

About this time, I start to feel hungry, and go into a small cafe, looking for lunch, but they don't have much left. The woman behind the counter tells me there is a restaurant just across the way, on the 2nd floor, so I go over and up the stairs. It's a nice little place, green and white checked tablecloths, and pink, rather frilly curtains. The decor seems rather incongruous to the clientele, which is made up entirely of working men, taking their noon day break. Apparently, women don't go out to lunch much in the smaller towns of Spain--at least not this restaurant. I am the only woman in the place, but the man who serves me is very polite and accommodating. He is willing to change a 50 Euro bill, even though I realize he has to send his wife out to do so. She is the one who brings me the change, and asks if everything was all right when she hands me the tray with the bills. I get the strong feeling that she wanted to come out to see this female pilgrim who would come into this place, alone, for a midday meal. I tell her everything was lovely, and we share a smile.

As we settle in, the clouds come over, and I experience the first rain storm since I have been in Spain. This one looks like it's going to be around for a while. There is thunder and lightening, and I try to plan out how I will get everything covered if it is raining tomorrow when we leave. I have brought a poncho, but I am not sure if it will fit over me AND all of my backpack, so when the rain lets up, Ingeborg, Rita and I take a little shopping expedition and I look for a rain jacket that I can wear, in order to use the poncho solely to cover up my pack.

As I mentioned, finding something to fit me is not easy, but after 2 or 3 stores, I find a jacket that will do well, and it's on sale, so I snap it up. Since it is sprinkling again, I go ahead and wear it, and we find a cafe that is selling grilled skewers of marinated pork, so we decide to have a nice protein dinner, sitting in the drizzle under cafe umbrellas.

Toasting each other with Spanish wine, and nibbling on the perfectly cooked meat, we all agree that life is good on the Road.

A Camino Birthday

2008-10-10T19:47:00.000-07:00

Note: Per the previous post, all the following posts took place last year; however, I am writing in the present time to keep the "flow".

After our lovely stay in our tranquil Navarette B&B (it certainly wasn't a hostel!), Ingeborg and I are eager to go forward to Najera, about a 16K walk. I feel very ready. Rita, who was also in Navarette, has gone on, and I expect we will meet up again in Najera. I feel a little regret at leaving Navarette--it had such a good feeling to it, the beautiful church, the library, the lovely tapas bar with the shaded terrace outside, even the outdoor market we encountered on our arrival. As with many of these tiny towns in Spain, I wish I could stay longer, soak up more of the "juice" of each place. The Camino is eternal, yet the road waits for no one these days because we all have to "get back" to somewhere. As we walk this morning, I almost wish there was no "back" to get to, that I could just keep on, with my little pack, my few possessions, my stick, my hat. Such a simple life, a dream, really.

A few kilometers on the way, we stop in Ventosa, in a rather modern cafe, to have a coffee. Inside, there are a couple of pilgrims eating, at least 1 from Ireland by her accent. She comments on my hat. We sit at the bar and order coffee, and Ingeborg decides she wants hers with whiskey. We communicate that to the barkeeper, who also turns out to be the owner. He tells her the proper term to use when ordering that (which of course, I have forgotten), and then says, "Here, I'll make one for myself, to show you!" Which he does, and enjoys it with us. Ingeborg makes some comment about a book written by a popular German commedian who apparently went on the Camino and then told his story, which is why the Road is now brimming with Germans. The barkeep shakes is head, "Oh, that book!" he says. During the conversation, we find out that he used to be a truck driver, but quit that, and bought this place. He is the owner, chief cook and bottle washer. While we are talking, the Irish girl tries to ask for some butter for her tortilla. In Spain, a "tortilla" is basically an open-faced omelette with thinly-sliced layered potatoes. The barkeep and other Spanish folk seem confused by the request for butter (mantequilla). What would you put on it, asks the Irish girl? Why, mayonnaise, of course! We all laugh at our national oddities.

It's a nice interlude, but soon we are back on our way, passing a number of vineyards and wineries. The wine here in Spain is really quite good, and doesn't give me the awful headache and chest tightness that wine in the U.S. seems to. The sun is getting hotter, and I'm feeling tired again. During our walk, Ingeborg says that I walk too fast in the mornings and that's why I get so tired. I need to keep a steady pace throughout, and I know she is right. I have seen how Rita walks, always the same pace from start to finish, and yet, at 71, she consistently outwalks me. The Germans know a lot about walking!

Eventually, we begin to see the outskirts of Najera. We are coming up via the "industrial" side. There is construction, road work, etc. It is not pretty, and we are always on the lookout for our yellow guiding arrows. As we approach the town, we come upon 2 rather dilapidated lounge chairs that have been arranged seemingly randomly for tired wayfarers. Ingeborg takes advantage, after all, pilgrims must rest while they can!

The sun is hot as we hit the town proper. There are shops and offices, and for the first time in while, real traffic. I think it has been since Pamplona that there was real traffic to be aware of. Even walking beside the highway as above, there was plenty of room to stay away from the cars. Now, we are navigating city streets, and still following the arrows, not really sure where we are going. Of course, we are thinking of the alburque, and Ingeborg's guide book has done us well so far, but we also want to find Rita. Earlier she called to say that we should meet her by the bridge that goes over a river. Hmmm, kind of vague if you ask me.

After a trek through winding streets, stopping at an alimentacion for a Coke, we come upon what appears to be the center of town. Najera apparently is bisected by a river (see first photo above). We reach a grassy park with benches, near a bridge that we hope is the right one, and put our packs down. Ingeborg is going to try to reach Rita on their cell phones (in German, the word for cell phone is "handy", no joke!). She's a bit peeved because she thinks that Rita has now turned off her phone to ignore her. She leaves a message, and while we are waiting for her to call back, we notice a group of men, probably working guys, who are chatting together in the park. One of them comes over to us and offers us apples. We gratefully accept and have a little snack, and Rita calls. Bless her, she says she has arranged a room for us in another private hostal, and all is ready. We tell her where we are, and she tells us which way to walk. We head away from the river, and see the bus station, along with rows of shops, restaurants, etc. Then we cross into a large sandy plaza with large shade trees, and tables set up, being served from a cafe/bar across the street. As we make our way through this plaza, we see Rita coming around the corner from behind the restauant. We all greet each other enthusiastically, and she guides us to our lodging. Again, it's such a surprise--a hotel, really. We are on the 2nd or 3rd floor, I don't know, but as always, there are stairs, but this is even better than the room in Viana--there is a real, honest-to-God BATHROOM, with a TUB and even a bidet! A full, American-sized room. I'm stunned. I don't even know how to react other than to lie back on my twin bed and kick my feet to the ceiling!

After getting our showers, doing the regular washing out of clothes, and hanging things out to dry, we head back out to the plaza to have a coke. As we chat, we see Gaby, the German lady that we met in Viana, and then we decide to walk over to the alburgue to get our stamps. The alburque is across the bridge and it is apparent once over that this is the "older" section of town. The streets are much narrower, twisty and wind-y, and there's just that "medieval" feel to it. Cobblestones replace asphalt, and the cars don't come down every street. The alburque, however, is new, and there is a computer, so after we get our stamps, Ingeborg heads there to catch up on e-mail, etc. I hit the ladies locker room, and am not surprised to find, that even in this new building with a real shower/dressing room, that I can barely close the stall door because it literally hits my knees when I sit down. I guess they are just not used to tall women in Spain!

Rita decided to stay with Gaby when Ingeborg and I went to the alburque, so I am now exploring on my own. I wander back into the old town, and find the church. I want to make my thanks offering. The church here could not be more different from the one in Navarette. This place is stark and cold. There is absolutely NO ornamentation whatsoever. All I can think of is Oliver Cromwell and Puritans, even though there is a rather gruesome crucifix. It is not a peaceful place at all, and after a rather brief turn through the building, I am happy to leave. Afterwards, I wander the randomly winding streets, sort of looking for a grocery store, but not really. I see a couple of men (pilgrims) with shopping bags from what looks like a food store and ask where they got their goods. They give me directions and I find a TEENY cubbyhole of a store and buy some lemon yogurt.

Then I meet up with Ingeborg and we decide to have some tapas. We choose a place pretty much at random, and make our selections. They have an outdoor patio, so we go out to sit and who should we see but Claudette from Quebec! The Camino is a small world, especially for those who walk at the same pace!

While we are eating, we see Rita coming across the plaza. She's trying to find something she can eat, but it is difficult for her, since she can't really eat flour. After we're done, we say good-bye to Claudette and go back into the older section of town. Ingeborg is looking for something, and Rita pulls me aside to tell me that tomorrow is Ingeborg's birthday, and we need to do something for her. Candles, she says, we must have candles! I am wracking my brains trying to remember the Spanish word for candles, but for the life of me cannot. Birthday, I know, so I start looking for a likely store. I see what looks like a hardware store, paint, tools, etc. Surely, I think, they will have candles.

I go in. A friendly-looking gentleman behind the counter asks if he can help me. I begin by telling him that tomorrow is the birthday of my friend and I need.....still drawing a blank on the word for candles, I mime striking a match, and then blowing out a candle. "Ahhh!" he says, "Velos de cumpleanos!" Velos! That's the word. Does he have any? Alas, no, but sometimes bakeries have them. Is there one near? He points down the way, and I thank him profusely. Rita and I walk out, on a mission. Ingeborg, I think, is trying to buy more time on her cell phone, so she is distracted, thankfully. I go into the bakery which is very busy, now that it is after 5 pm and siesta is done. At last, it's my turn and I ask if she has "velos de cumpleanos". She does, but the candles are numbers, not just little candles. Ingeborg is going to be 61--does she have a 6 and a 1? She does! Mission accomplished. I pay and she wraps them up for me. I give a high-five to Rita on the way out, and go back to the hardware store to thank the man for putting me in the right direction.

We then head back to our room, thinking we might want to eat in an actual restaurant tonight, but on the way, Rita shows me that has bought a couple of carrots to use for the birthday "cake" the candles are the kind that have small spikes on the end for putting into cakes, etc. A carrot will work just fine!

We never do get to a restaurant, because in Spain, nothing like that opens before 9 pm, but thanks to my earlier wanderings, I did find a place that offered a pilgrims' menu, so I lead us all back there, and we have dinner before retiring. While Ingeborg is in the shower, Rita shows me how she has fixed the candles to the carrots, and hides them in the dresser drawer. All is ready.

At dawn the next day, Rita is up before either of us, and wants to light the candles. I am having a hard time containing my laughter, and finally Ingeborg wakes up, just a little bit baffled. "Happy Birthday!" I holler, and Rita says the same in German. We light the candles and Ingeborg gets to blow them out, celebrating her birthday on the Camino:

I don't remember if she actually ate the carrots!

Reluctance

2008-08-31T08:00:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow (Labor Day) it will be one full year since I left here to go on my Camino journey. A day does not go by when I am not walking somewhere on that Way in Spain. A day does not go by when I do not think of the people I met there. So, why have I not finished writing about my "adventure"? I can't seem to answer that question to my own satisfaction. I could say it's lack of time, but I manage to post on my other blog at least a couple of times a week, so that's not a good excuse.

I think, rather, that somewhere, down deep, I believe that if I don't finish writing about the journey, then the journey won't be over. When, in fact, I know that the journey is FAR from over. I know this. But it doesn't stop the reluctance.

Another possibilty I've thought of is that am now at the point of documenting my trip where my foot pain started to interfere with my walking, and where I began to take more bus rides, and where I made the difficult decision to cut my originally-planned 2-month trip back to 1 month. When I now think back, I feel like I "cheated", that perhaps I am not a "real" Pilgrim, comparing myself (unfairly, I know) to the ones I walked with who DID "finish". Yet, again, I know that my journey is not done, and that my Camino was MINE alone, in all its backward-walking glory, and that comparison to anyone else's is not only inaccurate but possibly hurtful to myself. I cannot let myself dwell on those types of negative thoughts. It's not about what I did not do, but about what I DID.

A side note: I am a medical transcriptionist by trade, and the other day I was transcribing a note on a patient who suffered from COPD, a lung disease. This patient tried to do daily walks to keep in some kind of shape, and actually told the doctor, who relayed it to the medical report, that walking uphill BACKWARDS put less strain on the lungs!! I feel vindicated!!

There is still much to tell about my Camino. The actual foot-walking part is close to being over, but so much else happened that needs to be said.

I will finish this. That first and very special journey will be documented here. And I have already begun tentative plans for a trip back, to actually walk the entire Way between St. Jean and Roncesvalles, then to continue from Burgos to Compostela, to finish what I started, this time knowing so much more than before. I don't know when, but I know it WILL happen, so that is enough.

So, if by some chance, you do check here now and again, keep doing so. There will be more to read soon I promise. Every day is a step along the Way, and with each passing one I learn so much.

Many blessings...

A Change in Rhythm

2008-07-21T07:02:00.000-07:00

When morning comes, we all rise, rinse, pack and leave our little lime-green sanctuary. Rita has decided to go ahead and walk with Gaby, Ingeborg decides she would like to bus it short way to Logrono, the capital city of the Rioja region, and in the center of Spanish wine country. I agree to go with her, thinking if I walk a day or two, then maybe take the bus here and there, I can save my foot and all will be well. We have our usual cafe con leche in a little cafe across the plaza from the church and the pharmacy where we were last night. Everything looks different in the quiet morning, yet, since the town is so small, I know exactly where I am. No matter how short a time I spend in these little Spanish town, after even an hour of wandering around in them, I begin to have my bearings and actually feel at home. It's an odd feeling, but good--not so much connected to the people (who often are not present), but to the places themselvs. Perhaps the actual land of Spain has a partiularly welcoming and accommodating quality to it, who knows?

We say farewell to Rita and Gaby, agreeing to catch up at some point later. Pilgrim flexibility is a great thing--to be able to say hello and goodbye, just with the intention that we hope to see each other again, but if not, the journey together was good, and we all bless it.

We get to the bus stop at the bottom of the hill, and begin the exercise in trying to decipher Spanish bus schedules. I never did completely figure it out. There are usually 2 schedules--ones for the buses that will be arriving and another for the buses that will be leaving. You might think that they could just say something like, "The bus from BLANK arrives at 1:00 am, then then leaves at 10:15 for BLANK." But, no, there are two separate schedules and you kind of have to match them up, or (as I learned in France where they do the same thing with trains), you end up in the wrong bus.

Truthfully, the best way to make sure you are on the right bus is just to ask another person who is waiting every time the bus shows up, "Is this the bus to BLANK?" The people at the bus stops are quite helpful. Thus, shortly we are on the bus to Logrono on a bright, sunny, early fall morning. It's a short trip, only about 10K, so I don't feel too guilty about taking the bus. Plus my foot is feeling better, too, and I am encouraged that the rest will help.

Soon, we are on the outskirts of the town, city rather, and it is a much bigger place that we have been in, probably since Pamplona. Ingeborg and I are just not sure if we want to stay here. For some reason, we both seem to be in tune about wanting to be in the smaller places, to be more in the rural areas, the small, hidden towns with the amazingly guilded and decorated churches. For me, and maybe for her, also, too many people seems to take away the depth of the experience. They certainly take away any hope for quiet contemplation, and that is something we both enjoy immensely.

So, once we are at the station, rather than looking for an alburgue, we consult her map and head for the ticket kiosk to see where we want to go and how long it will take. After consulting her guidebooks, etc., we settle on Navarrette, another 12 to 15 KMs away. Okay, so we have used the bus to get us past a slightly above-average walking day in about half the time, including waiting, but still, that is all right. We have a coke in the bus station bar, and of course, I decide to head to the facilities.

There's a huge line of women (not surprising), but only a couple of stalls being used. I hope I can get it before the bus comes. Then I realize what's happening--this is a pay toiliet and all the women are holding the doors open for the next person so no one has to pay. They see me with my pack and beckon me forward (of course, these are mostly Spanish "grandmother" types. I tell them it's ok, I can wait, but they won't hear of it--"come, come", they say, and show me the empty stall. How can I argue? I exit refreshed and share "Gracias" all around. The woman beam at the simple courtesty. How easy it is to deal with people if you just use a little common sense.

So, then, on the bus, and just a bit later, off at Navarrette. We have called ahead to get a room in a private albugue. We depart the bus just off the main street, and see that there is a little market going on. There are fruit vendors, clothing, handbags, etc. We wander through this for a bit before trying to find our place, and Ingeborg buys another fanny pack to replace one that she has not been happy with. I can't decide whether to buy some fruit, or just wait. But, as is usual here in Spain, the produce in these open markets is vastly better looking and more attractive than what you find the the alimentacions. From where we are standing at the market stall, we can look up a hill and see the church, also a large, shaded plaza just before it, and on the other side, and official-looking building that is probably the town hall complex. It seems just a beautiful little town, and we decide to find our rooms and do some exploring.

Following the guidebook, we continue through the maket, going west, and see a road that divides, one way going straight, one way going slightly right, but up a hill, mostly in the same direction. There's no sign, of course, so we're stumped. As we stand there with that universal "I'm Lost!" look on our faces, a couple of women come out of a bakery across the street and spot us. They obviously know we are pilgrims, so they come over. We tell them the name of our place, and they nod vigorously--they seem to know it well. They point down the lower road and then to the right, so we start walking. They watch us, but after a few minutes, we have either made a wrong turn, or NOT made a turn, and they come running after us, waving and pointing.

Yes, we've missed a turn. And, as I turn around, I DO see a sign for the place, but coming from the direction we were, you would not have seen it--it's only visible from the OTHER way. We thank them both profusely, and they carry on with their errands. Again, angles in odd places.

It's around midday now, and quiet, and we hope we'll be able to get in before siesta closes everything down. We buzz the door and I give my first name. The door opens, and we are in a cool, quiet, very modern, marble-line foyer. This seems like a hotel rather than an alburque! There's a small room off to the right and a man comes out to welcome us. He is a bit taller than me, thin, with a grizzled fuzz of beard, sparking dark eyes and dark hair. He has the worst teeth ever. I am realizing that dental care in Spain has a long way to go. Even England seems to have passed them. But his face is kind, and he is beaming to see us. In fact, he looks rather like a gaunt Dr. McCoy from Star Trek (at least, that's the first thing I think when I see him). He leads us up the stairs to a darker registration area where we pay and get our credentials stamped. Then he takes us down a lovely tiled hall and shows us the room.

It is lovely!! Two small beds with lovely coverlets and fixtures, warm tile floor, and a sliding door off onto a terrace/balcony that runs the length of the building and so is shared by all the other lodges. There's also a sliding clothesline to hang out our washing! And, for a first in my entire trip so far, the bathroom has a ventilation fan!!! Ingeborg and I are just beside ourselves. This is truly high class.

We express great appreciation to our host and he beams some more, and leaves us to our unpacking. We sit on the beds and just look at each other. Talk about the luck of the draw! This place must be only a few years old, and has taken all of the things most modern travelers want--good plumbing, attractive fixtures, a bit of privacy, and put it into a small and unassuming place that is completely welcoming. Truly, this is a jewel of a place. So, if you are ever travelling in Navarette, Spain, and want a good place to stay, go there!

After we get ourselves organized, we go back to to find a place to have a bit of lunch. We find a restaurant that seems fairly busy, and we end up sitting against a wall directly under a TV. Note: the Spanish LOVE their TVs in bars/cafes. It's very odd to go to a place of any size and NOT have a TV blaring. Kind of discordant when you've been walking in silence all day, but there you have it. Ingeborg is not happy about this, and really, I'm not either, but I'm completely into the "when in Rome" attidude. In Spain, things are the way they are--they may seem odd or inconvenient to me, but I'm not Spanish, and I'm just passing through, so I am certainly not going to make a fuss over something I'm going to leave behind tomorrow.

After we eat, we head up to the church via the main street, and quietly go in.

As I walk in (through the door second to the right in the above picture), there is a small entryway, then you turn to the right and end up facing the end of the church that is out of the photo on the right. This is a relatively small church, but the alter is enough to make me catch my breath. From the bottom of the church floor, to the very top of the highest point is wrought in gold, ornate, baroque, rococco, however, you want to describe it, the care, workmanship, and sheer GLOW of the gold is almost enough to litterally make you go to your knees. As soon as you see all of that decoration, you immediately begin to wonder who made it, how long it took, what incredible details have gone into this work. There are not too many times when I can see any kind of art work and have my entire mind immediately go to the word "prayer", but this altar in this little church is exactly that. The entire work is an amazing, multi-layered, multi-leveled prayer to God. I'm sure the entirety of this piece took many years, generations even, to complete and the continunity is also amazing. It's seamless. The style holds through. I stand there, dumbstruck and just stare at it.

From what I can tell, Ingeborg's reaction is much the same. Then, we hear a small noise and see that over to the far left of where we are standing, there is a scaffold over part of the altar, and there is a woman up on it, doing some restoration work. I am put in mind of a trip to Scotland in 2003, where I saw weavers re-creating the Unicorn Tapestries in Stirling Castle. What a privilege to be able to work on this, to say, "I helped keep this going."

I sit to say my usual prayer of thanks upon arriving, but it is certainly a while before I can bow my head. I simply cannot take my eyes off the work. There's a war in my chest that I'm barely aware of. I imagine that quite a bit of this gold may have come from "the new world" at the expense of native lives and livelihoods. This is not a pleasant thought. There's also the thought that God/Spirit/the Universe/whatever, doesn't CARE what kind of monuments we build to "it". That kind of power is really beyond the need for simple worship.

And, yet, there is a part of me, maybe the part still in the Christian upbringing that I had as a child, that completely understands wanting to make the most beautiful work of art you can create FOR the Creator, as a gift, as a form of worship, as an offering. All this rushes through me as I sit on the plain, hard bench, its stark utilitarianism a complete contrast to the amazing work in front of me. These are not thoughts that I have on a regular basis, and they surprise me. But then, I suppose a pilgrimage is a time for surprises.

After our period of meditation, we find the town library, a very lovely, modern building, and they allow us to use their computers to check e-mail, etc. I try to limit my time, since I see that there are children waiting, and I don't want to intrude. Ingeborg has a missive to write, so I go out and wait for her to free up a computer.

I find myself liking this town quite a bit. The views are stunning, there is a great mix of the old and the modern, and there seems to be quite a bit of business here, as well as a lot of pride in the place. There are fountains, statues, art sculptures, etc. Given other circumstances, I could stay here for a while.

Later, we find a tapas bar just across the shaded plaza from the church. It's patio is covered by densely-leaved trees that offer a wonderful, cool shade. The food is wonderful, all homemade, and Ingeborg and I have a couple of tapas, chat with another German couple, and then wander down a side street to look for the alburgue in hopes of possibly seeing Rita. The place is full, and the hospitalero eyes me suspiciously when I try to go it. I tell him I am just looking for a friend, and he relaxes. However, it's starting to get dark, and I don't see her boots in the racks by the door, so we decide to head back to our room to turn in for the night. We have decided to go on to Najera tomorrow, 16 km, and since we didn't really so much today, fear that it be harder than if we had walked.

Soon, we are snugged into our small beds in our beautiful little room, with glass door open a bit (thankfully, we both like AIR), and are off to sleep in no time, with dreams of gold churches and open roads in our heads...

It Begins

2008-06-08T15:44:00.000-07:00

Morning dawns, dark (as usual), and cloudy, possibly threatening rain. When Rita whips out a perfectly-fitted and lightweight backpack cover, I realize that I am not as prepared for weather eventualities as I had hoped. I have a rain poncho, of course, but nothing to really cover my actual pack. Still, I remain optimistic, since 97% of my things are in their own little waterproof Ziploc bags.

We leave our albuergue, and in a few moments, the town itself:

There is a small stream with a bridge that we walk over, and our path leads us ever west and back onto the Way again. As I begin to fall into the rhythm of the walking, I realize that see Claudette off to my left, walking along the paved road. Our way is off that, a bit down in a sort of "gulley" so I hail her and get her attention to let her know she needs to come this way. She sees me and is grateful. We walk in companionable silence for a while, then our rhythms begin to differ and soon we are each walking solo.

The breeze is moist, just a hint of drizzle and it's much cooler today. The clouds are scudding over, and it's not getting much lighter:

As I walk, I watch carefully to see what the weather might do next, and I realize in the back of my head, I have made up a little singsong chant, something like this: "Thank you for the morning breeze, we walk west, you blow east..." I hum this under my breath as I put one foot in front of the other. I really don't want to walk in rain, although I know at some point it will probably become inevitable. But, whether it's due to my sub-audible plea, or just the vagaries of weather, the clouds continue to scud over, and don't drop any real rain on us. After about 7 KM, we (Rita and I) catch up to one another and arrive in Sansol. Ingeborg is not in sight, and I don't remember what might have held her back. I can't believe that I am actually ahead of someone today, but chalk it up to the coolness of the weather, which allows me to walk more briskly, not feeling heat. Also, I would like a cup of coffee, but since we're trying to let Ingeborg catch up to us, we don't want to wander too far into the little town, so we just find a bench to sit on and nibble on a little snack while we wait.

Soon, we see her coming up the inevitable hill to meet up with us and we are on our way again. The clouds are lightening up, but it's still mostly overcast and a cool breeze is blowing. I am chilly, but prefer that to being over warm. Barely a kilometer later, we come into Torres del Rio, and this time, just as we begin our way through the winding streets, we see a little cafe/bar that is open. Coffee sounds wonderful, so, we duck inside and have a cup. This seems like a newer place, family run, and there is a young woman there with a new baby in a stroller. Of course, we all oooh and ahh over him, in the universal language of baby admiration. I tell the young mother I am a grandmother, and she smiles shyly at me. We take advantage of their quite-modern facilities, and we are off again. After this, the weather begins to warm up somewhat, and we climb into ridge country, after walking for a time along the highway. Even with the rocks and the uneven going, I much prefer being "off-road". It's more peaceful, one doesn't have to worry about traffic (except for the ubiquitous bicyclists), and the views are way better:

That's me in the distance, by the way, Ingeborg took this photo. It's a rather uneventful day of just good, solid walking. We pass a shepard and his flock, aided by his faithful dog, and stop to have lunch up on a ridge, where we can actually look down and see Viana, where we will end up. We have a discussion about whether to stay in alburque tonight, or find different accommodations. Ingeborg says she would like to have a little privacy and neither Rita nor I argue with her, so she pulls out Miam-Miam Do-Do, and looks for their recommendations. We'll call when we get closer.

After a post-prandial pit stop, we are off again, but this afternoon, I notice that my right foot seems to have developed a problem. I have been pretty much fanatic about taking care of my feet this whole trip. I have been changing my socks in the middle of the day, using my foot cream that I made especially for this trip, and just overall being vigilant for blisters or other skin irritations. So far, so good, but this is different--this is not skin related, although my foot does feel HOT when I walk on it. But it's not the skin. I stop a couple of times to check, slowing us all down, but my skin is good everywhere. Still, whenever I put my right foot down, I have this hot, sharp, burning pain right at the base of my 2nd toe. I try to slough off the feeling, telling myself I can "push through it". For a while it seems to work, then, having fallen behind again, I catch up with my 2 companions who have been resting. Sit, they say, rest up, don't worry. So, I do. I take off my boot again, rub my foot, check the skin--no blister, just very tender when I push on that area. I don't sit too long--I feel guilty for holding them up, but now it's about 2 or 3 pm (I'm not really sure), and my foot REALLY hurts. Ingeborg begins to tell me a story about how she was fascinated by Cesar Borgia when she was little, and how he is buried in Vienna, how she found out by reading a boot in her father's library, etc. etc. I think, okay, this is an interesting story, but why are you telling me this, what possible relation does it have to our walking?

Only later, as I am standing outside the church in Viana, do I realize that she was NOT talking about VIENNA, but VIANA ("Bee-ah-nah"), and Cesar Borgia is buried right HERE, just outside the door leading into the church. Apparently, he was deemed so evil that the priest, while allowing him to be buried on the church grounds, would NOT let him be buried inside the actual church itself! As we stand there, looking at the inscribed stone, a man comes up to us and tells us how fitting it is that such an evil person was buried there--so that churchgoers for all eternity will walk over him as he burns in Hell. Quite a story.

But now, I am not thinking about that, just the pain in my foot. I try to adjust my gait, and of course, as it always the case when you have a "boo-boo" somewhere, every time I put my foot down it seems to be on the biggest rock, or root, or uneven place in the road. I am feeling so bummed, because up till now, the walking has been good, we will have done 20 KM by the time we reach Viana, and if all goes well, this might be our regular pace from here own out. But not with a bum foot.

We come down off the ridge, lowering into the valley where Viana is located (but still on a hill, of course!). Ingeborg calls our private alburgue, and I speak to the woman to make our reservations, 1 room, 3 beds, shower. Great, done. At least that takes a bit of the worry off.

Slowly, we progress on, and then at last, we are walking off the dirt of the path and onto the paved roads of the town of Viana, following Ingeborg's apparently infallible guide book into the heart of the city. We find the church, but just duck in long enough to get a small map of the town. Using this, we find the street our place is own, manage to get let in, and check in. It's fairly modern, we are of course, up 3 flights of stairs, but the room is clean, and there's a good bed for each of us, and a private bath with a shower! Immediately, we all bathe and wash out various itemes of clothing, turning the room at once into a working clothesline--Pilgrims are very inventive when it comes to finding places to hang up damp laundry for drying!

Now that I've showered and changed out of my boots, I feel better, so we go back out to wander. I want to go to the pilgrim's mass, so we go back over to the church. The altar is set up, and is amazing:

It always takes me back when I come into these relatively small places, really out in the middle of no-where, and find these utterly stunning and awe-inspiring churches. I sit for a while in the silence, being thankful, soaking in the atmosphere of reverence. I notice there is a man in a gray sweater kneel in the center of the pews, lost in prayer. A fellow pilgrim, I assume.

Pilgrim's mass is not for a while, and Rita has been feeling a little "off" so we find a pharmacy where she can check her blood pressure. It's fine, and we strike up a conversation with the pharmacisit, and also another German woman who is walking the Camino for the 2nd or possibly 3rd time. It's the time of afternoon when people are coming out of siesta, where there is an air of geniality, if not festivity. It doesn't look like there's an actual festival going on, it's more like the little town is waking up. The clock begins to strike and we go back to the church for the mass.

When the priest comes out, I realize that he was the man in the gray sweater I had noticed earlier. He is in his immaculate vestments, these with a bright green over garment. Every place is different, every mass, though all are Catholic, imbued with the nature and flavor of its own little town and population. As I watch and listen to this man, I have a strong feeling that he is not happy, whether it is doubt in his own faith, doubt of the church, or just a problem with pilgrims in general, I cannot say. Certainly, he performs the ceremony well and with apparent sincerety, but it is just a feeling I get from him, a "vibe". Afterwards, when he calls the pilgrims up for blessing, I go, and actually am close enough to feel a bit of a sprinkle from the holy water. His homily to the pilgrims is interesting. "Use the silence of your walk," he says, "to know God. Use the companionship of your fellow Pilgrims to see Christ in every man." I find it very moving and powerful.

Ingeborg and I come out feeling blessed. Rita did not go to the mass, and we are not sure where she is. We go back to the room, but she is not there, so we decide to wander around a bit to see if we can find her AND a place to eat. After a bit, we ask about a place for a Pilgrim "menu" and are directed to a bar/restaurant that seems to be doing a brisk business. There is Rita with Gaby and some other German friends they they have met. We would love to join them, but they have already begun the first serving and the won't seat us till the second serving. This highly agitates Ingeborg, who wants to leave and find somwhere else to eat. I'm hungry enough to agree with her, although I liked the atmosphere of the place, despite the seating rules. We find a restaurant just down the way and have a quite meal in the almost-empty dining room. It's fine. The food is good, the wine is good, and we have lots to talk about.

When we leave the restaurant it's very quiet, and we get back to our hostal with no trouble. None of these places are very big, except for the very largest cities. Not once have a felt like I might be in danger from anything other than tripping over a rock. It's a good feeling, actually. We all gather back to our room, hit the small beds, and without the nightly snoring symphony of 40 or 50 people, are asleep almost instantly.

Tomorow, the adventure continues...

Bus To Los Arcos

2008-04-13T13:26:00.000-07:00

Soon it is time to catch the bus. Having missed a train in France, I am now paranoid about getting on whatever form of transportation that I've chosen that's going in the right direction at the right time. We see a number of buses come and go, but the people who are waiting assure us that ours is yet to come. We go across the road where the buses come in and sit on a concrete bench around a flagpole, so we can see the buses come in. Shortly, we see ours arrive, and get in line. We have our little printed receipts that are our tickets. The bus is like a big tour bus, and the seats are pretty comfy, with high backs. They actually recline. I realize we are not going very far, less than 12 miles, but it's nice to have such a cushy ride!

In no time it seems, but what would have been another days' walk for us, we are at our destination. It is still early afternoon, still warm. We depart our bus, get our packs and start to look for the alburgue. Ingeborg jokes that it might be better if we weren't seen getting off the bus and going right to the alburgue, but not to worry because it is off the main road, back up one of the streets, on the other side of the church that dominates the town's sillhouette:

With little trouble, we find the alburgue, Casa de Austria, which seems to be run by 2 or 3 young German (or Austrian) women. We have called ahead and they have our names, so we quickly go through the routine of signing in and getting our credencials stamped. Then, the trek to the sleeping room. This place is a maze of rambling corridors and step-ups and step-downs, stairways and hallways, and low-ceilinged places where I have to watch my head. We are led down a corridor, around a corner, passing the bathrooms (where I note an actual ROOM with showers, stalls, etc.) and into a very crowded room where there are, alas, only 3 top bunks. We can feel our spirits sink about this, and ask if there are, possibly, other beds? Our young host says there is a "private" (4-bed) room for 1 Euro more apiece, and we can have that if we wish. We do!

We are then led up a staircase, with a turning landing, a short (maybe 3-step) straight-away, and then up 2 more stairs (again ducking head) through a kitchen/dining area and through a door into a small room with 2 empty bunk beds. This is fine. There is a window between the beds, with a sturdy chair, and I offer to take top this time, but again, the ladies say no, no, and no. (I think maybe they just do not want to be under me in case the bed does break!!!!), and I accept a bottom bed gratefully.

We get our selves unpacked and organized for the afternoon. In the kitchen, we had spied a washer, so Ingeborg quickly lines up to get our clothes washed while there is still sunshine to dry them in, and we all go to get our showers out of the way. Over and over again, I am amazed at how a few minutes in warm water will completely rejuvenate a tired, beaten up old body. Each day, I walk, each day I sweat and sweat and sweat till I think I just can't sweat anymore, and arrive where ever I end up, dusty, hot, tired, sweaty, and sometimes very discouraged about going on the next day. But just a few minutes later, after having some wonderful water run over me, and a little bit of soap, I emerge feeling ready to tackle the world again. I don't take long showers, and sometimes the water isn't all that hot. And of course, there is the problematic juggling of soap, shower head, etc. and trying to dry off and get dressed afterwards, but it never fails to make me feel completely better and ready for the rest of the day/evening. Even now, months later, I can remember that completely clean and wonderful feeling of stepping out of the shower and leaving the entire day behind me.

After getting dressed and getting back to the room, I go out into the kitchen/eating area to look around. Groups of people are gathered, chatting, looking at the kitchen, seeing what equipment is there, etc. It's pretty well stocked for cooking, with some condiments and various dishes. And then, walking back to our room, I see the little oriental man who hollered at me on my way to Lorca 2 days earlier! I am so happy to see him, and he recognizes me. I wave to him and take his warm hand and we exchange little bows. He is just incredibly cheerful, and puts me in mind of the Dalai Lama. I find out that he is from Jakarta. It is always so wonderful to re-encounter those folks that I've seen along the Way. Of course, HE has walked every step, but none of that matters--we are both here now, and we are still going, that's the big thing!

We get our clothes out of the washer, hang them up to dry, and head out to explore a bit, and to see if there is an alimentacion open for restocking some victuals. Only one small place, and there is an immense line. Ingeborg gets impatient quickly and says she is going somewhere else, but I have found some nuts and dried apricots that I really want, so I'm willing to hang out in the line. Where else have I got to go, anyway?

That done, I take my purchases back, put them in my food bag, and go back out. Somewhere in this midst, I run into Claudette, the French-Canadian woman I first met in Orisson. Another "old friend"! It is soo good to see her! I let her know that I am still with Rita and Ingeborg, and tell her that I've been at the store, which is about to close. She asks if she should get something, too. I say I guess so, thinking she means for herself. It turns out shortly that she meant to get something for dinner for all of us. She catches up with me and Ingeborg in a plaza outside the church (which isn't open yet), and we see that another store has opened at last. It's bigger than the other one, but even more crowded. I realize my mistake with Claudette when we start talking about where to go for dinner. She has bought salad makings, tuna, marinated pimientas, and 2 bottles of wine. We cannot waste that, of course! Suddenly, Ingeborg decides that she MUST have potatoes fixed German style (peeled and boiled whole), so she and Rita buy those and some butter, and we had back to the Alburgue to fix our feast.

It becomes quite an adventure when the pop-off top of the tuna can breaks and we have to search around trying to find some way to open the can without slicing our fingers off. Finally we manage, and end up putting the tuna into the salad with the peppers, tomatoes, onions, etc. There's no vinegar to cut the oil on the tuna, but I find a lemon and squeeze it out, which should do the trick. With the potatoes finally done, we carry everything to a table in the common room on the first floor (some people have already gone to bed on the floor where the kitchen is):

Although we seem to have some form of potato at nearly every meal, I have to say that salad and those warm, boiled 'taters with salt and butter will go down in my personal history as one of the best meals I ever had. Accompanied by 2 lovely bottles of La Rioja red wine, and the company of 3 fine women, there's not much else I could have wished for that night. In the course of our dinner, we discover that Claudette is a winemaker. She and her partner of over 30 years (she won't marry him on principle) make approximately 250 bottles of wine each year! It's always a treat to find the "hidden talents" of the folks that you walk with. After a couple of hourse, and fully satisfied with food, wine, and wonderful company, we clean up and head back to our rooms to settle in and summon sleep to prepare for what ever the Road may bring us tomorrow. This has been a really good day!

Moving On

2008-02-24T13:44:00.000-08:00

We wake early in Lorca. Night before, some of the folks staying in the alburgue helped Ramon cook a dinner of spaghetti with chorizo and peppers, and a salad. After the day I'd had, it was heaven. I'm still not used to how DARK it is in the mornings here. Our 4th person in the room, a long, lean Frenchwoman, is out of the room and gone while the rest of us are struggling to come awake. There is the usual jockeying for the bathroom, this time right outside our door. Rita and I are ready very shortly, and decide to start on to the next town, Villatuerta, while Ingeborg finishes packing, etc. In no time, we are gone from Lorca, and seeking the trail in the near-dark. Fortuately, it's not hard to follow, even in dimness. As we near the highway, we meet up with our French roommate, coming back--it seems that she left one of her hiking poles in the room and did not want to abandon it. All I can think of is having to walk any part of this road twice is so discouraging! Slowly, bit by bit, the day lightens, and I can see that, after we cross over, then under, the highway, we are walking through farmland. In the distance, I can hear the grumble of tractors and other farm machinery getting ready for the day ahead. Despite my discouragment of yesterday, I feel good today, ready to walk and move on. I am learning that this is one of the interesting thing about this journey--if you make it to a place at the end of the day, no matter how tired, weary or down you may be, just having arrived is a triumph. And you get to start over, with a completely blank slate, the next day. Anything can happen. It's a great feeling.

I am also glad to be starting off earlier. I like getting up and getting out, and arriving where we want to be fairly early in the day. Not so much because of being assured a bed, but just because I'm a morning person and I much prefer that to walking in the heat of the day. Rita and I have separated, but we keep eyes out for each other, and make sure we spot our guiding yellow arrows as we walk on.

Within an hour or so, we reach the outskirts of Villatuerta! I'm feeling completely encouraged, we are making good time! As we walk into the town, I see for the first time an area that looks "suburban" in that there are some detached homes, with small yards, we walk past a school, with a playground, all empty and quiet still, and then we find what we have been looking for--a lovely cafe/bakery, that is serving wonderful coffee, fresh pastries and other goodies. Heaven!
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We find a table outside to offload our packs and go in to order and wait for Ingeborg to catch up. We greet some of the folks from the night before; a few stop, most move on. A good coffee, some yogurt (I'm living on yogurt these days, I think it's what is keeping my stomach in pretty good shape!), and a couple of granola-bar type things for later, and we are good to go. It's still cool outside, and the sun is just beginning to show in the east, but it's nice after the walk to sit, cool off, sip coffee, and get ready for the rest of the day.

Ingeborg arrives, and we chat while she gets her breakfast. I see a Canadian couple that I chatted with briefly the night before. The woman, blonde and VERY manicured and made up, had some rather uncharitable things to say about some of the folks back in Lorca (whose population seemed to be made up almost entirely of elderly and disabled folks). Her husband apparently is quite the photographer, with loads of cameras, lenses, etc. They seem both an unlikely couple, and unlikely for being on El Camino, but I wave as they pass and try not to be too judgmental. After all, isn't that what this walk is all about? Coming to grips with the things in myself that I am not particularly satisfied with and leaving them behind--or at least trying to? I'm sure there are people who look at me and think who does this fat, American woman think she is, trying to walk here? So, I have no room to be even a "wee bit" superior (thank you, Church Lady!).
*

Soon, the sun is up, we are done with breakfast, and we are off again. We pass quickly through Villatuerta, stopping in at a farmacia at the edge of town where I help Ingeborg buy some skin cream, and buy some cortisone cream and ibuprofen for myself. The bites are still bothering me, but not as much, and I do not seem to have gotten any new ones, which is encouraging!

We make an easy journey from Villatuerta to Estella, which is a fairly large town, with a downsloping entrance from the Camino out of Villatuerta, and coming almost immediately upon:

The Iglesia del Santo Sepulcro. This is a 13th century church whose architecture reflecs the transition from Romanesqe to Gothic. Ingeborg reads to us about it from her very detailed guidebook. The structure, as are all medieval monuments, is impressive. We wander around it for a bit, also trying to spot the pilgrim's alburgue, and enjoying the atmosphere of the town. As seems to be usual so far, the river we have been following runs through the town:

and makes for lovely and peaceful views. As we move into the center of town, we are thinking of staying here and enjoying the amenities of a larger place, and of having an easy day's walking. We find a bus stop, but the ladies are hungry, so we set off in search of a place to eat. We wander the narrow street, see a few signs for cafes, etc., and finally go into a place that looks busy and seems to have lots of good things available. We pass through the restaurant into the patio at the back, which also leades out onto another street, and settle down at a table. Eventually, someone comes out to take our order. I ask for a menu, but I think the woman misunderstands me and thinks I'm asking about "the menu" meaning, if they have a fixed-price meal for the day. She says no menu, and I try to explain, I just want a regular menu, not a "menu del dia". She leaves, and then comes back with some laminated menus that she gives us. After a bit of translation, we figure out what we want, and I go back in to order, carrying the menus. But, alas, when I show the gentleman behind the counter what we want, he shakes his head vigorouly, no, no, no, they don't have any of that. Okay, I'm not going to fight about it, but why give us those if we can't order off them?

*
I go back and tell the ladies, and immediately Ingeborg decides that they don't want pilgrims here, and, further, that she does not like Estella after all, and now she wants to move on. We go out the back, and follow the street to the left, and then see a little cafe place right on the river with a large open-air area with tables. We decide to go in there and pick tapas for lunch. There is a wide variety of things to pick from and we all get a lot of different things and share. Better than the other place anyway!

Then, as we are rearranging our packs, Rita suddenly begins frantically searching for her wallet. It's gone! Where did she last have it? At the last place, apparently. Ingeborg says she will wait with our things while we run back to ask if anyone has turned in a wallet. I go back into the bar, and the man does not seem happy to see me, but I try to be as nice and pitiful as possible and tell them that my friend has lost her money, and has anyone turned anything in? No, nothing, no one has seen anything. I thank them and we go back to the plaza where we ate.

I tell Rita to CAREFULLY search all her belongings again, every single pocket on the back, her clothing, etc. Very soon, she finds the wallet stashed in a place where she normally didn't put it. She is SO relieved! We have a group hug, then, since we are in a larger town, Rita wants to see if there is some kind of health food store where she can buy some cereal or something similar to eat that does not have flour or gluten in it. As we continue along, she sees a shop that has vitamins, etc. in the window and we go in. I have to say, the particular aroma of a "health food store" is the same in Spain as it is in the U.S. I can't put my finger on it, perhaps the aroma of bulk herbs, freshly cut, organic soap and oils, with an underlying hint of vitamin B, but I would know that scent anywhere in the world. We catch the attention of a sympathetic saleswoman, and I attempt to explain that Rita cannot eat wheat. The woman understands and steers us to several choices of cereal flakes that are made with alternative grains. Success! Rita buys a couple of bags, and we are off again, this time, in search of a taxi or bus.

At one point, I see a place that pilgrims (when you are on the Road, you ALWAYS know pilgrims when you see them!) are coming and going to and from. It appears to be a book shop/stationery store. I go in and the man behind the counter cheerfully greets me. I tell him that I and my 2 pilgrim friends will be needing a taxi in the morning (which is our plan NOW), and were can we catch one? Immediately, he springs into action, gives me a map of the town, takes me outside, shows me the streets, and tells me how many lights down, etc., and where the taxi station is. I thank him sincerely, then ask about possible guide books to the Camino in English, but alas, everything they have in English is the size and weight of a textbook, so nothing for me save the map. I greet the ladies outside and tell them we have success. A few blocks up, and we'll have a taxi, or, as I read the map, a bus if we prefer, as the taxi station and bus depot are right beside each other.

We walk on, headed to the bus station, Ingeborg thinking that we should go maybe just a few KM onward and go to Los Arcos for the night. I personally would like to stay in Estella--I am liking the "vibe" of the town, etc., but for now, I am enjoying being with these companions of the road, and so off we go to the bus station. When we get there, I get to the ticket office and ask if there is a bus to Los Arcos. Yes, there is. When is the next one? At 1:15, about 45 minutes from now. Three tickets, then, I ask. The price is a whopping 5 Eruors (maybe $8.00) for all 3. Wow. I go back to the ladies and hand out tickets. Ingeborg, being a very proper German lady, insists to pay me at once. I tell her not to worry about the 1.48 Euros the ticket costs, and if she wants to repay me, she can buy me a coffee at the station bar while we wait. That is agreeable, and so we had to the bar to wait for our carriage that will take us to the next stop. This will be my first bus trip in Spain, and I am looking forward to it.

A Hard Day's Walk

2008-01-10T11:29:00.000-08:00

I described a little bit of this day in this previous post, but now I'll write a more detailed version of my day after leaving Puente la Reina.

We wake up in our large dorm to our host flip-flopping across the floor and flipping on the bright, overhead, fluorescent lights. Okay, no sleeping late here! Almost immediately, the usual rustle and bustle begins. We are up and packing, heading to the bathrooms to brush teeth, wash faces, etc. Checking to make sure we have all our clothes that we washed last night and that they are, with luck, dry enough to pack. I overhear some American voices, and ask a woman if she knows if there's an ATM nearby in the town. She gives me some rather vague directions, but I think I'll be able to find it when I get across the bridge. Once we've got ourselves all together, we go to the dining area for a coffee. People are coming and going, heading out and down the hill, even though at the moment it is not yet light. We linger a bit over the coffee, then decide it's time to go.

As is her habit, Rita stops at the edge of the pasture for her morning prayer. I know that she reads this every day, usually when she is away from any city or town, and usually in a quiet place with a beautiful view. We look west, where the sun set last night, and see that the sheep are being led out to pasture for the day. The soft sounds of the bells carries to us on the morning air. It's still fairly dark, but up here on this mesa, we can see the promise of the new day ahead. This time, Rita asks Ingeborg to translate the prayer for me as she reads it. It is incredibly powerful and humble at the same time; it asks for strength, and to give strength to all those that we might meet. It gives thanks and asks nothing in return. It is a true pilgrim's prayer. After, I thank both of them and we head down the hill towards our journey.

At the base of the hill, we can see where the arrows lead us, and it's away from the town. However, I must find that ATM, so Rita agrees to wait by the bridge with our packs, so Ingeborg and I can move more quickly. We practically run across the bridge and into Puente La Reina. It's Sunday morning, so it's doubly quiet. There is a woman walking towards us and I try to ask her if she knows where the ATM is, but she will not make eye contact, and we move on. Shortly, we see the "TeleBanco" awning, and feel triumph. Thus fortified with cash, we head back to Rita and our packs. We are off.

Crossing the highway, we quickly travel down a slight "dip" and then along a wooded path. Fennel grows in great feathery clumps along the way, filling the morning air with the scent of anise. I see these dark patches in the pathway, that at first I think are cat droppings, but then realize are large, black slugs. As I try not to step on them and squash them, I get a little closer to the fennel plants and see that they are COVERED with small, white snails! It's an amazing morning--we pass by a big field of tomatoes, and later one that I think is also fennel, but then realize is asparagus--probably the white variety that is so prevalent here, on tables and in stores, in Spain.

The sun is getting higher, and it's getting hotter. We seem to be deeper into farmland and way from towns, etc. Now the bicyclists are catching up to us, and we try to keep to the right so as not to be run over. Soon, the path turns toward the right and into what looks like a ravine. We can see where rain and runoff have cut deeply into the incline, making ruts and dips that could be treacherous if you don't keep your eyes on the path. Now, we begin to climb. Oh, joy, my favorite thing. As usual, the ladies soon pull ahead of me. While I'm in the shade of the ravine, it's not so bad, but soon, we pull of of that dip, and then are just climbing. As I go on, I realize that we are coming up on a highway, and walking on the left side, we are in deep gravel, which slips constantly under my feet. At one point, near the summit, the incline steepens dramatically, and once again, I am reduced to walking backwards to get up the unsteady gravel slope. The only advantage today is that I can actually see the top, and I know I'm not going to be walking on this incline all day.

It's getting really hot, and I am feeling very discouraged. I thought this was going to get easier. I thought the terrain was going to level out. I thought, I thought, I thought. I am hot, sweaty, and already tired. I don't really want to go home, but right now, walking is not something I want to do. But, there IS nothing else to do. I walk on. We pass through a little town, Maneru, and keep going. Walkers pass us, wearing only skimpy little tank tops, and carrying only minimal water. I wonder if they are local folk just out for a stroll, or if they are like our Irish friends, and having their packs transported from place to place. It's getting hotter, and the rocks seem to be out to get me. I try to keep my eyes up, to notice the beauty around me, and even in my funk, I see it, but I just keep trudging along. After Maneru, we pass again through farm land and vinyards, grapes, many, many grapes, and the terrain is still very up and down, though not quite as hilly as the morning, thankfully! As we walk along, the vistas are breathtaking. Then, coming of a small hill with more vineyards, there is, in the distance, quite possibly the most perfect looking Spanish town I have seen yet. It is like a dream--something that should be on a postcard or in a travel magazine to beckon people to get up, leave their homes and come adventuring. It is Cirauqui:

This view alone is worth the price of my entire trip. For a moment, I'm stunned. I suppose I had not really realized that such places actually existed. Keeping my feet in the road, one step after the other, the town comes closer, bit by bit.

At last, I walk into the outskirts, to find Rita and Ingeborg stopping for a bit of lunch at an alimentacion. Unfortunately, Ingeborg has bought the last of the lemon yogurt, but I find something cold and wet, and sit on the bench with them to rest and try to regroup. I can see the cobbled street leading away from the store, and of course, it's going UP! They rest for a bit longer, but since they arrived before me, are ready to leave sooner. We agree to meet up in Lorca for the night, about 5 and half KM away. It doesn't sound that far, and I am encouraged. I wave them on, finish my snack, and get myself ready for the next haul.

I head up the paved hill, wondering why, if this city is built on the TOP of a hill, all the streets IN the city wend upward. It's a mystery that I will never solve while I am in Spain! Now, I am having another problem--the ever-threatening need to pee! So, as I slog up the hill, looking for my guiding yellow arrows, I am also keeping an eye out for a handy cafe/bar with servicios. But, since it is Sunday, I doubt that I will find any. But, suddenly, I round a corner to find myself in a small plaza in front of a hotel. There are actually a few people bustling about. It looks like they might be setting up for a fiesta or something, and lo! and behold, I see two, count them TWO, port-a-potties!! Wow! Someone really must be looking after me. That need taken care of, I feel a bit more optimistic, and now am ready to find a fountain where I can refill my water bottle. I do have my extra bottle in my pack, but I am consistently paranoid about running out of water and always make a point to have both bottles full before leaving a town.

But. I don't know this town, and now that I'm in it, it has become quite a maze. I do not want to get lost, nor lose sight of my yellow arrows. So, I continue following and hope, that if I don't find the fountain, I will have enough water to get me to Lorca in good fashion. As I am standing at one point, looking for my arrow, a woman approaches me. I ask her if this is the Camino, and she says yes, and points in the right direction. Then I ask her if there is a fountain about. She says yes, but it is back in town, in the opposite direction. I thank her, and she can see that I really don't want to walk back, away from my destination, and then, she says, "I just live down here, come with me, and I'll fill your bottle." What joy! So, I walk with her, and sure enough, she really is just down the street. I wait outside while she goes in. I hear her speaking to someone inside, and then she comes out and hands my my full bottle. I thank her profusely, and she wishes me a good journey. Despite my fatigue, my sore feet, my cranky mood, I feel better. I am hoping the next 5 K will not be so bad.

Leaving Cirauqui (downhill!), I cross over an old Roman bridge, then, jarringly, walk beside a highway, and cross over it and find the Way again. The terrain is not so bad, just kind of a rutted dirt road, but again, it's hot, and I'm so tired. I'm not sure why, but this day seems to weigh very heavily on me. I think about the nice woman I just met, and feel a little bit better, but still it seems that I am walking so slowly, everyone on the Path is passing me, and I feel like I will always be at the end of the line, being left behind. It is just discouraging. Perhaps I have a more "competitive" spirit than I realize!

However, one keeps walking. At one point, I find a bit of shade in an area that is not TOO littered with bits of toilet paper, and trying to keep from getting snagged on the blackberry bushes, I manage to sit, take off my boots for a bit, and rest my feet. This always makes me feel better, and thus fortified, I head on. Shortly, I come to an area that looks like a washed out bridge. There's a small stream of water, but in a much bigger river bed, so perhaps at some point during the year, this area floods. Across this wash, I THINK I see the path leading steeply uphill (what else?!) and to the left, but the track I am on carries on to the right. I don't see a yellow arrow anywhere, and I am stumped.

Suddenly, I hear a shout from up above. Squinting in the sun, I look up to the very top of the hill where the track seems to disappear into a tunnel. There is a small figure up there, waving at me. Is it Ingeborg? It's too far away to tell, but I raise my walking stick in response and take the track over the partial concrete bridge and up the hill. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I make a note that if I ever feel like I'm lost again, and the choice is between uphill, downhill, or straight on, I know the uphill choice will be right!

Slowly, I manage my way up. I don't expect anyone to be there, but when I finally arrive, there is a TINY Oriental man sitting by the entrance to a tunnel, waiting for me. He is maybe 5' tall, and his pack, an external frame backpack, extends at least 8" over his head. He appears to be extremely happy to see me. "Hello! Hello!" he says enthusiastically in accented English. I ask him if he was the one who waved to me. Yes, it was him. I thank him profusely as I stop for a bit in the shade of the tunnel:

My small, enthusiastic friend assures me that Lorca is not far ahead, and then he blithely treks on, his huge backpack certainly more visible than its carrier. I will probably never see him again, but am very grateful that he could sense my confusion, even from a distance, and guide me in the right direction.

The last push to Lorca is very steep. At last, I can see the tops of the buildings, but it looks like I am going to be going nearly vertical, if only for a short while. Finally, I step off the trail and onto a street, apparently about the only one IN Lorca. (Note: This Lorca is so small that it does not even register on Google Earth; if you put in Lorca, Spain, you are taken to another town on the eastern coast!). The first thing I pass is the church, and I would like to go in and give my thanks, but it is closed. A few yards on, there is a small plaza/playground, and blessedly, a fountain. Also, there is Rita, resting on a bench, apparently waiting for me! I am so happy to see her, and she says a room as been arranged. I fill my bottles, throw some water over my head, and then we go to the alburgue, which, we discover later, is owned and run alone by a young, rather confused-looking young man named Ramon.

Seeing me come in, hot, discouraged, and exhausted, he lets me just go up to the room that the ladies have secured, and says I can pay later. Bless him! Of course, the room is up 4 flights of stairs! No matter, this is the end of the road for the day, and I heave myself upwards, then down a narrow corridor to the end, where there is a small, beautiful room with 2 bunk beds. The ladies can see I am about done in, and show me that they have saved me a bottom bunk. I am simply undone by their kindness and burst into sobs, leaning against the bed frame. Instantly, they are both around me, offering comfort, hugs, reassuring pats. I weep for a moment, then it passes. When I look up, blinking the tears from my eyes, I realize that Ingeborg is standing next to me, very motherly, except she is stark naked, save for her knee-high compression stockings, and her slip-on "comfort shoes". The contrast is so startling, I burst out laughing, and then all of us do! We have a good, cleansing belly laugh, and suddenly, despite still being exhausted, I feel better, back to "normal". Everything is all right. We will walk tomorrow, and I may be behind once again, but I will keep going, and that is what matters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Below is a little map of the terrain between Puente la Reina and Lorca, showing the "ups and downs":

A Swimming Pool?

2008-01-08T16:50:00.000-08:00

We have a nice snooze outside the cemetery, but soon we repack and make our way up the hill into Obanos. As we come into the plaza as seen above, there is a small alimentacion just to the left where the tiny corner of the shadow starts. We are just in time to buy a few items for lunch before they close for siesta. I have become hooked on an orange soda called Kas. It's just sweet enough, just fizzy enough, and it's one canned drink I seem to be able to drink from the can without getting hiccups. I have to have that and some lemon yogurt, which is fast becoming my staple as a travel through Spain. We sit on some stone benches outside the doorway of the little store and eat our quick lunch. There are a few kids playing around the plaza on skateboards, but for the most part, once again it feels as if we are in a ghost town. Soon, we finsh, fill up our water bottles, and head out of town, under a large medieval type archway:

Then we are on the way to Puente la Reina. The walking is not bad, but because we got a late start due to having Ingeborg's jacket locked away, it's gotten hot and muggy. I can't wait to get to the alburgue, even though I have no idea what it is going to be like. Also, I am running short of cash money, and need to find an ATM. I'm sure there will be one in Puente la Reina, and look forward to that. We walk on, through sunny countryside, past strange little outbuildings, separated by enough distance between us that we are each left with our own thoughts in our own silence. After a bit, the town comes in sight, and then we are in Puente la Reina. Now, to find the Puente (bridge) and our place to stay. For some reason, none of us are all that eager to find the church, see the town, etc. Maybe it's a bit of overload. Even though the streets are cool and narrow, like the old part of Pamplona, again, it's quiet, almost deserted. We do encounter a few people walking and I confirm that the bridge is "todo recto"--straight ahead. And sure enough, as we come out of the narrow warren of streets and buildings, there is the river, and the large bridge crossing.

According to Ingeborg, our place (where I have called ahead, and been told there are plenty of beds) is across the bridge and up the road to the right. Well. Once again, I learn the meaning of UP. Fortunately, it's nowhere near as long as the road from St. Jean, but it is as steep. All three of us end up "tacking" back and forth across the road. It is hot, dry, and dusty. I did not find an ATM and now I realize that I better have enough cash for my bed and dinner because I am NOT climbing back down this hill and up again for any amount of money today! Although I have to admit, the view is incredible.

Onward we slog, packs getting heavier by the moment, till at last we seem to reach the summit, the path levels out, and we seem to be at the top of a mesa-like hill, very flat on top, and the alburgue is right here. And....there is a swimming pool!

It looks like a very large, very modern rec center or senior center. There is the pool, off to the right, and to the left are picnic tables and clothes dryers. We enter in the center of the building, and are in a large, high-ceilinged dining area, with the obiquitous coffee bar. There's one attendant, a large black guy who I find out later is from the Caribbean. We go through the check-in routine, get our credencials stamped, pay for room and dinner (I have 3 Euros to spare!), and then he motions us towards the sleeping area.

This is like a gym. There's about 100 beds, all placed around a huge room. As promised, they are currently mostly empty, so we snag 3 bottom places in a row. Then we all decide to share the cost of washing our clothes, and that takes a while to sort out, as we have to pay the attendant, who then comes with a missing piece to the washer and turns it on for us. That done, we have a coffee, and I am in envy of Ingeborg who decides to take advantage of the swimming pool in her quick-dry undies. I try to use the pay phone to call home, but it will not accept my PennyTalk code, so I opt for using 1 of my remaining Euros to check e-mail and update everyone on my whereabouts. Then we get our clean clothes out of the washer, and get them hung up in the afternoon sun. It's hot enough to hope they will actually be dry before we go to bed.

After a shower in the very nice, modern bathroom, and a short rest, we all gather for dinner. Seats are assigned, and we chat with a Canadian couple about what we've seen, people we've met, etc. It's nice for me, as I'm speaking English for a change. The sun is going down, and the room is getting very hot. Oh, the first thing I noticed when I came in here, was that there was a big FAN in this room, actually going! A FAN!!! This is the first fan I have seen in Europe! Then, after I find out our host is from the Caribbean, it does not surprise me. Either no one gets hot in Europe, or they just don't like air circulating around them, as fans, room ventilation, open windows at night, etc. seem to be very troubling to most of the people I met there. But, even with the big fan running, the sun plus having everyone in the room togther, is making it almost unbearable for everyone. Finally, one of the servers goes to the big windows on the east side of the building and with a long pole, begins to open up the transom-like windows from the top. The entire crowd bursts into applause! It's a genial group this afternoon and there are quite a few cyclists. The seem to be mostly Italian, and for a moment, I'm reminded of the movie "Breaking Away". The foood is simple, but good and satisfying, and after we eat, Ingeborg goes to check her Internet news, and Rita and I go outside to a picnic table under a shade shelter made of twigs and small tree branches--very rustic. It's beautiful up here on the top of this hill--to the west is pastureland, and we can hear the bells of the sheep as they come home for the night. The sun is mostly down, the clouds are coming 'round for the night and it's getting cooler fast, but still very comfortable to sit out in shirt sleeves. It's quiet and peaceful, and other folks are all around the grounds in various clumps, some by the pool, others near the laundry area, some just walking around chatting. It's almost like some big summer camp. Since we don't speak much of the same language, Rita and I can't have very "wordy" conversations, but there is a deep communication between us. I'm not sure if it's because we are both on this same Camino path, if we just have compatible personalities, or if, despite having met only days before, we simply understand one another. Perhaps it's a bit of all three. Nevertheless, I feel quite comfortable sitting with her and not talking much, and I believe she feels the same.

Eventually it gets too cool to stay out. Taking one last look around in the approaching dark, we head into the gym to get ready for bed. More folks have arrived since dinner was over, and all around us, the beds are being filled up by male cyclists in their tight, shiny, spandex costumes. Their cycling shoes click across the floors, but thankfully, the beds are springs and not "clicker" beds!! I think briefly that I would like to have seen the church here, to see a bit more of the town. Had I not agreed to walk with the ladies, I might have decided to stay another day, but I want to go on, too. It's the dilemma of the Camino--the Journey is the destination, but also, in our time-constrained world, we must always be aware of "the destination" and the time it takes to get there. Therefore, we go forward in the morning.

It takes a while, but the cyclists finally get settled, and then someone turns out the lights, and the room soon comes alive with the evening symphony. I seem to be getting used to it, because this is one night I have no trouble falling asleep, thinking of what is ahead, and what amazing memories I already have.

Just A Quick Side Note

2008-01-02T14:38:00.000-08:00

The trip along the Camino Santiago described in this blog took place during the month of September, 2007. It's just taking a while to get it all down in the blog, so if you read the blog post dates of December, January, etc., and I'm writing about how hot it was in Spain, no it's not that hot there now, but it was in September! Sorry to be confusing, it's just taking me a while to get this all in here. Thanks for your patience.

Waiting for Ingeborg, Finding Eunate

2007-12-25T13:05:00.000-08:00

As written below, we are all ready to go for the day when we realized that Ingeborg had left her very nice jacket in the restaurant the night before. Of course, per Spanish rules, nothing is open yet, even though it's nearly 8 am. Rita decides she can't wait and heads on to the next town. Since she and Ingeborg both have cell phones ("handys" in German), I don't worry too much. We'll catch up with her soon. I wait with Ingeborg for a while, and completely understand why she does not want to leave that jacket behind--it's very nice, lightweight and windproof. But soon, I get the "itch" too, and let her know that I'm going ahead and will see her later. Our goal is Puente la Reina, at a private alburgue there. Plus, Ingeborg wants to take a slight detour to Eunate, the site of a church that is supposed to be one of the last ones built by the Templars. Agreeing to meet up whenever, I head up the path, keeping the yellow arrows in sight. It is still not quite full light yet, a bit cloudy, and undecided as to whether it's going to be sunny or shady.

The path quickly leaves the town of Uterga, and soon I am walking through farmland, down a slope, behind a hill in the shade from the morning sun, but then climbing up a small ridge again, to where now, at last, morning has overtaken the land. As I am walking along a relatively flat place that looks off west down a sloping plowed field, I see Rita sitting at the side of the path at the foot of a couple of overhanging trees. I wave her down and explain the situation with Ingeborg, and we agree to walk ahead together. But first, she stops me, and as we stand with the sun behind us, looking out over the beautiful morning scene, she sings a song in German in her strong, unwavering voice. I am not sure if it is a hymn, or just a hiking song, or what, but it is beautiful, and even though I can't understand the words, I certainly get the meaning behind them. Once again, I am struck to the heart by this whole experience, by this 71 year old woman who speaks virtually NO Spanish or English, yet seems completely fearless about going anywhere. I feel so blessed to have encountered her and Ingeborg on this journey--it's as if they are to be examples for me of how I can be in 1o and 20 years. What a great thought! We stand for a moment after Rita finishes her song, and then walk on. At the top of the ridge, the terrain is flatter, and we pass almond groves (almendras), fields of fennell, lavender, and thyme, all growing right up to the path. We crack a few windfall almonds and munch on them, and I pick some fennell seed heads to put in my pocked along with some lavender sprigs. They will definitely improve upon the aromoa of my much worn shirt!!

Soon we are arriving into the next little town, Muruzabal. The path fades into a paved street, and we are walking along the outskirts. At one point, there is a sign with a bench next to it, so Rita and I stop for a moment to decide what we want to do. We don't want to get TOO far ahead of Ingeborg, so she can't catch up, yet we, the morning people, are pretty much "rarin' to go". Come noon, I'd rather be laying my pack down for the day, than slogging on in the heat, but we'll take one step at a time and see what happens.

As we sit on the bench, Rita says she's hungry, and we look down the street that leads up to where we are. There appears to be a bar opening--a man is bringing out folding chairs and putting them around tables, so I ask Rita if she'd like a coffee. She says yes, and also that she hopes for eggs. So, off we go. Unloading our packs outside, I go in, and yes, they are open, and yes, they have huevos y jamon (ham and eggs). Great! I tell Rita, who is overjoyed, and wants 4 eggs! So, I go back in and order 2 plates, one with 4 eggs, plus 2 cafes con leche. At last! A REAL breakfast! We are both very happy to sit here and wait for Ingeborg while consuming our food. But, we think, we're off the path, and so we need to let Ingeborg know where we are. Rita gets the brilliant idea of going back to the sign by the bench, and putting up a piece of paper with "Ingeborg" written on it, and then an arrow to the left, to show her where we are! That done, we soon are digging into our wonderful breakfasts, thanful for the delay since it brought us here.

This is the biggest breakfast I have eaten since I left the US, and it's great. I love the Spanish serrano ham because it reminds me of the Southern "country ham" that is so different from the sugar-cured ham that most people are familiar with. Serrano is saltier, and in Spain, sliced thinly like proscuitto. Right now, it's just good.

Shortly after we eat and decide to have another coffee, we see Ingeborg coming down the road. She found Rita's sign and is laughing as she comes up to the table. We tell her of our lovely breakfast, and of course, she wants the same, so we settle back with our coffees and just enjoy the morning. The town is small, there's a car every now and then, a few delivery vehicles, etc, but again, that quiet "ghost town" feeling, except for the immediate vicinity of the bar where we're eating. Soon, we are done, full, and ready to go. Ingeborg's pack is complete with her jacket, and we are off through the town to find the way to Eunate. I leave it all up to Ingeborg who, armed with her German guide book that defines the directions of this Way down to the inch, and "Miam-Miam, Do-Do" just can't go wrong!

It does not take long to get through the town. Towards the edge, I fill up my water bottle at a fountain, as it is getting hot already, and we look south, and can almost see the church at Eunate in the distance. It doesn't LOOK that far, but we have already learned that, when walking, looks can be very deceiving. No matter, off we go!

The walk from Muruzabal to Eunate is dusty, dry, boring, and hot, most of it past already-harvested fields. I begin to regret the big breakfast, and see the wisdom of early morning walking on a relatively empty stomach, nibbling in between, and having the heavier meal after you're done walking for the day. Too late to do anything about it now, however, and I just keep on going. As the church gets closer, I admit to feeling little twinges of excitement. Visions of "The DaVinci Code" and other similarly-themed books run around in my head. This church is thought to have been built by the Knights Templar! Its octagon shape is very rare and completely different from the other churches and cathedrals that we have seen so far. Plus, this one is out in a field, completely removed from the surrounding towns. Apparently there is an alburgue, or at least a place to stay here, but Ingeborg's guidebooks don't say much about it, and anyway, it's too early yet to stop. We want to reach Puente la Reina first.

As we approach the church, once again, I get "that feeling". I just don't know what it is about these places, but I feel such a weight of reverence, a desire for complete silence and respect, I can't explain it. In fact, I have a hard time talking in a regular voice as I come close to it, as if the ground itself wants quiet, wants footsteps to be lighter on the ground, and voices to be silenced. We go through the gate into the outer portico and shed our packs. Inside, the church is very primative. Here are no ornate, gilded altars, just simple stone, rising up to a vaulted ceiling in the middle with a plain stone altar just on the opposite side of the entrance door. I make my way about to the middle of the pews and sit for a while, head bowed. As has been my habit on this whole trip, I first give thanks for having gotten this far, and hope to go forward as far as I can. I also try to stop any verbal-type thoughts and try to just soak up any messages or feelings I can through the soles of my feet on the ground, and through the pores of my skin just being in this centuries-old atmosphere. I open my crown chakra and have a moment of disorienting dizziness, but nothing painful, or related to any kind of health problem. There is a definite temporal "dimensionality" here. I can't say that I see shades of Knights Templar floating in the background, or Moorish characters lurking around the door, but it would not surprise me if I did. There's just a strong feeling of "otherness" in here, and I feel quite blessed to be able just to touch the edge of it.

Breathing my prayers into the air, I get up to leave, and see that the candle altar has been replaced by this funny little electric candle thingie where you put in your coins, a little flickering bulb ignites on an electric candle, and it burns, I suppose, for maybe as long as a votive or tea light candle would. Ah, modern times comes to the church. Regardless, I light an electri-candle for my daughter, my grandsons, for G. waiting at home, and for my mom, who is with me every step of the way, and leave feeling an odd mixture of mystery and low humor.

Ingeborg comes out shortly, and then we are ready to go. We climb up a small hill behind the church to a small cemetery with various markers, some of which pertain to the Camino. I fill my water bottle again, and then we make our way down the hill, and along a road that runs by a small river. We are looking for a place to stop and rest as the heat is getting more intense, but can't seem to find a place, even though we would all love to sit by the water. It seems too difficult to get to, so we keep walking. We cross the river, cross the same highway we did earlier to get to Eunate, only this time going in the opposite direction, then begin a slow climb up a hill towards the next town, Obanos. Just before we actually get into the town, off to the right is a paved area with some nice shade. We walk over there and drop the packs before we realize it's a cemetery. Oh well, the cemetery is fenced off, and the concrete is cool and shady, so here we decide to have a short siesta. Any time is a good time to rest the feet, right? So thinking, we all lie back with feet up on our packs and have a nice little snooze. Puente la Reina will still be there, after all!

Sorry It's Taking So Long

2007-12-18T10:44:00.000-08:00

Good grief, I just realized it's been a week since I updated here. At this rate, I won't get my trip all blogged till 2009! Well, life is a lot more complicated OFF the Road than on it! Kids, grandkids, job hunting, working, blah, blah, blah. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it, but I WILL get this finished. Just bear with me and keep checking back, my friends!

Love and holiday hugs,

Crone

The Clicker Beds of Uterga, or Hot Flashes and Mite Bites

2007-12-10T15:11:00.000-08:00

After a short snooze on the hill (during which time, either from relaxing on a slant, or for some other unknown reason, my back gave a tremendous "POP" and my hip didn't hurt for the first time in years!), we put our boots back on, load up, and head down the slope away from Alt de Perdon and towards Uterga. The way is very rocky and fairly steep. Once again, I am quickly left behind, because I am just ultra-careful about where I'm putting my feet. I just cannot afford to fall down and really hurt myself. The way continues down the rocky washes, where it's easy to see where the water might run if it rains. After a while, I catch up with the ladies, who are making a pit stop. The sun which was hidden in the morning, has come out in force and it's very warm. Again, I am SO grateful for my hat. We walk on, descending and descending, until the terrain flattens out and we are walking on sort of a berm between farm fields. We can see the buildings of Uterga in the distance, and are looking forward to our upcoming beds. I have no idea what the place is going to be like, but it doesn't matter. If there's a bed and a shower and a reasonable form of a meal, it will be heaven! Shortly before entering the town, on the right just off the path, is a shrine to Mary. It's outside, under some overhanging trees, and there are a couple of benches to rest and contemplate. I have to stop. There's just something about shrines of this nature that draw me. I don't care what religion, what saint, or diety, just this small area, right off the Pilgrim's road, just outside the first buildings of the village, is intriguing and attractive. I imagine if I lived here, I would come out here all the time to pray or meditate or talk to the pilgrmis as they passed by.

Rita has moved on, but Ingeborg and I stop and sit for a while. I leave before she does and catch up with Rita, and then Ingeborg joins as as we are chatting about our next steps. Ingeborg asks us to keep an eye out for a correro (mailbox or post office), as she has some postcards she wants to mail. We head through the main street of the small town, and start looking for our alburgue. We pass the church, and step out of the way for just a couple of cars. Again, we seem to be arriving around siesta time, and everything is shut up tight. But, we keep walking, and shortly we find what we are looking for: The Albergue Camino del Perdon:

The sun is out, and there are many pilgrims lounging at the tables. We drop our packs outside, and I go in to ask about beds. Yes, there are beds, and we are in time, they will take us up to show us the room and we can pick out our places now! Yes! The young woman at the bar is very friendly, and while I wait for them to lead us to where we need to go, I look around the place. It looks brand new! Later, she tells me it has been open for 3 years, but it's lovely--light blond wood bar and fixtures, tile floors, everything very clean and welcoming. When another young woman comes to lead us up the stairs, we follow happily.

The room:

has about the usual number of beds, but we are all early enough to claim bottom bunks! The bed I was in is actually the bottom bunk of the partial bed you see on the far right of the above picture. We tour the bathroom, which has a modern shower with HOOKS in it to hang your clothes! Wow! But there's still no soap dish, so I know I'm still in Spain. Placing all our stuff on the beds, we jockey for the shower, and then, refreshed, head down to see if there is anyone we know. We see Claudette, who I first met at Orisson (I was in the bunk above her), from Quebec. She is 61 and walking alone. She is very quiet, usually wrapped up in a book or on her BlackBerry. But she seems genuinely happy to see us as we are to see her. Then, as we are sitting outside with coffee, up walks Doro!! It's like a huge reunion to see her, and she agrees to have a coffee with us, although she is not stopping, she wants to go further with the afternoon. We talk for a while, and right before we leave, I run back up to my backpack and bring her down of the the prayer ties that my friends blessed for me before I left to come on this journey. For some reason, I feel very close to her, and I want her to be safe as she continues on her way. She is very moved by this, and promptly ties the multi-colored yarn around her wrist for a bracelet. Then, she has donned her pack again, and is off. I hope that I will see her again, but know there are no guarantees. Just like life. But, I am so glad to have met and connected with her here.

After she leaves, I want to wander around the place for a bit. It's really quite nice, not only with the bar and porch area downstairs (along with the restaurant area which is not open yet--but will open leter for the pilgrim "menu" at around 7pm), but also there's a little lounge area upstairs:

I sit down and write in my journal for a while, then go downstairs and am able to access the Internet via a laptop that the bar lady sets up for me at a table. After that, it's the usual routine of checking and re-checking Ziplocs and packing, deciding what to wear for tomorrow, and a brief discussion of how we want to walk. There is a small, old church that is somewhat off the main path, but it is supposed to be one of the last Templar churches in Europe, and Ingeborg really wants to go there, and I would not mind it myself. Ingeborg still has not found the correo, so she and I go off in search of, and to explore the town a little bit.

As we walk through, I am caught again at how deserted so many of these towns appear to be. On our way in, we had passed some kind of community center with various notices posted out front, and, as I wrote above, the church has a small playground outside of it, but there are no people here--other than the ones we have seen in the bar at the alburgue, where it is easy to tell locals from pilgrims, even without language differences. So, where are all the people? It's a question that I will ask more than once on this trip.

We reach the church, and a strong afternoon wind has come up. It appears that the church, too, is empty and closed, but when we push on a side door, it comes open for us, and we go in, in anticipation of some quiet time. To our surprise, a Mass is being held, so we quietly come in from the back of the sanctuary and sit down. There are only a few people here, mostly women, mostly over 60. The priest is just at the point of blessing the host, so we wait in reverence while the service goes on. I am so grateful to be able to witness these services. Again, I am struck on this way that whatever one's particular faith is, or whether you even have a particular faith, just does not matter. The fact that you are HERE, that you have made the effort to come here, to walk on this ground, to sit in these churches and share the space where hundreds, maybe hundreds of thousands, of people have been and worshipped before you is the point. This road strips away everything unessential from you. Just as I left my too-heavy baggage at the hotel in Roncesvalles, walking this Road makes you drop your assumptions, your prejudices, your judgments, even your wants and desires. It's just all about walking and about BEING, in company with the Creator and the Created. Powerful, powerful stuff.

Soon, the Mass is concluded and the parishoners file out. We exit the same way we came in, not finding the correo, but not worried about it, either. We wander back to the alburgue, revitalized. Shortly after we get back and get settled, it's time for dinner. The place has pretty well filled up, and I am glad we got here in time to shower and get settled in relative quiet. There's a woman above me, who is having some foot trouble. The day before she and her group walked 44 kilometers!! That's almost 27 MILES! That's INSANE. But, each to their own.

Since Doro has gone on, we ask Claudette if she wants to join us for dinner and round out our trio to a party of 4, which is always easier to seat. She agrees, and when the restaurant opens up, we are ready. The tuna, tomatoes, and chocolate seem FAR away!! This is by far the best meal I've had since Orisson. The soup is thick and wonderful, and while my entree is not exactly what I expected-it's some kind of breaded "cutlet" with cheese inside, it's good, and there is the most wonderful lemon ice cream for dessert. Yes, lemon ice cream and it's heavenly. Plus, two bottles of wine, good company, good conversation, and at the end of the meal, we get the whole group to give our servers (only 2!) a big round of applause! It appears that everyone is in a good mood this evening!!

Here we are at our dinner table, me, Ingeborg, and Rita, Claudette kindly taking the picture on her Blackberry, and was able to e-mail it to me to use now! By the time we are finished with dinner it's time to get ready for bed. We hope to be in Puente la Reina (The Queen's Bridge) tomorrow, which is not very far by the map, but we don't know how far out of the way it will be to go to Eunate, so we want to be rested. Here is where the evening adventure starts. As we all get into the room, and begin to try to settle down, we realize our beds are slightly different from previous ones. All the other bunk beds have either been on spring platforms or wooden platforms, which, while they my squeak or creak every now and then, it's usually a fairly quiet noise. These beds have METAL platforms. I'm sure you all know what "clickers" or "crickets" are--those child's toys that you can hold in your hand and make a loud clicking noise by squeezing a small metal "tongue" on the back of the toy? Well, these beds are just like that every time you move, only it's not a "click" it's a big "BANG". Turn over on your side? BANG! Move your legs in bed? BANG! Raise your head up to see what's making the bang? BANG! Oh boy, we're going to have 18 people in here banging and popping away all night! Yikes!

Well, I say to Ingeborg, at least we are right by the window, and can have some fresh air. But she will battle all night with an Italian woman on her top bunk who refuses to allow the window open. I do not understand the apparently European desire to be completely shut in at night, especially when lots of other people are in the room. Eighteen or more people put out a LOT of body heat (amongst other things) in a closed up room at night--we NEED fresh air!

And so it goes...a brief silence then bangBANGbangBANGclickclickclickBANG! Somehow, in all this chaos, I do drift off, then after a few hours, I awake, and realize my cotton sleeping T-shirt is SOAKED. I toss and turn a bit, but then feel bad about all the noise my bed is making, so I decide to get up and go into the lounge, for which I am eternally grateful. Also, this place has a heavy cotton blanket on each bed, so I bring that with me. I take the back cushions off of the 3-cushion sofa, take off my soaked shirt, hang it over the arm of a chair, wrap myself up in the blanket (which later proves to be problematic), and try to get a little more sleep. It actually works. Although I can still hear the dreaded clicker beds, it's fainter out here, and I dry off and begin to get warm. When I wake up again, it's still dark, but approaching time to get up, and my shirt has actually dried enough for me to put it back on. Feeling rested in spite of everything, I go back into the common sleeping room and begin to get everything ready to repack. It appears no one else has got much sleep, either, and we're all stumbling around, trying to get ready. Eventually, we make it downstairs, with packs and sit at one of the outside tables to decide our route. That's when we realized that Ingeborg forgot her really nice, wind/waterproof jacket at dinner, and it's been locked inside the restaurant. Okay, now what?

Alto de Perdon

2007-12-01T05:18:00.001-08:00

Again, we are climbing. The grade is not as steep as it was going from St. Jean, but the terrain is much rougher. As we walk, I am so thankful that the ladies took their chances and adjusted my pack. It truly feels pounds lighter, and I realize that I am actually keeping up with them. What a difference pulling on a few straps makes! The wind has picked up, and it's quite chilly, but this is the kind of weather I'm used to walking in in Colorado, so I actually feel invigorated for a change. After my little meltdown earlier, I feel so good inside, I don't mind the cold, the wind, the stark scenery. I am just enjoying walking, putting one foot in front of the other. Still, I'm not the fastest walker, and from time to time a person here or there will pass me. This trail is not crowded today, however, and I'm also grateful for the solitude.

After a bit, we pass into the small village of Zariquiegui. It's cold, and cloudy, and we would welcome a cafe con leche, but the place seems to be a ghost town. The first place we come to, of course, is the church to the right, and there is a small playground with a fountain and a bench. I refill my water bottles and decide to check my feet again. Then we stretch our legs and move on. All the houses are shut up tight, behind the metal "hurricane shutters" that all the more modern buildings seem to have. Again, I wonder if everyone has gone to work in Pamplona, or if the whole village is still asleep. We pass quietly through and keep climbing.

As we leave the village, the hill gets steeper, and we notice that all along the ridge of these hills/mountains are huge wind turbines.

They line the top of the ridge for as far as we can see. Of course, I think of Don Quixote, tilting at the windmills. He would have a field day today! As I climb closer to them, I hear people behind me, and when they catch up, who should it be but Carlis and Ariana, the young couple I met in Roncesvalles! I am amazed that I have gotten ahead of them. They recognize me, and we chat for a moment. They had gotten sick with bad colds and had rested for 2 days in Pamplona. Now they are feeling better, and in a few moments have left me far behind. It was good to see them again. The path gets steeper and narrower. At one point, part of it has crumbled away over a steep edge, and a newer path has been created by previous pilgrms, but it's very steep and there's not much to hold onto. Again, I am totally grateful for my hiking pole, especially when climbing down, which can be much more treacherous than going up. As we near the summit of the ridge, I see that there are large fields of sunflowers planted at the base of the peaks. This intrigues me. I can't figure out why they would plant sunflowers here, especially since it seems as if they were not harvested, but just left to dry up in the fall weather. I think maybe it's to draw the birds away from the turbines, but even after feasting on sunflower seeds, they would still fly off somewhere. Then again, maybe it's just for the beauty of it. I just enjoy the large, nodding heads, and try to picture them in their summer glory. We continue climbing, up, up, ever up, and then, once again, the terrain begins to flatten out, and we are, finally, at the summit of Alto de Perdon, the Hill of Pardon.

After I catch my breath, I realize that there is a completely marvelous metal sculpture here, a parade of pligrms captured in steel or bronze, showing men, women, donkeys, and dogs, all headed for Santiago. We stand in the brisk wind on top of this huge hill, admiring both the God-created view and the man-made art and architecture of the windmills. Except for the big "whoosh" that the turbine arms make as the turn slowly in the wind, and the sound of the wind itself, it's completely quiet. The wind pretty much takes the sound of any conversation right out of your mouth.

Now that we are at the top, the sun comes out and even through the wind, we can feel the warmth. There's a road along the ridge of the summit, and across the road, the way down, and an information board where some people have gathered, reading. We decide to have our lunch, sitting on the lee side of the summit, basking in the sun. Protected from the wind, it's quite warm and pleasant. We happily take off our packs and boots, wiggling our toes in the welcome sunshine after the chilly morning's climb. I bought some kind of tuna salad in a can at the Supermercado in Trinidad de Arre, and I pop it open to see what it's like. It's a complete "salad", but very different from what we in the U.S. think of tuna salad--it has peas and carrots in it, and is in some kind of vinegarette dressing. I dig in with my little spoon, and realize how hungry I am with each bite. In no time, it's all gone and I'm nearly licking the can for the rest of the juice! The ladies share out small tomatoes that we bought, and of course, we finish up with some chocolate. While we eat, we see a number of folks that were in Pamplona with us. They cross over and head down the steep slope on their way. We smile and wave. Maybe we'll meet them again, maybe we won't, but it's enough that we shared a few moments together on this road. Fortified with lunch, we decide to take a short nap before tackling the descent.

There's time enough for that, and we want to be rested. Uterga waits ahead, but we want to arrive safe and sound. Next, the saga of the clicker beds...

Peep, Peep, Peep, and Moving On

2007-11-23T09:22:00.000-08:00

The next morning, we wake in darkness and begin to get ready for the day's journey. We know we have a walk ahead of us, over a "hill" called the Alto de Perdon. Our goal is Uterga on the other side. As you can see from the map, it will be quite a climb both up and down. Ingeborg, Rita, Doro, and I have had a good night at la Casa Paderborn, with the exception of Rita taking a tumble in the middle of the night when she got off the top bunk to go to the bathroom. I am feeling very guilty about that because she gave me the bottom bunk yesterday, and I was going to go into another room so we could all be on the bottom and they INSISTED that I stay there with them and Rita would take the top. She said he rides her horse in Germany every day, so is used to climbing, and she had put a chair by the bed to help her get down, and in the night, her footing slipped. I feel so awful that a 71 year old woman had to give ME the bottom bunk because I fear that I'll pull the whole bed over getting up and down. I feel that I cannot apologize enough, but she is completely good-natured about it.

After we get about 90% ready, we go into the office where we checked in, where our hosts have set it up for breakfast with various tables. Rita bought eggs yesterday and boiled them, and we share out our various items, cheese, eggs, chocolate, yogurt, as well as the bread, marmalade, coffee and tea provided. As we all sit at the 4-top, suddenly the German women take hands, mine included and begin to sing a little song that starts with "Peep, peep, peep!" then a German verse, then "Peep, peep, peep" and "Guten appetite!" There are lots of other German hikers there, and they all break into this Peeppeeppeep song, too. I am lost, but they explain to me that it's kind of a blessing, that you're happy to be with everyone at the table and wish them a good meal. I spend the rest of my trip thinking of things to go along with "Peep, peep, peep!" (i.e. "Peep, peep, peep, I love my feet!").

After we finish eating and packing, I go outside to stretch and get ready to walk. I still marvel about how dark it is in the mornings here in Spain. It's nearly 8am, and still barely dawnlike. No wonder the Spanish stay up so late if it's this dark every morning!! My understanding of today's plan is that we will walk to the bus station and take a city bus to the edge of town to avoid walking through the city at rush hour. Truthfully, it is a lot easier to get lost off the Camino in a city, where you may not see the guiding yellow arrows, than it is in the country, where usually you are on the only path you can see for miles, and the arrows are right there with you at comforting intervals. So, when the other ladies come out, I am ready to find the bus station but Ingeborg says that now she thinks she would like to take a taxi to the edge of town, and would I be interested in sharing? I agree, and she calls for a taxi which appears very shortly. Soon, we are whizzing through Pamplona and much traffic. We look closely, and from time to time, see yellow arrows, but not that often. I really am glad not to be walking through all this. I realize that, for this trip, I much prefer the open road, and the little villages that we have encountered over the big, more touristy places. While it's nice to have pharmacies and grocery stores, the noise, traffic, and general confusion is gladly left behind.

Soon, we are at the edge of town, in a more susburban-like neighborhood. We can see the Road heading away from Pamplona, first through a park-like area, then winding through fields, and away towards our destination of Uterga via Alto de Perdon, a high "hill" that we must climb over. We pay the taxi, get our packs loaded, and we are off. It's gotten lighter, but it's chilly, there's a little wind blowing, and looking out over the fields ahead, the terrain is uniformly brown, tan, sienna, dry and sere. All of these fields have obviously been recently harvested, and all that is left is stubble. The year is coming to a close here, and the grey sky meets the dry, barren landscape with a definite premonition of the coming winter. As is usual during the day, soon the three of us are yards apart, walking in our own worlds. I think that this day is really the first day that this whole journey has dawned on me. Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's the fact that I am now REALLY into Spain, but as I work into the rhythm of my walking, my mind begins to wander to home, to my daughter, my grandsons, to my love waiting at home for me, to everyone who helped me and stood by me while I was planning this crazy trip, and suddenly, as I am walking up a small hill, I realize that tears are dripping off my face, and I have to stop and move to the side of trail and simply sob for about 10 minutes. I am not homesick, per se, I have no aches or pains, I am not sorry I'm here, I am simply overcome with a flood of emotions that I am hard put to even name. Love, sadness, elation, regret, hope, and despair are all there at once, beating on my heart and soul so quickly and so profoundly that I cannot begin to sort them out. All I can do is lean on my hiking pole and cry like I don't think I've ever cried in my whole life. Rita quietly passes me, and in the middle of all of it, I'm glad she doesn't say anything to me; I get the feeling that she understands what's going on. At last, almost as quickly as they came on, the tears stop. I take a deep breath, wipe my face on my scarf, blow my nose, and walk on. Nothing seems to have changed, but I realize I now feel about 20 pounds lighter, and I feel so happy to be walking on this dry, rocky, hilly path, in a country where I barely speak the language, carrying everything I own at the moment along with me. I feel like an onion, having just left about 10 layers of myself behind.

As we walk, the way begins to go uphill a bit more, and the clouds get lower, and the breeze picks up. We take a short break at the edge of a highway, where there is a clump of convenient trees--you know the rest! Then we cross the road and walk through more wide open country. I am reminded of the farmland around Pueblo, and look back towards Pamplona, enjoying the view from a slightly higher altitude.

We continue on, and upwards, and the wind picks up. I stop once to check my toes because I feel like I'm definitely rubbing a blister, but it turns out that I'm not, luckily, and after applying more foot cream, everything feels better. The road climbs steeper, and it's getting colder. After an hour or so, we get to an area that levels off a bit, and there is some kind of walled-off cemetery, with a tree or two and a bench. We decide to rest for a little, nibble a bit, and I pull out my vest to put on. This is the first time I've needed any kind of a jacket while walking, but the wind is really cutting through my 2 shirts. I run for a quick break behind the wall before we move on, and when I get back and put on my pack, something has changed. It feels very different on my shoulders. I comment and kind of say "What the heck?" and Ingeborg looks guilty and confesses that the adjusted my straps so that it would not be so hard for me walking up the hill. She and Rita say they had noticed this for a while, and didn't want to tell me because they were afraid of being rude, so when I left the pack, they just did it for me! I assure them that ANY hiking advice would be more than welcome and to please tell me if there's something I could do to make this pack feel better. And, believe it or not, the way they have adjusted the straps really does make the pack feel lighter and more closely snugged to my body. I am VERY grateful, as we have a big hill coming up. Again, I look back the way we have come, and see Pamplona fading in the distance. Then, fortified with chocolate, a warm vest, and a better fitting load, I am ready to move on.

Pamplona

2007-11-16T16:26:00.000-08:00

Here I am in Pamplona, with my walking companions Ingeborg (in red plaid) & Rita. I'm in the hat, and you can see the sunburn I got that first day walking up the mountain backwards. We left Trinidad de Arre in the morning, walking out from the church after eating our breakfast all together in the kitchen, and saying our good byes. Our walk was through city streets, as Trinidad is really almost a suburb of Pamplona. The ladies wanted to change out the SIM cards on their cell phones so that they could make calls in Spain without having to roam through Germany to do it, so we inquired at a few mobile phone stores until we found one that could do it. Our bartering arrangement of my better (though not by much) Spanish skills for use of their phones to make arrangements, etc. is working well. We have agreed to stay at a private alburgue in Pamplona, La Casa Paderborn, and have an easy, touristy day to recover from the longer day yesterday. It seems odd to be walking along sidewalks and crossing streets at traffic lights. As we look around for the yellow arrows that are our constant map to tell us we are on the Way, we get turned around for a moment, and then a couple of older women hail us down and lead us back to where we need to be. Truly, unless you are completely oblivious, there is no way to be lost on the Camino. Either other pilgrims or kind souls along the way will always be there to help you. I realize that it's a great way to approach life, as well. Walk your path, and just know that when you need it, guidance will be there, maybe in the form of a friend, maybe in the guise of someone you just meet for a day or even a few minutes who somehow gives you the advice, or the nudge, or maybe just the listening ear that you needed right at that moment. It's so amazing how life works out like that.

As we walk along, through park, along narrow roadways, we come shortly to a green park and another old bridge, Puente de la Magdalena. This is the bridge leading into Pamplona! We're here already, and it's still morning. This, I can handle. I walk up to the peak of the bridge and Ingeborg takes my picture, then we all head down. On the other side is a park, and we follow her guidebook to the left, and find the alburgue almost immediately. We knock on the door, knowing it's early, but the hosts come out. I start off in Spanish, but lo, and behold, these folks are German, a couple, so I am happy to let Ingeborg take over. Yes, there are beds, but we need to come back at 1:00 to line up, but till then, we can stash our backpacks in the basement. The husband shows us down to the back, which is right on the river we just crossed, and also has a clothesline for wash, along with the covered picnic table pictured above on a stone terrace. It's a very calm and relaxing place to sit.

Our loads lightened, we decide to head into Pamplona to see what we can see. We decide to continue along the road past the alburgue, and of course, it curves around and leads up a big hill. As we walk up, the road is under construction, and when we get to the top, we realize that we are just outside the Plaza de Toros, and the old city is just to the left. Rita decides she wants to find the church and Ingeborg and I decide to be tourists. First of all, since it's close to lunch time, we decide to look for more tapas and end up in a very good bar. We each try something different, and have a beer, too. I am trying to run down an Internet cafe, and she wants the post office as she has decided to send some of her things back home. Fourteen kilos is beginning to be just too much! We don't have a lot of luck finding either, and then it's time to head back to claim our beds. We will try later in the day after we're settled.

We get back to the alburgue just in time. There are already more folks lined up, and who do we see but Doro!! The 4 of us end up taking one small room with 2 bunk beds, and it's like a college slumber party. Doro has found a department store, and bought a new, lighter sleeping back, and is also planning to ship a package home. It ends up being nearly 10 pounds!! We tell her with 1o fewer pounds, she should fly now! Since we had such a short walk, we are not even very sweaty, so Doro and I agree to share the cost of washing a load of clothes (the alburgue has a washer), and then we hang out the clothes to dry, and then WE all hang out on the patio, writing in journals, writing letters, etc. There are 2 young German girls in the room across from ours, and upstairs are more people, two of whom are a young Australian woman who is walking with her father. It's good to speak in English for a while, and I find it interesting that the German folks do not really distinguish between an American accent, an Australian accent, or an Irish accent--for them, it's all English. But then, I guess I would not be able to distinguish between varied German regional accents either.

Pamplona ends up being just a restful, ordinary day. I enjoy just taking time to watch the river that runs behind the alburgue, walking in Pamplona's old town, being in the narrow, bricked streets that are naturally shaded by all the taller buildings. This is an old place, over 1,000 years, and these buildings are all probably several hundred years old, at least. I think of all the labor that went into building thise multi-storeyed buildings back before bulldozers, cranes, etc. I see the electric wires that cling to the sides of all the buildings like spider webs. No conduit here, the wires are just strung from building to building to building, along balconies, over gutters, etc. When you think about it, it's kind of scary, but, when you think about it, so are most things in life. Maybe spending all your time staying out of danger is not such a great thing after all!

After more wandering, buying a few post cards, and doing some window shopping, we have an early dinner of tapas, and then head back to collect our freshly dried clothes. Doro and Ingeborg did find the correo (post office), but I never found the Internet cafe, but don't worry about it. I'll find one later. We have a quiet evening on the patio, just sitting and chatting among ourselves and with our hosts and the other pilgrims till it gets almost dark and too chilly to stay out. Then we head to our little room, where we giggle ourselves to sleep. I begin to wonder if I'll come off the Camino maybe speaking more German than Spanish!! But, it's a good group of ladies, and I'm happy to be with them. Tomorrow, it's back to "real" walking, and to see where the road takes us.

First Tapas and Getting Tucked In

2007-11-09T14:48:00.001-08:00

Once back in the hostel, the first thing I want is a Coke, so I head to the vending machine and get one--cold and delicious. My companions are sitting in the lounge, so I join them on the couch and we discuss what to do next. I definitely want my shower, then to wash my clothes, and Ingeborg wants to see if there is a grocery store around, and I agree. Rita is pretty tired from the walk, so opts to rest before dinner. We all go back to the bunks, and start our rustling, unpacking, and re-arranging. The shower is wonderful, and then I'm off to the sink to wash clothes. I get done early enough to hang my wet clothes up in the sun, so there is an actual chance that they might be dry by the morning. WhileI am going about these chores, I notice that everyone in the place is being very quiet, there is no rowdiness or loud talk. I think that the spirit of this place has rubbed off on all of us. It's quite interesting to watch. Soon, Ingeborg and I head out of the doorway and into the town. As we leave the hostel/church, we notice that we walk almost immediately onto a plaza-like area without car traffic. It's paved with bricks, and there are kids riding bikes, moms with strollers, grandmothers walking arm in arm. It's shady in between the buildings, but it feels good after the hot walk. We try to find where our host told us we could find our menu for the night, but I think I muddled the directions, and am not too clear. But we will try again later. First, we want an ATM and a grocery store. Pretty soon, the plaza ends and we come to a rather busy street with traffic lights. We cross over, and I see what looks like an office building, so I go in and ask a young man if there is an alimentacion nearby. Yes, he says, getting up, just around the corner, and he goes out with us to show us that if we had only walked another 15 or so feet it would have been staring us in the face! We thank him and cross over to go into the SuperMercado. Now, a SuperMercado in Spain is really not like what we in America think of a "supermarket". They are maybe a third of the size of a "regular" Safeway in the U.S., with a fairly small variety of items. This one did have a deli/butcher shop, and I'm tempted to try some sausage or chorizo, but I decide I'd probably better stick to things in cans. One thing I do need, however, is some small silverware. I find a tiny spoon such as they serve with the coffee, and a little fork, so I'm set there. I also find some small bags of almonds, and some interesting looking tunasalad with what looks like peas and carrots in it, and also some more chocolate. We have to have the necessities, you know! Plus a couple of small tomatoes and some lemon yogurt. Lemon yogurt becomes my staple on this walk, it's cool, it's sweet enough to satisfy that craving, it's fresh tasting and it's good for my stomach, what more could you want?

With our purchases in hands, we then locate an ATM for some cash, and are ready to head back. Both Ingeborg and I are curious about tapas, so we start looking for a cafe. As we stroll along the plaza, I see a place called "Cafe Paradiso". Now, how can we pass this up. I order a coffee while she sits with the packages. I also notice all kinds of yummy-looking items under the glass counter, and I ask about a small bocadillo (sandwich) with a chile pepper. I ask if the pepper is very hot, and they assure me no. I actually wanted it to be hot, but I opt for that one anyway, and ask if it's ok to take that and the coffee outside. Yes, it is, so I head out to Ingeborg, and take my turn with the packages. The sandwich is really good, the salty Serrano ham and chile mixing perfectly. She comes back with another kind of tapas--a thick slice of zucinni, battered and fried, with cheese and another kind of ham on it. It looks so good, I have to go have one. Really, eating tapas is about the cheapest way to enjoy a variety of food in Spain. The coffee and the 2 tapas cost me about 5 euros--maybe $7.00! While we are eating and enjoying our coffee, Rita comes up, feeling better after her nap. She sits with us as we finish, and then we go off in search of actual dinner. I had been looking around while we were sitting, and think I know where we are supposed to go. There is a large, open plaza off to the right of us, and at the other side is a building with some trees in front. The monk had mentioned going through trees, so I walk in and ask the lady at the bar about the menu. She seems frazzled and distracted, but says we can come back at 7pm to eat. That's not long, so we go out and find chairs on the plaza to wait. We notice that the German/Spanish couple from the hostel and a couple of other folks from there are waiting as well. It's interesting to watch the Germans try to adapt to Spanish customs. Ingeborg seems frustrated by the lateness at which the Spanish eat dinner, and the fact that not much here seems to be on time, or have any kind of set schedule for that matter. Ordinarily, if I were here on business for example, this would bother me, too, but I have decided from the outset to simply go with the flow, and if the lady says come back at 7pm, then that's what I'll do.

We go back to the restaurant and the lady shows us to a table that has been set for 3. As people from the hostel wander in, I realize that it's possible that our host contacted the restaurant to let them know how many people were there, and in what groupings, as there is our table for 3, a table for the German/Spanish couple, and then a table for 6 for a bigger group that comes in. There only seems to be the one woman working the bar and the tables, and she is getting more frazzled by the moment. We have a bit of a scene suddenly, when an older man (Spanish) orders something and apparently speaks rudely to the woman and she refuses to serve him and tells him to leave. He begins to rant and rave at her, and she back at him. Then he apparently leaves, but shortly police show up, and have a word with the woman who returns in tears and the older man comes back in and sits down. When she comes to our table she is crying and apologizing at the same time. We tell her not to worry, all is well with us, we are not in a hurry, etc., and she manages to get all the orders at least put into the kitchen. We are still trying to figure out exactly what happened, when the young Spanish lady comes over and tells us that this place is not only for pilgrims but also the elderly and disabled, kind of like a senior center. Apparently the older man didn't like the waitresses attitude and "cussed her out" and she told HIM that if he was going to be so rude he would have to leave. Hence all the drama. Despite all this, we manage to get our food in reasonable time, to enjoy our wine, and at the end, to thank the woman and give her hugs before we leave, which brings on more tears. Well, if I'd had to take care of that many customers, plus a grumpy old man, I would have cried, too.

As we leave the restaurant, it is getting darker, and we stroll back to the church and our beds. Earlier, when we came in, our host had told us that the door was locked after 7pm, and we would have to ring in order to get in. And that after 1opm, no one was let in, so we definitely want to get back before then! We wander back, looking at the river, watching the kids play, commenting on the fact that Spanish children seem to stay out much later than either German or American kids (at least were we live). As we arrive at the door where we came in earlier that afternoon, I am surprised to see the young German/Spanish couple sitting outside the door, holding hands and kissing lightly. They smile as we come up, and explain that they were waiting for the rest of us so that our host would, hopefully, only have to open the door once. We all wait there until the whole group has gathered in front of the church, and then we ring the bell. There is a fairly long pause, then through the small grate, we see our monk coming down the stairway to let us in. When he opens the door and sees all of us there, he blinks in surprise, and then his smile lights up his face. It is as if his flock has come home all at the same time, and that is how it feels. He thanks us, and asks if we had a good meal, and we assure him we did, not including the evening's drama. We make our way back to the hostel, and then I come back for a bit of quiet meditation in the chapel. I love sitting in the chapels and churches along the Way. Even though I am not Christian, the essense of the faith of all the people who have traveled this road seeps out of the walls in every church I go into. It's as if the stone itself is some kind of filter that distills all the dogma and the disagreements of doctrine and what have you that the Christian religion is prone to, and what oozes out into the atmosphere is a pure faith and hope that lightens my soul as I sit and bask in it. I have no problem praying in these places.

Afterwards, as it comes to full dark, Ingeborg and I sit outside the doorway to the hostel on the stone balcony, and talk of philosophy and faith, of meditation and discipline, of family and connection through the Camino. It has been a very good evening. Eventually, it gets chilly and we move in to get ready for bed. As we are settling down, our host comes in, smiling his kind smile, asking after all of us, just checking to see that everyone is all right. I think he has taken a shine to all of us, and wants to tuck us in for the night, at least that's how it feels to me. After a few minutes of chatting, he leaves us, and we all get into bed and someone turns off the light. My bed is right next to a window, and I figure out how to open it an inch or two, so that the cool night air comes in over my face. Thinking of everything that happened in this short day, thinking about what's coming tomorrow, I drift off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

A Place of Peace

2007-11-06T06:05:00.000-08:00

We knock on the heavy door, which, like most churches we encounter, is quite large, with another, smaller, average "door-sized" door put into it. The smaller door opens and a young woman, who looks very much like Sarah Jessica Parker, sticks her head out. "Hay camas por esta noche?" I enquire. Are there beds for tonight? I am thinking this woman is a "hospitalero" or one of the volunteers who help in the refugios. Turns out, she's a fellow Pilgrim, a Spanish woman who is walking with her boyfriend, who is German. She speaks both languages fluently, it seems to me. We follow her just to the left of the door into a small, narrow reception room. At the end of the room is an old man at a desk. He has the most wonderfully kind face, and he is waiting to check us into our place for the night. We hand over our Pilgrims' passports for stamping and sink gratefully into chairs. This gentleman speaks to each of us individually, first to me, asking my name and where I come from. When I tell him Colorado, he looks at me and with a gentle, yet mischeivious smile, says that is appropriate, because my face is "colorado"...obviously still beet-red from walking! With Ingeborg, he discusses the unusual nature of her name, and for Rita, who speaks no Spanish, he declares that her name, Rita Frank, is the easiest, short and to the point. As he chats with us, he gives each of us a bed number. The young couple is also waiting in the room, so after we have all had our credentials stamped, and paid our money, he gets up and beckons us to follow him. Now comes the adventure of finding our rooms. First, we go back into the main hallway where we came in, and there is a stairway going up from there, and I figure, stairs, so quarters must be up there. But no. He leads us to the right, through a room empty except for a very large painting on the far wall. I realize we are going to get the tour before we get a bed, and heartily wish that he would just get on with it. But as he speaks in his gentle and quiet voice, I hear the love and pride he has for this place, and I try to see it with eyes that are not quite so tired. He is explaining about the portrait and the history behind it in detail; unfortunately, my Spanish is not good enough to follow everything. Then he leads us through the door into the chapel itself. It's a small room, dark wood floors and pews, and there are motion sensor lights that come on as we enter. On the altar is the "trinidad" (Trinity) of Arre...the Father, Son, and a flaming star behind them, which I take to be an image of the Holy Spirit. Again, our guide is talking and explaining about the chapel, and we are all trying to listen. Shortly, we move through that room, into another hallway. At the end, there is a door, and I see a stairway going up, and think surely, these steps will take us to our quarters. But no. We do go to the door, where the steps come exactly to the threshold. We are led 2 steps up to a small landing, then down 2 steps to the right, and through another dark hallway and into what looks like a rather large garage or storage area for farm implements. I'm beginning to wonder if there actually IS a place to stay here.

Then, then, our lovely guide leads us to the right, through a stone framed door, and into one of the most lovely courtyards I have ever seen. There are fig trees and rose bushes, chairs scattered about for sitting, several clotheslines for hanging out wash, and all around, a high stone wall that completely shuts out the "real world". Suddenly, I can imagine myself in medieval times, sheltered from mauraders on the road, cared for by the holy brothers and sisters whose mission it was to aid and assist pilgrims on their way. There is such a sense of peace here, we all realize that we are now speaking in whispers. It's as if we do not want to disturb the peace of this place even by the volume of regular speech. At the far end of the courtyard, a stone stairway goes up alongside the building, with a stone archway at the top. Finally, we have reached our destination. We push through the rubber ropes that are so common in the doorways here, and find ourselves, once again, in a different world. This is a modern dorm. To the right are shelves for our boots, then the bathrooms, men's on the left and women's on the right. There are FOUR sinks in ours! And TWO toilets!! What utter luxury. Only one working shower, but we are early and right now, we're a small group. The father (I assume he is a priest) continues the tour. At the junction of the entrance hallway, there is another long hall running perpendicular. To the right is the sleeping area. There are maybe 12 or 14 sets of bunk beds in the room, all numbered. We quickly look at ours, 14, 16, and 18 respectively, and realize that this kind man has given we three "matrons" bottom bunks. I thank him profusely, and he responds with a twinkle in his eyes. He is a small man, with thinning grey hair, and rimless glasses. He walks with a slight limp, and is dressed simply in black trousers and a grey shirt, but his face is so kind it is radient. I feel completely at peace here. We stash our packs and follow him back down the hallway in the other direction. On the right is a kitchen with a long table for eating, and then further down is a common room with easy chairs, couches, vending machines, and off that a room with a big sink for washing clothes. It's absolutely everything we need! We do ask him if there's a place in town where they serve a Pilgrim's menu, and he gives us directions. I also ask him if I can get change for the vending machine, and he says yes, but it's back in the office where we came in. So, he finishes up his tour, wishes us well, and I go with him to get change. As we walk back the way we came, I ask him if he is, indeed, the priest of this place. He says, no, he is a Marianist brother, a monk. That seems to fit him better, I think. He has such a gentleness about him, I can understand why he might have been drawn to an order dedicated to Mary. We chat for a bit longer, he gives me 5 Euros in change, and then I head back to the dorm, completely happy to be in such an incredibly gentle and peaceful place for the night.

A Good Day to Walk

2007-10-31T13:53:00.000-07:00

In the morning, we agreed to meet outside our respective refugios at 8 a.m. I am there (as always) a little early, and Ingeborg and Rita are there promptly at 8, and we set off. The way goes up over the little bridge I was on last night, and then off (and up) to the right. We pass through an area of houses, very quiet, no people about even at this hour. I wonder if everyone has already gone to work (doubtful, since this IS Spain after all), or sleeping in. The sun is coming up, but it's still cool. After walking briefly by these houses, the way leads off through some woods, and then behind a vast industrial area, a mine, or a mill, or something similar. The property is posted and we are warned to stay only on the marked path, but we are also wished a good journey. As we walk, I am struck by the contrast of the industrial ugly view to my right, and the forested, autumnal, lovely rural view to my left. The two halves collide right on the path, and when I walk, that is how I feel. I am realizing that the Way really does not follow the roads through the country for the most part, but is actually more like the crow flies--going directly across fields and farmland and woods. This morning, as the sun comes up, I like the way my shadow looks on the road--almost like the silhouette of the Wicked Witch of the West, thanks to my hat (more on the hat later). I am walking well today, and as we come to a rather steep hill on an actual road, I pull far ahead of the other two ladies. I do my best walking in the morning. Soon, we pass the mine site, and are back into open country/woods. I love walking in the trees, not only for the shade, but for the abundance of foliage and always trying to identify the plants and flowers. I discover that they also have silver lace vine in Spain! Eventually, I stop on the path to enjoy a bit of chocolate, and my companions catch up to me. We ascertain that Larrasoana is not far, and we look forward to coffee, as none of us had any before we left. Shortly we arrive in the village, which seems to be fairly well populated. There is another little stone bridge, and we cross over to look for a cafe, but apparently we are too early, for nothing is open, at least not right at the edges of town, and we don't want to venture too far in. So, we sit on the bridge to air out (I am again steaming in the sun), and I put some more foot cream on my problematic toe. I have a bit of a glitch when the snap buckle of my backpack slides off the strap. This could be bad! I had thought there was some kind of stop, or that the buckle was sewn on, but apparently not. I try to figure out how to get it back on so that it won't slide off again, for I really need the stability of the tightly cinched waist strap. I consider my sewing kit (not enough thread) and a safety pin (ouch!), and finally, I just TIE the darn thing back on using the end of the strap. This means I can only adjust the tightness from one side, but at least I have the buckle back in working order. And we're off again. This is a very good day for walking. There are lots of woods where the path runs by the river, and later, we clamber down and have a nice break sitting on some big rocks just listening to the water chatter by. After a couple of hours, we are walking through woods again, and we happen upon two older men who are sitting by the road, having either a picnic or a work break. They have bread and chorizo, and a bottle of wine. We say hello and stop for a bit. They ascertain that we are peregrinas (pilgrims). We are, indeed, and they offer us bread, sausage, and wine directly from the bottle. When they find out I am from the U.S., they immediately want to know about President Bush. I give my standard response of rolling my eyes, and stating that Senor Bush is no friend of mine. That seems to be a good answer where ever the subject comes up. One of the men tells us that he made the pilgrimage to Santiago years ago, on his donkey. We all laugh at that image, and thanking the men for their generosity, we move no. We pass through a number of small villages, and the day begins to heat up. Ingeborg is consulting both Miam-Miam, Do-Do, and another guidebook so we can avoid our previous fiasco. It looks like there is a refugio at a place called Trinidad de Arre, about 18 km from Zubiri, so we make that our goal. At one point, the path follows the highway and I see my first (and only!) "rest stop" with an actual functional bathroom! It's not pretty, but it works. It's getting hot, and I decide to change my socks. The others go on, and I tell them I'll catch up. I rest a bit, drink some water, and head on. The path, of course, goes UP on a track high above the road. At one place, the rather straight dirt path has crumbled, and there is orange tape, and temporary fencing. The alternate path is, you guessed it, even HIGHER up the hill alongside the highway. I see my friends on the other side, headed into a stand of pine trees. I wave my walking stick to let them know I see, and then slog on into the increasing midday heat. That is the disadvantage of walking with people; where I might stop at noon regardless of where I was, and just look for a place, others like to set a goal and shoot for that. But, it's fine. At least I'm not walking backwards anymore. The afternoon carries on, and it is really hot. I've been walking in the open now, and we really haven't stopped much since the earlier part of the morning. I'm munching on my store of nuts and dried fruit. At last, I round a bend under some trees and see Ingeborg and Rita conferring. They are happy to see me, and they had just decided to have Rita come looking for me while Ingeborg went ahead to secure our beds for the night. We are not far from Trinidad, but still have a ways to go, through a tunnel under the highway, and then up and down another big hill or two. As we get closer to Trinidad de Arre, my pack is getting heavier, and I swear it's hotter with every step. I am past looking at the scenery, which really isn't great, as we are passing through another rather industrialized area, but still there are some trees overhead. Shortly, I realize we are walking on pavement, and that folks are coming the other way, just strolling in the afternoon. We must be close, and sure enough, the road turns down a rather long, steep hill, and over a medieval bridge. I had thought that Ingeborg said we had another kilometer to walk after that bridge, but here is the refugio, just on the other side! It's been a long, hot day, but we have completed the 18 kilometers, and here is our refuge. It's been a good day, harder as we went on, but I kept up fairly well, and here we all are together! Now, to secure our place for the night...

A Night in Zubiri

2007-10-27T05:44:00.000-07:00

Paco the taxi driver roars off in a cloud of smoke after dropping us off at our respective places. Ingeborg, Rita, and I agree to meet for dinner at 8:00 at a cafe/restaurant around the corner that has a sign outside for a menu. It's currently about 6pm, so I go into my alburge, pay for the night, get my credential stamped, and get a tour from the host. The place has a coded lock on the door, and she gives me a TEEEENY piece of paper with the code on it. Knowing that I will lose that piece of paper immediately, I write the code down on the front of my credential, which I will NOT lose. Thus, I am safe from being locked out. Directly as you walk into the main room, to the left in a tiny little cubby, is a computer with Internet access. I ask what the charge is, and she says none. Very nice! I'll email later. The rest of the room is a combination of kitchen, eating area, and laundry room. Yes, there's a washer/dryer, but for me, it's too late in the day to wash much, because nothing will get dry. I'll just do my usual washing out in the shower and hang things up to dry around the room. I follow my host to the sleeping room. It is long and VERY narrow, with 4 sets of bunk beds. Well, 8 people is not so bad. Of course, I am the last person, and so I have the far right top bunk. But, it's by the window at the end of the room, which opens out onto a clothesline where everyone else has hung their laundry. One thing about being a pilgrim is that you immediately begin to see everything in a room as a potential place to hang wet clothes to dry! I lean out and see it's one of those lines on pulleys, so you can pull the line to where there is an empty space to hang your clothes. There are actually 3 or 4 lines, so I will have a space to put my things after my shower. But first, I have to get on the bed. Again, the tiny ladders are so narrow that I can hardly get my feet in them, and I always have to wear my sandals because the skinny little rungs are killer on the bottoms of my feet. However, after testing the sturdiness of the bed, I manage to get up without too much fuss. I begin the usual pack-rummaging to get my shower things, and as I'm trying to get arranged, 2 young Spanish men come in, talking. They are in the bunk across from me, and look to be in their early 20's. They say hello and ask where I'm from. When I say the US, they look surprised and a bit impressed. In my time on the Camino, Americans are definitely in the minority. I speak a little Spanish to them, but then they ask if they can switch to English so they can practice. Their English is quite good. They are very polite, articulate and funny. I try to think of the 20-somethings I know back in the states (admittedly not very many), but I don't think they could keep up with these guys. Eventually, they are off for their evening, and I say that I'm going to have the great adventure of getting off the top bunk to get a shower. The young man in the bottom bunk across offers it to me. I ask him if he's sure--he says absolutely, no problem. They had not even begun to do any unpacking, other than to lay out his sleeping bag on the bed to claim the space. He tells me just to move his stuff over to the top, and the bottom is mine. I thank him profusely, and he and his friend head out.

In this place, the bathroom area is between where I came in and the sleeping area. That is, you come off the street, there's the kitchen/laundry/eating area, then to the left is another eating area with a table and benches, and just beyond that is a door. Through that door is the bathroom area. The shower and toilet (1 toliet for 8 people) are in separate little rooms, and the sink/mirror is in the opposite corner. Just to the left of the sink area is the door that goes into the bunk-room. However, all is done in modern, obviously new and clean tiling, the lights are bright, and there is even a little fold up bench in the shower room to put your things on!! As far as the Camino goes, that is luxury. The water is hot, and shortly, I am clean, and my undies and my walking shirt is about as washed and wrung out as I can get it. Dressed in my "better" clothes, I hang up my things on the line outside the room, then decide to walk around a little bit and see what Zubiri is like.

As with most of the places I go through on the Camino, Zubiri is small. On our way into town with Paco, we passed the public alburgue, which looked like a converted high school. Another one of those places with 100 or so people in one big room. I'm very happy with my tiny little place, and have no wish to change. There's probably still only 1 bathroom for those 100 people! Leaving my albugue (making sure I have the code), I walk up past the restaurant where we will meet later, and up the road a bit. Very soon, the town peters out into fields, and so I make a left to go around the block. There are construction cranes everywhere. I guess Spain is becoming a very popular place to move to. I come to a narrow street off to the left and head down it. There, I see an alimentacion that's open. The stores here are tiny--barely room for maybe 5 people milling about. I go in to look, and also to pick up some "nibblies". Chocolate, for sure, and find some almonds which are always good. There's a lot of conversation going on, kids in with their parents, deliveries coming in (even though it's around 7pm by then), lots of bustle. I get up to pay for my things, and when the guy gives me my price, I hand him a bill, then look for the exact change. Since I'm not intimately familiar with Euro coins, I have to look at them to make sure I've got the right ones, and at my age, this means pulling down my glasses and doing that gazing over the rims kind of thing. The proprietor of the store laughs and says he always has to do the same thing, now that he's reached a certain age. We have a chuckle about that. Getting older and sore feet. Two subjects about which you can have a conversation in any language, in any country, and be immediately understood! Thus fortified with nourishment for times between cafes, I move on. As I come to the end of the street, I see that I am almost back to my alburgue, just a little bit further up. To my right is an old, curved bridge over the Rio Arga. I walk to the top of the curve and watch the river for a bit. Down and over to my right I see some beautiful vegetable and flower gardens. I am still always moved by how beautiful the kitchen gardens are here, and at the contrast between what I see growing in these gardens and the fairly low quality of produce in the little stores. Perhaps most everyone "grows their own" and so they don't have to buy much produce. The sky is overcast, and it's getting cooler. I check my watch, and head back to the alburgue, passing a bunch of kids who are hollering and setting off firecrackers in the street. I hope they'll be done with this by bedtime! I take my purchases back to my bunk and store them away, then go back towards the restaurant. I don't remember if we said we would meet in the street between our places, or actually in the cafe, so I peer in through the door. Sure enough, there is Ingeborg. She looks up and waves wildly, then gets up and practically runs to the door as I come in. "Guess who is here?" she asks...the ladies from Orisson! And sure enough, there at the table are Trish, Gail, and Barbara from Dublin!! Oh my goodness, it is wonderful to see them!! It's like a big family reunion, squeals and hugs all 'round. Someone pours me a glass of red wine, and I'm told we have a sitting for dinner at 8:30. Along with us at the table are Guislan from Belgium and Corrina from Mexico. I had seen Corrina earlier when I was sending some e-mail at the alburgue. They are a very intersting couple. Married, they spend 6 months in Belgium and 6 months in Mexico. Nice work if you can get it! When Guislan smiles, he looks so much like my late uncle Jim that it's hard for me not to stare. Physically, he's not a thing like him, but the smile transforms his face. In no time, we are all chatting and laughing and sharing our Camino stories. Then, suddenly, I feel a big hug from behind. When I look around, there is the young German girl I saw when I was taking a break from walking backwards to Orisson!! I thought I would never see her again, and I hug her back, so happy to see her! I find out her name is Doro (short for Dorota), and she is from Berlin. I introduce her to Ingeborg and Rita, and they are off in German. Doro has eaten, and she is going back to the public alburge, which she describes as not terribly wonderful. We hug again, and say that we know we will see each other eventually. What a wonderful evening this has been.

Soon, we are seated at our table, and the wine and conversation flows. Apparently, Ingeborg and Rita have actually landed up in an apartment with Trish, Gail, and Barbara, complete with their own bathroom and amenities! Trish, who seems to be the trip planner, says that they hope to do 33 KM tomorrow! Yikes, that's 20 miles! And I'm thinking 20 KM (12 miles) is doing well! I remind myself that they are sending their luggage ahead, and only carrying daypacks and water, but still! I wish them well, and realize it is nearly 10pm! Since there's a combination lock on the alburgue, I don't think I'll be locked out, but I want to at least try to sleep. We are all reluctant to say goodbye, knowing that we may not meet again, but soon, we say our farewells and "Buen Caminos!" and I am off to my narrow little bed. I try to be quiet as I go in, as the room is already dark. I am kind of surpised that I would be the last one in, as I know Spanish folk are late nighters, but there's a first time for everything, right? I get situated in my covers, find my travel pillow and eye shades. I am almost dozing off when the door opens and in come the 2 boys from Barcelona. So, I'm NOT the last one after all! Smiling to myself as they get settled in bed, I actually drift off and sleep for a while. Tomorrow--Trinidad de Arre,

The Adventures of Miam-Miam, Do-Do

2007-10-23T17:58:00.000-07:00

So, after probably 45 minutes or an hour, Rita, Ingeborg, and I get up, repack everything and get back on the trail to Linzoain. We emerged out of the woods, the trail took us up close to the highway, and then away again. We arrived at Linzoain at around 4 p.m., by this time, hot, sweaty in the afternoon sun, and ready to set the packs down for the night. The first thing we notice as we walk into the town is what looks like a 2-sided open air handball court. There is a stencil of 2 crossed raquets on the wall, but none of us can figure out exactly what kind of sport it is. Across the street is a small playground, so small, in fact, that at first I think it's just somebody's yard. We continue on into the town which seems shut up like a ghost town; however, there is the always-present construction crane, and many of the builings seem brand new, though uninhabited. Also, there are "Se Vende" (For Sale) signs everywhere. Shortly, we begin to go up a hill which looks like it's going to take us out of town, so we stop to get our bearings. We have already passed one place that had the bed sign on it, but we knocked a number of times, and though we heard rustling, no one ever came to the door. Not a good sign. From the vantage point of the hill, it seems to me that we are sort of at the back of the town, so I suggest walking back down, and trying to find a more populated area. We trudge back in our steps, and wander to the right, up some stairs, past a church. Ingeborg tries the door, but it's locked. Then, as we are walking up a flight of stairs, we see, to the right, another place with the bed sign, and also with clothes hanging off lines on the balcony. This must be the place!

Ingeborg goes to the door, and I go across to a fountain to refill my water bottles. She knocks and knocks, and again, no response. We are just about to leave again, when a rather thin and suspicious woman comes to the door. We ask about camas (beds) for the night. No, no beds. No beds anywhere in the town, no one does that anymore here. Great. It's about 4:30, it's another 8 Km to Zubiri, over pretty rugged terrain if we are reading right, and we are very tired, even with the siesta. We all fill our bottles and decide to go back to the playground area to regroup. Ingeborg has a cell phone, and she will try some of the phone numbers in Miam-Miam, Do-Do to try to phone a taxi to take us to Zubiri. She asks me if I will speak, since my Spanish is better than hers. That sounds good to me, so we head back to a bench and take off our packs. We find a number to the taxi service. Ingeborg dials. The number doesn't work. She tries again, no luck. It's either the wrong number or it's been disconnected. There is a second number, so she tries this one, and speaks to whoever answers the phone to make sure she has reached the right place, but the woman says that all the taxis are on vacation, no taxis. Ingeborg asks if there is another number. Yes, there is, and then she hands the phone to me, to make sure that I get the number down right. I write it, and repeat it back to the lady. Yes, that's right, the number for the taxis that are not on vacation. Fine. I call the number, and just as it connects, the phone goes dead. Well, so much for having a phone on the Camino!! Now, we REALLY need a new game plan!

During this time, we have noticed that some men have been over at the ball court, opening a small concession stand, and taking out cases of beverages and loading them onto a flatbed truck. I figure it's time to make contact with the locals, so I go over and tell them that we are 3 pilgrims and we need a telephone. I'm HOPING that one of them will volunteer to make a call for me, but instead, one of the men pulls his phone out and just hands it to me. Well, that's nice, but I haven't had much luck on the phone so far this afternoon, so I'm trying to ask him if he can call a taxi for me when a woman, dressed in double knit clothes that are just wee bit too tight, and fuzzy slippers, with a tookpick firmly in one corner of her mouth, comes out from the house next to the playground and asks what's going on. Obviously, she's speaking in Spanish, but some expressions are just universal, you know? I give her the "three pilgrim ladies" speech, we need a phone, a taxi to Zubiri, etc. She takes the guy's phone out of my hand, gives it back to him and beckons me to come with her. I glance over at Ingeborg and Rita, who are still at the playground, shrug, and go with her. She goes to her house, tells me to wait, then goes inside. After a few minutes, she comes back with her own cell phone. I can see that she is scrolling through numbers, and finally finds the one she wants. After a moment, someone answers. The conversation goes like this (again in Spanish, but it's really not hard to understand). "Hey, Paco, I've got 3 more lost pilgrims here." "Yeah, pretty old and tired, need the taxi to Zubiri." "Yeah, this not putting up pilgrims any more has really been good for you, eh, Paco?" "Yeah, I'll tell them". She hangs up and says, "1o minutes, maybe less." The taxi, here? I ask, yes, yes, she says, toothpick never moving, by the playground. I thank her profusely, and Rita, who has walked up behind me, offers her money, but she refuses, "De nada, de nada!" she says. Instead, Rita kisses her on the cheek, and we go back to tell Ingeborg. So, we wait for Paco and the taxi. Again, I wander over to where the men are still loading the truck and ask what kind of game this is. "Fronton" they tell me, which I find out later is actually the name of the court that the game, Basque pelota, is played in.

Rita buys a soda from one of the men, and we are just languishing there, watching the sun go down, glad that at least we have a taxi coming (we hope). And, sure enough, in about 15 minutes, a van taxi pulls up, and Paco, around 50, grizzled, toothless, but oddly attractive, gets out. At first, he seems to ignore us and is talking to some of the men at the fronton court, but when I walk over and speak to him, he is more attentive. He takes my pack and puts it in the back, then Rita's, but when he gets to Ingeborg's he lifts it, grunts, and just looks at her. Did I say that Ingeborg is carrying FOURTEEN KILOGRAMS??? That's nearly 30 lb! At 61 years old, my God. "Ella esta una mujer muy fuerte!" I state to Paco...She is a very strong woman. He seems to agree with me, and gets the pack settled in with the others. Ingebord and Rita climb in the back, and tell me to get in the front so I can talk to Paco. I'm not too sure of my small talk ability, but what the heck, I'll give it a go. Soon, we are all belted in, and on the road. Going by road is actually quite a bit longer than just walking nearly as the crow flies. The roads are winding and twisty, and as we sway back and forth in the taxi, Paco asks us where we have come from. Roncesvalles, we tell him. When did you leave, he asks. Eight o'clock this morning. He looks at us, looks at his watch, his expression easy to read--all day to make 13 kilometers? 8 hours? Oh, we had lunch, we tell him, we took a siesta. Yes, he says, but 8 hours to go only 13 KM? You'll be in Santiago by Christmas, he pronounces, causing me to crack up. I translate for the ladies, and we collapse in laughter. It may be that he's right, but we are going forward anyway we tell him. Paco just shakes his head and grins a sardonic little grin. In no time at all we are entering into Zubiri, and Paco must have called ahead to make our arrangements, because he takes us past the public albuerge to another place, stops, and hollers out at a woman who's standing outside. He goes around to unload our bags, and delivers us to our hostess. "Hay tres camas?" I ask, "Are there three beds?" She says, no, only one. But we needed three! Just then a woman from across the street comes up and says that she has two beds, so Rita and Ingeborg will go there, and I will take the one bed here. Fine, just fine! We thank Paco profusely and pay him his fare of 20 euros. As far as I'm concerned, it would be cheap even if it hadn't been split 3 ways. I wasn't relishing another 8 K of uphill walking--not at 4:30 in the afternoon!

So, now on to my bunk bed, my shower, and my night in Zubiri!!

Setting Out

2007-10-21T16:15:00.000-07:00

Morning dawns cool and misty, the light taking its time to come in. This is something I have a hard time getting used to--how dark it is in the mornings here, even by 7 or 7:30 a.m. In Colorado, the sun is well up by then, even with daylight savings time making it actually an hour earlier by the sun. I guess that's the advantage of living at a highter altitude and at a lattitude just a bit closer to the equator. I take my last morning shower, dress, and pack my backpack. I make one final circuit of the room, making sure nothing is left behind other that what I have given up for the trip. These items, I leave on the chair just inside the door. I hope the housekeeper will find a use for at least some of the things and be happy with the windfall. I leave that sweet little room, and head back to the restaurant where I need to turn in my key. I've munched on a few almonds and eaten a couple of squares of dark chocolate, so now I need my cafe con leche, and then I can set off.

The bar is crowed already. Pilgrems leaving, pilgrims arriving, locals having breakfast and watching TV (side note--the Spanish seem to be addicted to TV. No matter how small the village or hamlet, no matter what time of day you go into a bar/cafe, there will be a TV blaring, usually with some kind of sports event.) I catch the eye of my host from yesterday, give him the key, and order coffee and a bocadillo (sandwich) of jamon (ham) y queso (cheese). Again, this is not what an American would think of a ham and cheese sandwich. In Spain, jamon is most likely Serrano ham, which is cured, and is more like proscuitto then the sweeter ham we are used to. I like it, because it reminds me of the country ham from the South, but in Spain, they serve it like proscuitto, meaning shaved transparently thin. So, a bocadillo consists of an entire baguette of bread with maybe 3 or 4 paper thin slices of jamon and a couple of equally thin slices of cheese, either Provolone or Manchego, which is a Spanish cheese. Additionally, there are no condiments. Dry bread, dry, cured ham, and dry cheese. I aske for it "para llevar", literally "to carry away". It's wrapped in foil, and now I've got this whole loaf of bread to figure out where to put it on my pack. I wedge it in, get the pack situated on myself, with water holder handy, and finally, I head west out of Roncesvalles and onto the Camino proper. As I walk on the road out of town, I see a road sign that reads "Santiago de Compostella - 790 KM". I get a little shiver in my stomach--will I make it that far? And what awaits me in between?

But for now, very shortly, the trail leads off the road and onto a wooded path a ways off the road. In front of me is an older French couple, talking softly to each other. They are walking at about my pace, and I feel no need to try to pass them, so just trail along after, happy to be in lovely surroundings for now, and not walking up a hill yet. However, I know more are to come. The wooded trail goes on for perhaps half an hour, then we come out, and into the first little town, Burgette. I know that the Irish ladies were going to try to make it there from Orisson yesterday, and I am sure they have already moved on. The sun is up now, burning off the early mist, and it's going to be a beautiful day. I walk through Burgette, trying to figure out if I want to stop for a "real" breakfast--there are signs for cafes, or if I just want to keep walking. I decide on the latter, and follow the arrows to the right, and out of the town towards the surrounding fields. By then, I have passed the French couple, and am walking well. The path is wide and well marked. It leads past fields of cut hay and other crops, and at one point, coming up a slight rise, I see a large draft horse standing right by the fence, his head over, looking my way. As I pass him, he turns and looks back behind me and I get the distinct feeling that he enjoys standing here, watching the pilgrims go by. I'm sure he gets an apple or two out of it now and then! After clearing that rise, the trail dips down again, and heads into woods, where it is cool and moist. By this time, other pilgrims are catching up to me, as I am pretty much meandering, just taking my time. I see Mirren from dinner last night and greet her as she passes. I stop for a little more chocolate and think by the time I hit the next town, I will look for a place to have coffee and some of my sandwich. The walk through the woods comes out on a paved road, and as I round the curve, I can see the next village, Espinal, down the hill. The woods are beautiful, already a few leaves are falling, and again, I am reminded so strongly of North Georgia and North Carolina in the fall. This place is so different and so familiar at the same time, it's hard to process at times.

As I walk into the town limits of Espinal, there is a park bench off to the right, and who should I see but my German ladies, Ingeborg and Rita! Rita waves me down, and gives me a big hug. I am so happy to see them! It's a big reunion, even though I just spoke to Rita the night before at the Mass. Still, I am learning that on the Camino, every familiar face is a gift. We agree to have a coffee together, and shortly find a cafe that's open and settle down at the outdoor tables with our drinks. I take this opportunity to change my socks and add some more foot creme. I am using a concoction that I made before I left home, which so far, has kept me from getting any blisters. The ladies pull out a little food and snack as well. We talk about the Road, the night before, etc. Then Ingeborg asks if I would like to walk with them today, and I think it's a good idea, so agree. I ask where they are planning on stopping, and she tells me a town called Lintzoain, which is about 13 KM away. Apparently, "Miam-Miam, Do-Do"tells her that there are several places to stay there. And what, I ask, is "Miam-Miam, Do-Do" (pronounced "mee-yam, mee-yam" "dough-dough")? She is surprised that I have never heard of it. Apparently, it is THE guidebook for every place to eat and sleep on the Camino. Translated literally, it means "Eat-eat, Sleep-sleep". She shows me the book, and it's great! Each page has the map of a stage of the camino, with coded markers, and then the following pages have the information regarding cafes, restaurants, hotels, hostels, albergues, etc., with phone information. Wow, I didn't even know there WAS such a thing! She shows me the places listed for Lintzoain, and we're pretty sure we'll be able to get a place. Sounds like a plan, and we finish up, find the WC and head out. It's a glorious day for walking. The terrain is not too bad, rocky still, of course, but fairly level. We pass through farmland, then back into trees again. Around noonish, we reach Viscarret, where we stop for a "menu", which is a set-price meal consisting of a choice of starters, a chocie of main courses, a dessert and a drink. Rita has trouble finding consistently acceptable food, as she cannot eat gluten, and there's some difficulty in translation. I try to help out, and eventually we find a soloution--ensalada mixta, and lomo (pork loin), and, of course, fried potatoes. We ask if we can eat outside, as there are tables, but no, that's not allowed. We sit at a table for six, and end up sharing with Mirren, who has found a bed, and will stay here tonight, and with 2 brothers from Quebec (that's biological brothers, not monks) who are traveling together. They are both in their 60's, very soft spoken and so cute! I think of my grandsons, Charles and Elijah, only 2 years apart and hope that they will be close enough later in life to maybe do something like this. It's a very convivial group, especially when you toss in a couple of bottles of wine, but we must move on to Lintzoain, so after we are done, we go outside to "saddle up" again. The tables outside are now filled with local folk having a glass of wine, and they ask us where we are from. Germany and the US. When I say I'm from los Estados Unidos, one man asks me about President Bush (I will get that a lot here). I certainly don't want to get into any political hot water in my host country, so I just roll my eyes and state that he is no friend of mine. Apparently, that's a satisfactory response, and one woman says he is no friend to the whole world. I agree with her. They wish us well, and we are on our way. It is now siesta time, and aside from that one cafe, every other place of business in Viscarret is closed up tight and will be until 5 p.m. I think, how nice it would be if things just closed up at 2pm and didn't open again till 5. How much more enjoyment would we get out of life if we could just take three hours a day, in the middle of the day, and just STOP? Maybe the Spanish are on to something!

Again, we pass through woods, and I am glad of walking in the shade as the temperature has risen. Shortly after we leave Viscarret, we see a field off to the right through the trees. At one end, are some girls lying in the grass, talking and laughing. Suddenly, Rita goes off the trail through the trees. I think she is looking for a pit stop, but she keeps going until she is in the field. Ingeborg tells me they want to have a siesta, too, as it's probably pointless to get to our destination much before 4pm, as that is usually when the places start letting people in. So, we find a place in the barbed-wire fence, and work our way down the hill to the field. I find a shady place, and pull out my rain poncho for a ground cover, take off my boots and socks, and using my backpack for a pillow, lie down and relax for a while. There's a soft breeze blowing, and I feel my sweaty clothes start to dry. It's quiet here, virtually no traffic, just the leaves whispering and an occasional bit of laughter from the girls at the other end of the field. I want to doze off, but I am just enjoying being here too much. I think, feeling my pack under me, this is all that I have right now, everything I own in this country I am carrying on my back, and it feels great. I could get up now and move on, or I could stay here and let the others go ahead. There's no set schedule, nothing. Within the range of my feet and what cash I have on me, I can do whatever in the world I damn well please. I'm not sure I've ever had this feeling before. It's amazing. I lie, content to stare up into the sky and watch the clouds, more content and at peace than I've been in a long time.

Pilgrim's Mass

2007-10-17T16:21:00.000-07:00

I sleep for at least 3 hours. It's wonderful. I have reached the age where I LOVE naps, mostly because I do not sleep all that well at night anymore, even when not sharing a room with 15 or 20 other people making strange noises in the night. So, a good nap is really a blessing. I wake to afternoon falling, and decide to wander around the small bit of Roncesvalles that I can see. First I go to the tourist information office, which is just to the left of the stone terrace in front of the hotel as I exit. It's pretty small and of course, all literature is either in French, Spanish, or German. I begin to get a feel for what it must be like for someone in America who doesn't read (or read well) English. Already I am missing the ease of reading anything that comes across my field of vision.

After a brief visit and look at a few maps, I walk back across the terrace and down the stairs to enter the cathedral. I push open the doors and go in quietly. The first thing I notice is that it's pretty dark--enough light to get around by, but not much else. There's a sign across from the door that reads, in Spanish, "1 Euro to illuminate the church". I think I'll pass for now. Some of you who know me well know I rather enjoy wandering around in the semi-dark. I wander the church in quiet. There are a few other pilgrims there; we are all quiet, walking slowly around. The main altar is a little different from many older churches that I have been in--there is no crucifix, but a beautiful wrought silver Madonna and Child. Then, as I wander some more, I find an alcove devoted to St. James. The statue is simply dressed in a white robe, complete with his pilgrim's hat and staff with water gourd attached. At this moment, I feel a great affinity for the saint. I forget about his other, Spanish, name--Santiago Matamoros, Killer of Moors. I see only a simple wanderer, unencumbered by worldly cares or possessions, walking forward in faith. This, I think, is what the Way is all about, walking ever forward in faith, and trusting that Spirit will take care of you in whatever form IT chooses to appear.

After I muse for a while, I turn to complete my circuit around the church, and realize that there are several older men walking back and forth, carrying books, altar cloths, etc. The altar is being prepared for the Pilgrim's Mass later. I also need to sign up for my pilgrim's meal at the restaurant where I had coffee this morning, so I make my way out of the church and up towards the restaurant. I make my reservation for after the mass, pay my 8 Euros for dinner, and go out to head back to the church. On the terrace, I see Eileen from Kerry, Ireland, who I had met earlier in the day. With her is Simon from Edinburgh, who is feeling a little "dicey" about going to the mass as he is not Catholic. I tell him that I am not either, but wouldn't miss the service for anything. So, along we go.

As we go back into the church and find seats, I realize that there are voices that seem to be chanting or speaking some sort of liturgy in Spanish. I can't really make out what it is, though it might be a Hail Mary or Our Father. I look around trying to find the speakers. I realize they are the older men I had seen earlier readying the altar. They are all dressed in black, just sitting at various different places on the left side of the church. Although they are speaking and not singing, their voices mingle together to weave a pattern of sound that echoes throughout the entire building. The waves of their vocals wash over me, it's entrancing, comforting. Then, after about ten minutes, they are done, and get up and walk out off to the side of the altar. The church is rapidly filling up. I see Ingeborg, one of the German ladies, further up in the pews, kneeling, and then Rita is in front of me, offering me her VERY firm German handshake. It's good to see them both again. At length, there's movement up front, and the men from earlier return, this time in priestly vestments. Of course! The men preparing the altar were the priests. I don't know why this didn't occur to me before--I had just thought they were "helpers".

The mass begins. Not being Catholic, I'm not quite sure of the order, especially since the service is in Spanish, but I'm in the minority, so I just watch and follow along. There are responsive readings, prayers, Scripture readings, then the Host is blessed. This part, at least, is familiar. The faithful move forward to take Communion, and I sit with Simon, quiet and just bask in the peaceful atmosphere. Then it is time for the Pilgrim's Blessing.

Moving forward with all the pilgrims, we go towards the altar. The priests begin their blessings. They speak in Spanish, French, German, Russian, Polish, English, Korean, Japanese, and several other languages that I cannot identify. Afterward, I hear that the reason the pilgrim's office in Roncesvalles asks for your nationality is so that the priests can give your blessing in your native language. I find that very amazing. Then we are finished. Blessed and fortified, I head to the restaurant for dinner.

The pilgrim's meal is served in a separate room, tables of four filling the space. As I go in, I see Mirren, a Spanish woman that I met at Orisson. She and I look around and see two empty seats at a table where a young couple is sitting. We ask if the seats are taken. No, and we sit and make introductions. They are Carlis from Sweden and Adrianna from Massachusetts. They had met while working in Denmark this summer, and had only recently decided to walk the Camino. It's nice to have a conversation in English, although I work on speaking Spanish, too, for Mirren. Dinner is a lovely, thick bean and vegetable soup, followed by fresh-caught trout and the ubiquitous fried potatoes. Everything is cooked to perfection. The soup is hot and comfortable, the potatoes crispy, the fish well seasoned and fall off the bone tender. It's a simple, but perfect, meal. For me, I feel like finally I am beginning my Camino. I am looking forward to setting off alone in the morning and seeing where the day and the path will take me.

After our postre of yogurt, Carlis, Adrianna and I sit outside for a little while. It's getting cool in the evenings--they complain of being cold, but I welcome the cool after the cloying humidity of previous days. We chat for a bit, but then it cools down even more, and we say our good nights. I figure at their age (in their early 20's) and rate of walking that I will probably never see them again, but for a brief time, we have made our Camino connection. I head back to my quiet hotel room, to sleep in a "real" bed for the last time until I don't know when. At last, I feel totally ready for whatever may come next. It's a good feeling to go to sleep with.

Resting in Roncesvalles

2007-10-08T10:29:00.000-07:00

So, after my nameless friend leaves me at the bar, I go over to talk with the man behind the bar. He is a compact man, probably around my age, and seems friendly. I ask about the room, and he nods, and motions just a moment, so I go back to my seat. Shortly, a younger man comes over with a brochure. Apparently, the hostel part of the place is full, but they have a new hotel just at the back, rooms are approx. 60 Euros, and would I like one of those? Well, it's more than I wanted to pay, but I would be able to go right in, and I know that if I stay in the alburgue (an old church with about 100 beds and not much else), I'd have to wait until 4:30 to get in, and it's barely 10 a.m. right now. So, I take the room. I pay him, and he says it will be just a bit before he can get the key. No problem, I say, I'll just have another coffee. One thing that is consisitently great during my entire trip through Spain is the coffee. Always a pleasure.

Soon, the young man is back with the key and leads me to the hotel. It's a little ways behind the bar, and it looks like it connects, or is being connected via some construction, to the cathedral. It also looks brand new. As we go into the lobby, which is all stone and wood, there is soft music playing, but no one around. He leads me up a flight of stairs and opens the door with the key. Even if I were not on a Camino trip involving staying in hostels and alburgues on the very low end of accommodation, this room would be nearly a palace! It opens into a little kitchenette that is stocked with dishes, glasses, flatware and pots and pans for cooking. There's a little table and chairs in the eating area, then two easy chairs across from a TV, then going around a little partition, is the bedroom and full bathroom! This is heaven! I thank the young man profusely and when he is gone, drop my backpack onto the bed gratefully and follow it. I can't believe I'm in Spain, and I can't believe I'm HERE in this great room. Suddenly, the Camino seems very far away, and it's almost as if I'm back home, just away for the weekend or something. I'm not sure I like that feeling.

But, I do have a mission, and that is to LIGHTEN MY LOAD! I had already left some small bottles of essential oils and some bug spray at Orisson. The only oil I keep is lavender, which I end up using frequently on the much-used beds and pillows that I sleep on, especially after I start getting what I think (and hope!) are bed bug bites. Now, I have to decide what else I do not absolutely need. I place everything on the bed and review critically. Clothing. When I flew over, I wore a pair of black, stretchy knit pants--comfy, but not very lightweight, and also not very quick drying. Okay, they are out. Additionally, a very lightweight fuscia cotton t-shirt. Light, yes, but in London humidity it got soggy very quickly, and did not dry fast. I realize humidity is going to be with me on this journey, so it's out. My TravelSmith Coolmax Travel blanket. I thought it would be an ideal thing to bring with me, but I am finding that it's WAY heavier than I expected, at least for this kind of journey, AND it's an odd size--not quite long enough to cover me when I'm lying down, so I'm always having to re-arrange it. It's out. I really pause over the extra bag I brought. I love it--it's big and roomy, and then folds up into its own little pouch/pocket. It was a wonderful carry-on bag for the trip over. BUT--even all folded up and not taking up much space, it's HEAVY, and heavy is not what I want right now. Thus, it's out. I had already left my Spanish/English dictionary back in St. Jean, (Lo siento, maestra, perro estaba demasiado pesado!) as well as my James Michner "Iberia" book. Even in paperback, that one was a tome! What else, what else? My towel! Oh, damn, I really WANT that towel. I mean, it's not all that heavy, I folded it up into a ziploc bag, I rationalize. And what if I have to walk a ways to and from a shower? I need something to preserve a modicum of modesty! Okay then, I think, what to do? Then I realize I have a pocket knife! I can cut the towel just down to a big enough size to go around me, and discard the rest! Quickly, I have measured just enough towel to keep myself from flapping in the breeze should I need to parade from shower to bed in public, and the rest is easily sliced away and tossed in the trash. The remaining towel is actually much lighter and fits into the ziploc easier. Such a small thing, but it makes me very happy. I can keep my functional towel, and still lighten my load! I learn on this trip how very, amazingly happy such little things can make you.

I then re-pack all the ziploc bags, and finagle everything back into the backpack. I heft it several times and yes, it is noticeably lighter. Great! This, I think, I can carry and get used to. I feel stoked, ready to go. But for now, since I have this wonderful room and this nice bed all to myself, I am going to do a sensible thing. I am going to take a nap.

Ups and Downs

2007-10-02T17:41:00.000-07:00

Morning dawns at Orisson quietly, in cool mist and low clouds. The six of us women wake up and start what will become the morning routine of getting to the bathroom, rustling our various configurations of plastic bags, and getting dressed for the coming day's walk. We also need to head down for breakfast, as staff was very specific that it was from 7 to 7:30 ONLY. That's when I discover that the American and European ideas of "breakfast" are quite different. I eat a couple of pieces of dry French bread with a little marmalade and manage to snag a bowl of coffee. I haven't done as much packing because I know I'm not leaving till 9am, while the others are going sooner. After breakfast, I say goodbye to Ingeborg and Rita, hoping that I might meet up with them further along the Way. As I am up in the room doing the last bit of packing, I hear the Irish ladies below. I go to the screenless window and lean out. They are heading up the road towards Roncesvalles, wearing their small, light daypacks. I know they will be there in just a few hours, if that long. I lean out and call "Buen Camino!" and they turn and wave, saying it was wonderful to meet me. Before they left, Trish had kindly given me some sunscreen, as I had been burnt pretty badly on my upper arms, where I don't normally go bare. I am very grateful.

After I get everything back in my pack, and get the pack off the top bunk, I go downstairs to wait for my ride. I sit down at a picnic table right outside the eating area of the alburgue and watch the other pilgrims walk off into the mist, UP the road towards the summit, which will then lead down into the Spanish town of Roncesvalles Spain. I wish I were going with them, but acknowledge to myself that, right now, I do not have the stamina to walk 22 kilometers to get there.

Just at 9am, my ride comes out and takes my pack before I even realize it and has it in the trunk of his car. This man, whose name I never do know, has the most wonderful face. He has a head full of curly salt and pepper hair, a 2 or 3-day growth of grizzled beard, large, dark, droopy eyes, and a face that seems to be just a little bit pulled down by gravity. He speaks no English, and I speak only a few words of French, but somehow, we manage to communicate. He smokes incessantly. I get in the car, and think that he will drive me up over the same road where the pilgrims have walked, as I have seen cars come down that way; however, when we start off, he heads down the road that I spent all the previous day struggling up. As we whisk back down ground already covered under utmost effort, I am absurdly caught by a fierce desire to burst into tears. In seven minutes at the most, we are BACK in St. Jean Pied de Port. It seems just wrong that it should only take that small amount of time to re-cover the distance that took so much determination from me yesterday. Perhaps that feeling is why, later on, I feel such resistance towards any going back, even if the going forward is longer. But I do learn one thing--the short cut off the road, was, indeed, much shorter than going ON the road all the way, and even though it was rough and rocky, I am glad I decided to go that way. Otherwise, I might still be walking UP!

Once in St. Jean, my driver (D.) takes a different turn, and heads for the highway. I see what his intention is now. Rather than drive over the narrow upper road, he's going to take the longer, but quicker, main road. Soon, we are flying around turns, and headed for Spain. Again, I am reminded of the Blue Ridge and Smoky mountains. Wild thyme sprouts from the sides of the mountains where the roads are cut. The blooms are past their prime, but still deep enough to turn whole banks pink. D. slides a cassette tape into the car's player, and I wonder what we will be listening to. It turns out to be beautiful choral music, from what I think he says is a mass either in Santiago, or regarding Santiago. Either way, it surprises me, but driving fast through the mountains, listening to that music, watching the mist and clouds low lying in the valleys we pass, it's just a magic time. Soon, we pass into Spain. There is no border check, no notice that we have gone from one country into another, other than some touristy looking buildings with a couple of signs that say "Bienvenidos a Espana!" I think of trying to "just drive" between the U.S. and Mexico and ruefully shake my head.

Soon, we are at the place, just outside Roncesvalles, where the pilgrims will come out of the mountains, and walk into town. There is a church there and D. takes me off the road, and around it, indicating that this is where I would have come off the pass. I thank him for letting me see it. Then we are driving into the small town, and he pulls up at a restaurant/bar. Here I am, where ever that is. D. takes my pack, carries it into the bar, and sets it down by a table towards the back. He indicates that I should sit and asks if I would like a coffee. Yes, I say, and go towards the bar. No, no, he motions, he will get it. And off he goes, buys two coffees and speaks to the man behind the bar. The man looks at me, and in Spanish asks if I need a room. Yes, for one night. He nods. Okay, I guess it's arranged. D. then brings back the coffees and sits with me while we drink. "Tranquille," he says, "Be calm." I've heard that a lot already. Tranquille, be calm, it's okay, don't worry. In spite of myself, I tear up. "Vous etre gentil, tres gentil," I say to him...telling him he's very kind (I hope!) He sees my emotion, and just reaches over and pats my hand. In a couple of gulps, his coffee is gone, and he gets up to leave. I stand as well. He reaches out to shake my hand, but I have to hug him, and give him a kiss on both cheeks. I am so grateful. I also ask him in my limited French to please tell Natalie thank you again. I know he understands me. Then he is gone, with his sad French eyes, leaving me there to finish my coffee and bask in the kindness of a stranger.

Hobbling to Hornillos

2007-09-26T06:09:00.000-07:00

Skipping ahead again. Last week, got to Burgos, and decided to spend a couple of days there. It´s a major cultural city for Spain, full of monments, history, and of course, the cathedral. There is a small alburgue, but when I get there, I find that they are only taking people over 55, or who have health problems, and who have walked. I took a bus a small distance because I was not well prepared to walk in the rain, and there were thunderstorms. So...I find a small hostal not too far from the cathedral. The manager, Elena, is very kind and even offers to wash my clothes. Wow! So, thus fortified, I wander Burgos for a couple of days. I find Doro, the young German girl I met on my first day climbing UP, and it is great to see her. Also, we encounter Rita, who had left to walk in the rain the day before, and had had some heart palpitations and had gotten a ride. Astoundingly, the alburgue refuses to let her stay because she did not walk (even though she is 71!!!), so I lead them both to my hostal, and they share a room for 40 Euros. Bless Elena! It works out as Rita speaks no Spanish and very little English, and I feel better that she is with Doro.

We do touristy things, ride the little train around the town, to the top where the castle is, with a lovely view of the whole town. We find our yellow arrows that will lead us out the next day, and then, the following morning, we meet at the Cathedral to go. Rita will take a bus to Leon, to continue her walk further along, and Doro and I will walk on, her to Hornillos, and me to Rabe La Calzada, where I hope to stay in the alburgue. I think 12 K is not too far to walk, and I have rested my feet for 2 days, so hope they will do better. When we get to a rise behind the cathedral, Rita stops us to read a prayer that she wrote in German before she left. Ingeborg had translated it for me one day in Puente la Reina and it is beautiful. Rita likes to read it every day when we leave, after finding the right place, usually with a view of the countryside. Afterwards, Doro and I say good bye, and we follow our way out of the city guided by the yellow arrows and Camino shells.

Shortly, the 2nd toe on my left foot acts up. It´s been doing this regularly. It feels as if a blister is starting, but I know that if I stop, add some more foot creme, and put my sock back on, it will be ok. I tell Doro to go on, and I´ll just follow. In a few minutes all is fine, and I´m walking out of the city, into an agricultural area. Everywhere we have been there is new construction, even in the smallest little towns. I´m not sure, but it´s possible that the explosion of pilgrims has also brought new business and dwellers to Spain. I wonder if that´s good or bad, and keep walking. At one point, a lady on a bicylce stops and asks if she can walk with me for a while. I say all right, even though at that point, I would rather be alone. But she walks along, and asks if I speak Spanish, and if so, would I like to practice. Again, all right, even though at the moment it´s hard to think of present, past, preterite tenses, etc., when I´m trying to do the pilgrim contemplation thing. But she is a nice woman, pleasant, and I don´t want to offend her, and it is a valuable opportunity. She tells me that she knows the woman who runs the alburgue in Rabe de la Calzada, where I hope to stay. That´s encouraging. We chat for a bit, then get to a bridge over the highway, and she leaves me, with a kiss on both cheeks. I walk on. Soon, I am in Tardajos, the first stop, and Doro is waiting at the cafe. I order a Coke. Doro has had the same kind of bites that I had at first, only hers are on her face and neck, and mine were on my back and arms. We drink our cokes and wait for the pharmacy to open and she buys some cream for the bites. We go on to Rabe la Calzada, and I say good bye, as she is going to do the 20 K to Hornillos and I plan to stop here. Already my feet are hurting, and I am looking forward to the alburgue. So, I wander into this silent little town. I see signs to the alburgue, but can´t seem to exactly find it. My guidebooks says there are 2, and I´m looking for the private one. Finally, I ask a construction guy. No, where I´m looking is not it, it´s over here he points. So, I go there, find the sign, and go to the door. There´s a sign that says "Cerrado por ...." I don´t have the word at the moment, but the general idea is that it´s closed for fumigation or dealing with pests or something. The sign says either go back to Tardajos (2 km), or ahead to Hornillos (8 km). Well, let me tell you, when you´re on the Camino, going back is just something you do not want to do. Even though it´s longer, I decide to go ahead to Hornillos, but first I change my socks, hoping that will help my feet. My right foot has a horrid burning pain every time I put weight on it. I fear a blister, but every time I check it, it´s ok as far as the skin goes. But when I press just under the base of my 2nd and 3rd toes, I nearly go through the roof. Great. But, the bed is in Hornillos, so on I go. As I leave town, I see Doro sitting under a big cottonwood tree. Yes, they have cottonwoods in Spain! "What are you doing?" she asks. I tell her the alburgue is closed so I will go to Hornillos. But first, we have a short siesta under the tree in the shade. I put my feet up, hoping it will help, but when we get going again, they are no better. She walks on and I follow, slowly, trying to avoid rocks again. It´s getting hotter, and I´m drinking a lot. As the time goes on, I walk slower and slower, my foot hurting more and more. I made the first 12 K in about 3 hours, but this last 8 is taking a long time. I try not to think about the pain, try only to concentrate on putting my feet on the flattest places on the road, but they just HURT. I walk on. After a while, I realize I have not eaten anything since breakfast, and that´s not good. So I stop for some dried fruit, chocolate, nuts, and more water. I have drunk nearly 2 liters of liquid this day. But the heat and pain are taking it out of me. I hobble on, favoring my right foot, walking kind of on the side. At one point, a Spanish couple comes upon me. The man asks how I am. I tell him not so good, much pain in the foot. Turns out he´s a doctor. He asks if it´s blisters. I say no, just pain when I put my foot down. I tell him I rested in Burgos for 2 days, things seemed ok this morning, but now, awful. There isn´t anything he can do, but I ask him to let them know in Hornillos that I´m coming. I seem to always be telling someone I´m coming! They say no problem, they will arrange it, and walk happily on. I see them look back at me a couple of times as they get further and further away. Finally, I have to sit again, and find a rock in the small shade of a bush. This is farm country, so not many trees now. I put on my old sock, now dried out, hoping it might be softer or something. For a few minutes it´s a little better, but then back to the same old pain. I walk on. Finally, I reach the downhill slope that my little guidebook described as going into Hornillos, and I can see the town below. The end is at least in sight. Carefully, carefully, I pick my way down the rocky slope. And then, my "good" leg, the left, begins to want to collapse on me. It just wants to give out. No, no no! I go slower, very careful as to where I put each foot. I CANNOT fall on this slope, there´d be no way I´d get up. At last, I´m down, and walking on flat ground. I see four elderly Spanish women from the town coming towards me, out for their afternoon stroll. I greet them, and they walk on. So do I. Slowly. A bit later, they turn around and overtake me on the way back. They ask after me. Yes, I´m ok, just have very painful feet. Ooooh, they all commiserate. Sympathy for sore feet is universal. They past me going back to the town. I hobble on. Finally, I cross the highway onto paved road, and see Doro waiting at the edge of town. God bless her. I get to her and she gives me a cold Coke. She says the Spanish lady was in panic over me, very dramatic. I tell her I´m OK, just my feet are killing me and I don´t know why. Slowly we walk into the town. There, on a bench all in a row, are the four Spanish ladies, apparently waiting for me. They call out and wave as I come up. I wave and smile and nod. I´m here, I´m ok, just my feet still hurt. After I pass, they all get up and move on to their respective homes. The neighborhood watch, I suppose! Then, I am at the plaza in front of the alburgue, and the Spanish couple is there, and also several other pilgrims I have met along the Way. It´s soo good to see familiar faces, even if you´ve only met for a few minutes. It seems like old home week. The doctor immediately comes over and wants to see my foot. I take off my boot and show him. There´s an inflammed spot on the ball of my right foot, and everyone says it´s a blister, but I show them it´s not. Then he presses on it, pressing down with thumb and finger on the top and bottom of my foot at the same time. I come out of the chair. He shakes his head. "Muy dificile" he says. He suggests I should not walk more than 5 or 7 Km per day. That is problematic since most places are further apart than that, and I have no guarantee, as shown today, that places will even be available. It seems I have a decision to make. But first, it´s time for the after walk routine, and I need a bed and a shower. When I go to sign in at the alburgue, I find that the Spanish couple, Ostabio and Ami, have made sure that the lady gives me a bottom bunk. God bless them. I drop the pack and collapse onto it. Later, I´ll think about tomorrow, Scarlett.

Love and blessings to you all....

Crone

The Refuge Orisson

2007-09-23T11:31:00.000-07:00

When I walk up to the refuge off the road, I see that there is the building/restaurant/refuge on the right, and across the road is a a covered terrace/eating area that overlooks the steep cliff/drop off the mountain that I have just climbed up. At 4:30, the sun is just starting to slant down, and the light is exquisite. Even in my exhausted state, I can appreciate it, and am that much more greatful to be there, because I did NOT want to be walking after dark, even on a paved road. When I go into the restaurant area, it´s empty except for one woman who is probably the owner. She looks at me and says "Linda?" Yes, it´s me, and thanks again to my French friend who confirmed my reservation! Immediately, I pull out my pilgrim´s credential to be stamped and pay for the room. 18€ for the bed, meal, and breakfast in the morning. Wow, can´t beat that, even if it did take me all day to get here! I also tell her that I KNOW I will not be able to walk the full 21 kilometers left to Roncesvalles, Spain, tomorrow, and will need a taxi. Can she help me with that? There is no place to stop between here and there, and I do NOT want to spend the night in the woods! The woman, whose name I find out later is Natalie, says she is not sure, but she will try, and then takes me around to the back of the building, up a flight of stairs (UP again!), and into the sleeping area. As I round the corner to go in the room, who should be sitting outside in the sun but the 2 German ladies I met at the airport in Biarritz!! I am so happy to see them, and we say we will meet at dinner. Then, Natalie shows me to a big high ceilinged room with dark wood beams and 3 sets of bunk beds. They look pretty sturdy, but the ladders are so narrow. However, all the bottoms are taken (the disadvantage of getting there late) and I am not about to complain about anything. So, I heave the pack up on one of them and say thank you. She shows me where to put my boots, gives me a token for the shower, and goes back to the restaurant. Dinner will be at 8pm. Wonderful. For a little bit, I am just a bit bewildered about what to do next but figure getting up on the bunk and getting stuff out of my pack will be a good start. Fortunately, there´s no one in the room to see me try to climb, but just as I begin, the woman who´s on the bottom comes in and calls my attention to the fact that in the top of that particular bunk, there is a very low beam that were I to sit up suddenly in the night, I would surely crack my head on. So, I move to the other top bunk, and clamber up. I sigh with relief when the bed doesn´t topple over. But the narrow rungs hurt the hell out of my feet, so I know I´ll have to sleep with my sandals up here in order to go to the bathroom in the night. It´s just a given. I realize the lady is still chatting, and I recognize the lilt of Ireland. I ask her. Yes, she´s Gail from Dublin, and here with 2 other friends to do just a stage of the Camino, 170 kilometers in a little over a week. Lots of people do the Camino in stages over a period years, given time and money. These ladies are having their bags transported and are walking with just light daypacks. I wish! But, since I never know where I´m going to stay, I´ll just cointinue my own way. Soon, her 2 other friends, Trish and Barbara come in and in no time, we are all chatting like old friends. Part of it´s a woman thing, but part of it is the Camino--where are you from, how far do you plan to go, how much time do you have, how are your feet, how´s your pack? Those questions are common and often from everyone you meet. Then, after introductions, and some initial fumbling with stuff in the pack, I realize I REALLY want a shower. The token is new for me, but Barbara explains--put the token in the box, get everything ready, and then get in. The token gives you 6 pushes on this knob thing and you get a minute or so of water and then it stops. So, 1st push you get wet, and in between you wash, and use most of the rest to rinse with. Hopefully, the water will not be so cold you can´t get under it, or you´ve wasted a push! I had the push shower kind of thing in a hostel once in London, but there was no limit on it, so this is new. I manage to get washed AND get my undies washed out--figure I better start that routine right away, because washing machines are few and far between and dryers--forget it.

So, shortly after that, I am clean, in clean clothes, and head out to the terrace to sit in the cooling air with the Irish ladies. I find out that Barbara and I, at age 50, are the babies. Trish is 58, and Gail is around there, too. I am so humbled by all these people I´m meeting who are older than I and just seem to run up mountains with no problem at all! But I´m here, they tell me, be proud of that, you did it. And, by god, I did! So, I bask in that for a while, and soon, we see that people are moving into the dining room for dinner and we follow. We sit, family style at 2 long tables. Soon, the couple, Natalie and probably her husband, along with the help of one other man, begin serving. First they put down bread and bottles of wine. This will become a staple at most places that serve food. Then come big pots of wonderful vegetable soup. We serve ourselves family style. It´s gotten really chilly up here in the damp mountains of France, and the soup is amazingly warm and comforting. There are about 15 of us at one table and we are all happy, chatting, exchanging information, etc. The German ladies, Ingeborg and Rita, are there, and we´re all a very comfortable group. The soup goes quickly, and then comes a big bowl of bowtie pasta with cheese and a marvelous casserole of lamb with veggies. It´s probably the best food I´ve ever had in my life and we all tuck in with great ooohhh-ing and ahhh-ing. The meal runs on. We eat, talk, get to know one another, speculate about the next day´s walking. I confess to not walking. Everyone is very comforting, do what you can, don´t get dangerous, etc. I know they are right, but can´t help feeling that I am somehow "cheating" by not walking the rest of the way into Spain, but I also know what I can and can´t do, and I´m not ready to do 21 km in one day--not uphill again! So, I let it go.

Soon, we have dessert, and things begin to wind down. It´s full dark now, and this place is out in the middle of nowhere, so it´s very quiet and almost eerie. We all head back to our rooms and make the final preparations for bed, etc. Earlier, Natalie has told me that the man who works for them, whose name I never get, is willing to take me to Roncesvalles in the morning at 9 a.m. for €25. A bargain. I agree at once, and we are settled.

I clamber up to the top bunk, apologizing in advance to Claudette, a 61 year old woman from Quebec who is walking alone. She is very gracious. I get settled in with water, sandals nearby, flashlight for climbing, etc. and lie down. The Irish ladies finish getting ready, and they flip off the light. It´s actually dark. And quiet. And listening to the soft mountain air outside the screenless windows, we all quickly drift off to sleep, awaiting the next day´s adventure.

Pilgrim blessings,

Crone

Thoughts on Being a Pilgrim

2007-09-23T06:25:00.000-07:00

So, you think you´ll go on a pilgrimage and it will be a time of contemplation, meditation, and possible spiritual growth. Sounds pretty good, right? Of course, you know there will be challenges, but, hey, you think, that´s part of it. Wouldn´t be a "real" pilgrimage without that, would it? It´s taken a while, but I think I have gotten into the "pilgrim´s routine". When you are a pilgrim, here´s what your normal schedule is like: Somewhere between 6 am and 6:30 am you officially wake up, because normally you must be out of the alburgue where you have stayed by 8:30 at the latest. Immediately, the rustling of plastic bags begins. It´s like the surf coming up at high tide as everyone begins to gather their belongings, stuff their sleeping bags, and stumble to the bathroom, which is normally at least 100 meters away from where you are sleeping. The morning packing is very important, because packing wrong can throw off your whole day. So, wash off, put on the clothes you laid out the night before (normally the ones you wore the day before if they´re not TOO smelly), and start zipping everything else into your ziploc or recently accumulated grocery sacks. Stuff the backpack. Check to make sure you have something for a snack along the way. For those of you in America, if you stay in an alburge that offers¨"breakfast" you might get a cup (or bowl) of coffee, a hard crust of bread and some marmalade if there´s anything left in the jar. For a while now I have been living on nuts, cheese and chocolate. Well, it could be worse! Oh, also red wine. Anyway, now you´ve got the pack packed, and you´ve got your boots on and the sandals packed away. Check your water. Heave on the pack and strap it down tight. I learned a great lesson from my German friends that the tighter and snugger the pack is to your body, the lighter it feels. Make sure you´ve got your sticks, and whatever items of wet clothing that yo need to dry pinned to your backpack. My eternal thanks to the person on some e-mail list who said to travel with lots of large safety pins. They are lifesavers!! Make sure you have the foot cream and a change of socks hanging ready, too.

Start walking. Now time for the quiet contemplation and meditation, right? Well, the first hour you spend being overtaken by pilgrims from the place you just left, as well as from the previous village who left an hour earlier. "Hola!" "Buenos dias!" "Buen Camino!" It´s a daily chorus, but eventually, you realized that you are once again at the end of the line, and you are alone for a bit. Meditation? Well, now you are watching very closely everywhere you put each foot because of the rocks, roots and ravines. Perhaps the road flattens out. By then, you are scoping out a good place to pee, and wishing the bowl of coffee might have been a little smaller. Ah, there´s an opportune tree. That need taken care of, you press on. Ah, a hill. Everything in Spain is on a hill. With rocks. Then you must come down again. On rocks. It´s necessary to have a lot of concentration for this, and I am very thankful for my walking stick. Finally, at some point around midday, you do begin to find a rhythm, and have a few moments of just enjoyment of the outdoors, and a look to the scenery around. The contryside here is lovely when you have a moment to look a it. but then, it is time to change your socks, and you must carefully examine your feet for any signs of a budding blister. So far, I´ve been very lucky with no blisters, just painful feet. It´s after the midday break that each step begins to be agonizing. I´m not sure why, but it just simply hurts to put my feet on the ground. But, the next bed is still kilometers away, so stopping is not an option.

At last, the final town for the day is in sight. You follow the signs to the alburgue, and hope that you will have a bed. Ah, yes, you are early enough, and blessed be, you have not only a bed but a BOTTOM bunk. Trust me, at my age and weight, being on the top bunk is not as fun as it used to be. Especially when you have to get up twice a night and walk 100 meters to pee!

Immediately you reach the bed, the unpacking begins. First order, a shower. Tip of traveling light--use the underwear you wore all day as your wash cloth for the shower. You wash out the underwear at the same t ime, and get a head start on drying. Also realize that the shower will be just large enough for you to stand in, it will be a hand-held shower with nowhere to hang it up, so you will have to either hold it in one hand and wash with the other, or somehow hold it under your arm or some other odd configuration in order to bathe. Additionally, there is no such thing as a soap dish, a bath mat, or ventilation in Spanish buildings. I step immediately from the shower into my sandals, and dry off the feet and shoes later. I have one bar of soap, and do end up pinching off just a small enough piece to use for each shower, because there´s no place to put anything while you´re trying to juggle the hand held shower that won´t hang up. Plus, not being able to turn around in the shower at all can be problematic. But, if you´re determined, you can get clean! Then, once showered, then put on the sandals and start arranging the plastic bags for the morning rush. These will be re-arranged and re-re-arranged at least 4 or 5 more times before you go to bed. Then you find out if there´s anyone you know in the alburgue with you. The folks who go a certain pace tend to show up at a lot of the same places. If so, figure out what you want to do for dinner, but it won´t be a restaurant because no restautant in Spain opens before 9pm, and in most alburgues lights out and lock up is at 10. So, tapas, bocadillos, or find an alimentacion (grocery store) that´s open for sausage, cheese, tuna, and, of course, chocolate! Then, maybe, some quiet time in the town or in the church, if the church is open, and if it´s not so big that it is a tourist attraction, in which case there is no quiet.

But soon, it is time to head back to the alburgue to make sure you are not locked out. Find your bed and get your sleeping bag or other covers ready. REcheck the plastic bags. Find the eye shades and/or ear plugs. Lie down and try to sleep, possibly doze off. Then, the evening concert begins. The varied sounds that a room full of human beings makes during the night is truly astounding. And enough to drive you crazy. But, around midnight (you know this because the church bells ring all night), things start to settle down, and maybe you doze off for a bit, only to be awakened at 6am by the light coming on, when you struggle up and do it all over again. And that´s what it´s like to be a pilgrim, pilgrim.

Pilgrim blessings from the Road!

Crone

Walking Backwards Up the Pyrenees

2007-09-19T10:27:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning dawns, cloudy, cool, damp. The guy above me snored loudly all night, and once made some kind of odd noise, and jumped down off the bed and stomped around for a few minutes. He was very strange. But, at any rate, he is the first one up and gone. I don´t see him again. Next goes the gentleman from Quebec, again quietly up, dressed and gone. It´s about 7am, and the young American couple get up to go downstairs to have breakfast--that they have bought themselves the day before, and put in the fridge, with the landlady´s permission. Suddenly, there is a huge commotion downstairs and the landlady comes flying into the room screaming French in a stage whisper. She tears the couple´s things off the beds, and starts pushing them out of the room. Everyone else is still half asleep and can´t figure out what´s going on. To the best of my ability, all I can figure out is that she´s saying they are up too early (not before 7am), in the kitchen too early, and making too much noise. Actually, they are probably the quietest people there. Then the landlady comes back into the room and tries to explain everything to the Swiss girl, because she speaks French. She is still half asleep and doesn´t quite grasp it. Finally, Ari, the young man, comes back in, saying he needs to check to see if they have all their things. The woman doesn´t want to let them in, but does, and then he is gone. I´m pretty upset because I don´t think they did anything wrong, and I´m sad because I doubt I´ll see them again, and wanted to wish them well.

But, onward. I get dressed, gather my things, get my pack packed as best I can, and head down the stairs. I get my boots and go out to the street to put them on. Pilgrims are heading down the street past me, in ones, twos, groups. It´s very quiet, almost mystical in the cool and damp air. It feels nice, but as soon as I begin to move, the sweat starts. I don´t look forward to that. Finally, I have everything together, and heave my pack onto my back. Boy, is it heavy! But, thinking about it, I don´t see what I can give up, so on I go. I begin the walk down the street, and think about going to the morning mass in the church, but decide to just go ahead and leave. I have only walked to the edge of the town yesterday to see where to start, so after that, nothing is familiar.

As I cross the last street of St. Jean, I look towards the road and realize that it´s going up nearly vertically, but I think, well, it will top out at some point, right? Wrong. So begins my entire day of walking 8 kilometers. An entire day. From 8 a.m. until nearly 4:30 p.m. I walk UP. I am talking about a 45 degree angle. Up, up UP until I think I am going to just drop dead right where I stand. Climbing has never been easy for me, and this is probably one of the hardest days I have ever had in my life, including giving birth to my child. The landscape is beautiful...I pass the most wonderful gardens, huge plants at one place that look like giant aloe veras, everything dripping with dew, the mist lying in the mountains, it´s magical. I see it, but I am consumed with the effort of dragging my weight, including a too-heavy pack, up, up, up, against the gravity that wants to pull me immediately back down to the lowest point.

After about 2 hours, the sun is coming out, and I can see where I am going. I´m not sure it´s a good thing. There is no top, only continuous UP. At one point, I see a small bench and blessedly drop down on it, glad to take off my pack and rest my feet for a few minutes. I decide to eat one of the croissants I bought before I left. I realize I am actually steaming in the sun. Picture the Budweiser commercial where the big Clydesdale is backlit, and is standing there steaming after the effort of pulling the beer wagon...you´ll get the idea of how I felt. But, as wonderful as the bench is, I can´t stay there. I must go on...and up. At one point, I pass a farmhouse and see a road that goes so steeply, I nearly fall backwards looking at it. It´s at that point, I begin to walk backwards. I realize that the weight of my pack actually helps PULL me up the mountain if I turn around. So, slowly, one step after heavy step, I spend the rest of the day walking backwards. Another hour, and I see a LEVEL driveway off the road. I stop and sit, thanking God for a flat place. As I eat my other croissant, a young woman comes panting up and sits beside me. We greet each other and begin to see what languages we speak, etc. When I tell her I´m from the US, she gives me a huge hug and says it´s a sign. She is from Berlin, loves America and wants to move there. We sit for a few minutes, talking, then she is up and onward, and I believe I will never see her again. Pressing on, at around 1pm, I reach Huntto, the first stop with a place to stay. Blessedly, I sit at a table, change my socks, and have some water and then go across the road (and UP) to find the bathroom. I begin to think I should have stayed here instead of Orisson, but Orisson is only 2 km further, so how much worse could it be?

I find out as I start out, and immediately have to turn around and go backwards again. Inching my way up, up, always up. I begin to see people who have passed me in the morning, coming back from their outings. They nod and smile, maybe a little bit worriedly. I´m sure they think--this big woman will never make it where ever she is going, and I begin to agree with them. As I go up the road, slowly, slowly, one foot at a time backwards, I see a sign to the alburgue that shows a way that´s off the road. There´s a wide grassy track that looks pretty easy to follow, but I´m not sure. Then, a group of other pilgrims comes along, and says, yes, this is the shortcut. All right then, I´ll take it, but it becomes problematic to walk backwards then because the ground is very rocky. However, I have no choice. I CANNOT lug that damned pack going forward. So, there I am, walking backwards across rocks, small ravines, slick grass, what have you. Inch by inch, I go up. Around switchbacks, I go up. Again, more people pass me going along. I speak for a few moments with a French woman, and ask if she is going to Orisson. She says yes. I say I have a reservation there, and ask her if she will tell them that Linda is coming SLOWLY. She says she will. God bless her.

At last, I reach the overlook that is mentioned on the map. There´s a rock where I sit and steam some more, and also look over the scenery. It´s stunningly beautiful, and I wish I could just stay right there for the rest of my life and not move again, especially not UP. But I must go on. A group of day hikers pass me on their way down. I ask if there is water up there (there´s supposed to be a fountain). They say yes, just up there, and are very concerned that I might not have any water. I assure them I do, but just want to fill up. Okay then, they are on their way. When I get up there at last (more backwards inching), there is the water, plus an overlook with a map of the mountains and the towns. Also, there is a whole group of cyclists who are resting and fiddling with their bikes. I can´t even comprehend riding a bicycle up these roads...I´m still going backwards. I pass them, going backwards, and they smile and wave. I look behind me and see only a hill. I look off to my right, and see the downhill slopes, with small farms, sheep, gardens, and notice vultures flying overhead, soaring on the wind currents. Should I be worried? Am I that bad off? I try to inch a little faster. Finally, finally, I see one more woman who had been walking earlier and passed me going up. In French and sign language, she lets me know that really, REALLY, Orisson is just a little bit ahead, DOWN a bit, and to the right. DOWN sounds so good right now, but I´m not sure I believe her. I´ve been going up for so long, I have forgotten what down is!

But, indeed, she is right. Finally, finally, I take one, two, three last steps and the ground levels out, and suddenly, I have turned around and am walking down a hill! The pack doesn´t feel so heavy, I can actually WALK instead of inch! And lo, and behold, there to the right, is the Refuge Orisson. I made it! Only 8 hours later, and I have arrived!

It´s enough to make me cry.

Love to all,

Crone

Giving Thanks

2007-09-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

Once again, before I continue with narrative, I want to stop for a moment and send out a written and formal "thank you" to those people who have helped me or tried to help me along The Way. First of all, to the lady on the train to Bordeaux who had had major dental work, but did her best to talk to me anyway and tell me where I should get off the wrong train and turn around. Thanks to the bartender in Bayonne, who knew I needed a room with a shower. To the agent in the pilgrim´s office in St. Jean, who called to the alburgue in Orisson, even though she thought it would be filled up. To Ari and Lisa, for finding me to say good-bye, after your "event" in the alburgue in St. Jean. To Trish from Ireland for the sunscreen--it´s been a lifesaver! To all the day hikers and other pilgrims who asked about me as I inched my way up to Orisson from St. Jean. Your concern about my having enough water, and generally being okay was what kept me going on that utterly exhausting climb. To the French lady who gave the innkeeper at Orisson the message that I was coming. To the lady who passed me on her way up and then again on her way down, and who told me, in French and sign language that the alburgue REALLY was just a little way further. To the employee of Orisson, a wonderful sad-faced man who drove me to Roncesvalles, got me to a hotel, bought me a coffee, and wished me well, I will never forget you, monsieur! To everyone who has said "Buen Camino" as I walked through their town. To the gentleman from Jakarta who "hallooed" me from atop the big hill on the way to Lorca to let me know that I was on the right road. To Ramon at the alburgue in Lorca, for letting me get to the room, get a shower, and try to recover a bit before having to pay for the room. To the woman in Cirauqui, who took me to her house, and filled up my water bottle for me because she could see I did not want to walk back into the town to find the fountain, even though she told me where it was. To all the people I have spoken to on Ingeborg´s cell phone in order to make reservations, who could understand my rather broken Spanish and my uncontrollable lapses into English on the phone. To the ladies in the bus station rest room today, who insisted that I go ahead, and held open the door to the pay toilet so I wouldn´t have to search for change--muchas, muchas gracias, mujeres!!! To the gentleman who came across the street to make sure I got on the right bus today, after I had asked him where mine left from. To the ladies in Navarette who pretty much led us to our place today because we couldn´t see the street signs and were going the wrong way. Such small things that people do to help someone who is not native, but the things mean so much. My prayers will go for you in every church I am in, and also all along the Way as I walk. If we all did these things to help each other every day, the world would be healed very quickly.

Much love to all,

Crone

Back to St. Jean

2007-09-17T12:03:00.000-07:00

When I got back to my room from wandering around, it was full of folks. In one bunk were 2 gentlemen, one from Quebec, and one who I never did find out where he was from--he was very quiet. In the trundle bed was Sabine from Switzerland, who was walking alone and missing her 3 year old daughter. In the bunk above me was a man from the Canary Islands. He spoke Spanish, but I never did get his name. Across in the other bunk were Ari and Lisa, a young American couple who had been married the year before, but had been saving their money for over 3 years in order to travel around the world for a year. I was pretty impressed with them. They were were on 8 months of their 12 month journey, and had spent the last months before Spain in the orient, China, Viet Nam, etc.

After I met most of the folks, I wanted to walk around again, but "off the beaten path". Well, there isn´t much of a beaten path anyway there, but when I was walking on the main street, I saw a turn off and went up a side street. I walked past a beautiful garden, full of tomatoes, beans, and leeks, of all things. I don´t think I had ever seen leeks growing before, so went closer to see them. An older man in a beret (common in these parts) came over and started speaking to me in French. I asked him if it was his garden and he said yes. Then I was pretty much at the end of my French. THEN, he asked me if I spoke Spanish! I was so happy to hear Spanish, it seemed almost as good as English right then, because at least I could communicate in it. He asked me where I was from, and when I said Colorado, he told me he had a sister living in Idaho! Ok, talk about a small world! That was almost as good as standing in Piccadilly Circus for 47 minutes.

So, I wandered up the street, and found out there was also a camping area which was pretty much full. Some of the campers might have been pilgrims, some simply vacationers visiting this part of France. I passed the campground, and crossed the river on an older bridge just upstream, and watched the fish hovering in the water, facing the current, just holding their places. It was warm, the humidity seemed to have diminshed some, and I wasn´t sweating so much, so I felt pretty good. But, also figured I´d better get myself together, so back to the alburgue.

While I was upstairs trying to arrange my pack, I heard guitar music out the window. I looked out, and saw a young man sitting on the stone stoop that so many of the houses on these narrow streets have. He was playing some soft classical guitar, and had a hat out on the ground. I realized he was staying at our place, and thought perhaps he just needed some extra money. I went back into the room, when suddenly the music changed and someone started singing what seemed to be local folk songs in a very strong voice, and there was another guitar in the mix. I looked back out the window and saw that another man , probably local, had joined up with our player, and was drawing quite a crowd. Standing at the open window, with the curtains blowing around me, leaning out over the people, I felt like I was in some kind of movie, that suddenly the crowd would look up at me, or I should call to them, and get their attention, or something. It was again, one of ¨those¨moments, but all too soon, the wandering musician packed up his guitar, shook the other guy´s hand and moved on. Probably a good thing, or I would still be there, listening to him.

The weather continued lovely at this time of day, so I decided to move downstairs and also sit on the stoop and watch the people go by. On the other side of the door were some young Spanish men, chatting and moving back and forth from their room, which was right on the street. Shortly after that, Ari and Lisa came up from a trip to the food store, and they also sat and fixed their dinner right there on the stoop--a can of white beans, a can of salmon, a tomato cut up on top and some green olives, shared out between the two of them. They offered to share with me, but I was still full from the late lunch, although I did accept a square of dark chocolate for dessert.

Shortly after they were done, our landlady came out with a bottle of wine and some glasses, and poured us all a glass to drink to the beginning of our journey. It was good to be sitting there, content, having wine, and knowing that tomorrow I would embark on something totally unknown. Although I could have been afraid, I was not. I was surprised at how completely content I was. Even if I had known what was coming, I mean, REALLY known, I think I would have felt the same. It was truly a fitting way to end a beautiful day.

Thanks for reading, and blessings from the Road,

Crone

Today

2007-09-16T07:46:00.000-07:00

Today is Sunday, September 15 or 16, I am not sure. Skipping ahead in the chronology, because it was just a plain old slogging hard day. We left Puente la Reina this morning around 8am, found an ATM because I was totally out of cash, but I did not want to go back into the town last night because our alburge was on top of a MOUNTAIN, and no way was I climbing that hill again just for some money! You really know what´s important on the Way, and what was important was resting and having dinner. I had enough to pay for that, and that was enough.

This was maybe the hardest day yet, even tho I haven´t written about my first adventure, which I thought was the hardest, but today was HOT, and rocky, rocky rocky. There are more rocks in Spain than just about anywhere I have ever been. Not pebbles or stones. ROCKS. All in the middle of the path and all the paths are uphill. Even when they are down hill they are uphill. Here, when there is a hill, they just put a path up over it. No switchbacks, or any wimpy thing like that....just walk over the hill. No matter that you´re climbing at a 50 degree angle...just climb.

So, I slogged. The sweet German ladies left me in the dust, but we had agreed to meet at Lorca, and when I finally got here around 2pm, they had already arranged our room, etc. I just burst into tears right there. I was hot, tired, thirsty, sunburnt, and somewhere I´ve gotten either a lot of bug bites (bedbugs?), hives, or had some kind of reaction to the laundry detergent they use on the sheets or something. Fortunately, they don´t itch very much and I am trying VERY hard not to scratch them. So, I felt pretty much a big mess. BUT, a shower and change of shoes, and then down to the bar for a coffee, where I sat with Rita outside the alburge, having my cafe con leche and listening to Carmen on the CD player. Apparently, the young man at the bar is an opera fan. So, here I am, with German, Canadian, Spanish, and all other kinds of pilgrims, writing this, and I survived the day and got here. And that´s what it´s all about. One day at a time, one foot at a time, one step at a time. It doesn´t matter who passes me or doesn´t, just that I go on.

One way or the other, I´ll get there, but it´s the ¨getting¨ that´s the accomplishment. ¨There¨ has become less important.

Thanks for all the love and support--trust me, I feel it every moment!

Love to all,

Crone

St. Jean Pied de Port

2007-09-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

So, we arrive in the early morning, around 9am. It´s cool, cloudy, misty, very damp and humid. I am about to experience something that happens to people who live in dry climates when they go into damp climates--projectile sweating. As I step off the train and begin to follow the other people who have come to the same place for the same purpose, I am aware that every pore in my body is attempting to rid itself of excess moisture at a great rate. I suppose this happens all the time, but since I normally live in a very dry climate, it just evaporates into the air, and I don´t notice. Nothing evaporates here. Everything is saturated with moisture. It´s not really raining, but it might as well be, as moisture is seeping out of everything, including me. I´m not really sure where to go, but since most of the pilgrim type folks are walking in one direction, I decide to follow them. I end up walking with a young man who might be German or Polish, and we chat for a moment until we turn left to get up to the Pilgrim´s Office. Then I realize I am on a very narrow street in a very small village that goes almost vertically up. Seriously, if they attached ladders to the streets, it would be easier to walk up them. I feel the stirrings of nervousness, but think, well, it can´t all be like this, right?

In the pilgrim´s office, there is a room full of backpacks in the back, and a number of folks milling around. I take my pack off, and sit in front of the next agent, a lovely woman from Canada who speaks French and English. I have my pilgrim´s passport from the American Friends of the Way, but on the spur of the moment, decide to take the passport from this office. She takes my ¨real¨passport, puts in the information, and gives me my first sello (stamp). I am now an official pilgrim!

Then, she gives me several sheets of paper about the first stage of the way, which is from St. Jean to Roncesvalles, Spain. She asks if I´m leaving today. I say, no, I want to acclimate for 1 day and leave tomorrow. Will I go to Roncesvalles? That´s 27 kilometers, or about 14 miles. No, I doubt it, I say. OKay, there are 2 places, Huntto, 6 k up the road, or Orisson, which is 8 k. But Orisson is very popular and she knows it´s full tonight. I ask her to try for that, and if it´s full, we´ll try Huntto. I´m sure I can make 8 K on the first day. She tries Orisson once, but no answer, and then, miraculously, on the 2nd try they answer and they do have a place for tomorrow night. I´m a pilgrim and I have a reservation in my 1st albergue! This must be making up for the missed train on the day before, I think. After that, she reveiws the map with me, tells me where the pilgrim´s refuge is, and also where there are some private ones that might let me in earlier than 4 pm. Most places don´t let the pilgrims in before then, and you have to be out by 8 or 8:30 the next morning. Really, the albergues are just places to eat and sleep, but for less than 15 Euros a night, it´s a bargain.

After I leave the office, I head up (and I mean UP) the cobbled street to find the pilgrim´s refuge. I walk a little bit and become aware of, once again, the sweat popping out of me at an alarming rate, and also that I´m actually panting. I turn around and look back, and nearly fall down the hill. The grade is that steep. Really, if you´re not used to it, it´s scary. So, I turn around and keep walking up. I go through the old gate, and the refuge is there on the left. It´s no open, and I decide to try one of the private ones. The Esprit de Chemin is recommended, and it´s right across from the Pilgrim´s office, so I go there, but they are full. Next door is another place, the Chant du Cock. Well, for those of you who knew my mother, anything concerning a chicken has got to be all right. The door is open so I walk into a very narrow hallway with a bench, and some boots underneath, but no one is there. As I turn around, carefully, because I am wearing my pack, a small, quick, dark, nervous, birdlike woman is behind me. Apparently, this is her house and yes, she does have a place upstairs for 10 euros for the night. In broken French and sign language, I ask if I can see it. Yes, but I must take off my shoes. Okay. The room is fine, small, with places for 7, 3 bunk beds and one smaller trundle bed. I tell her I´ll take it, and is it all right if I leave my things and come and go? Yes, but no shoes upstairs, no shoes in the bathroom, no wet clothes in the room, no one in the kitchen before 7am, etc. That´s all fine, and having had experience with hostels, I immediately claim a bottom bunk, and I am set. I leave the pack, thankfully, as it is becoming heavier with each passing moment, and go off again to look around.

I go in the other direction, down the street, and at the bottom of the hill is the old Basque church on the left. I go in. Even though I am not a member of any Christian church, nor ever will be, I love going into old churches and cathedrals. Perhaps it´s because so many of them are built on ancient springs or sacred sites to the old dieties that the sacredness literally seeps into the stones. Perhaps it´s the architecture that allows the sound of the simple human voice to soar upward into something divine and heavenly. Or perhaps it´s just the years and years of prayers and energy that generations of churchgoers and other seekers have imbued into the stones. I don´t know. But entering this church, I am awed and humbled. As cathedrals go, it´s small and rather dark. But I see the pictures, the stories written both in Spanish and Basque, and at the altar, the fronticepice is a beautiful tiled recreation of all the animals filing into Noah´s ark, two by two. There is no crucifix, which I find interesting, but there is a very strong feeling of peace and power. For the first time, but certainly not the last, I find myself in tears. I sit for a while to regroup, and then move out again into the town.

There are tourists about, pilgrims going back and forth, children, and the usual bustle of daily business in any place. The pilgrims you can always tell by the clothes, the backpacks (for those leaving), or the fact that they´re limping or wearing openbacked sandals to let their blisters air out. I feel completely at home. I decide to have lunch, and find a place that probably a bit more touristy than some, but there´s a big patio outside, and it´s too nice to be indoors, so I go in. I sit down and order and a bit later, see a woman who I´d met in the office walk by. The airlines had lost her backpack, and she was waiting for them to deliver it. I flag her down, and she asks if she can join me. Again, this is just the first of many such continuing encounters I will have along this road. We have a nice lunch, and then we part, she to find someone to, hopefully, fix a strap that has been ripped off her pack, and me to go back to the room and get myself squared away for the long haul tomorrow, and to see who has joined me in the room.

More as time permits....

Crone

Train to St. Jean Pied de Port

2007-09-11T09:52:00.000-07:00

Today writing from my alburge (pilgrim hostel) in Zubiri, Spain. How I got here is another adventure. First, I have to describe my journey to St. Jean Pied de Port, where most people begin the Camino if they are going to go ¨the whole way¨. Since I had missed the train the day before, I was determined not to this morning. I had another wonderful shower, said goodbye to my little room, and headed across the street to the Station (Gare). The ticket office was already open, so had my billete in good time, and got a cafe au lait and croissant from the little place across from the office. After that, I negotiated the cave to the bathroom, and thus fortified, I decided to just wait at the train platform, since I already had that information.

For a while, there were no trains, then one with only 2 cars pulled up at the platform and stopped. It sat there. Should I get on? Was that the one? The numbers were different from the ones on my ticket. What should I do? Then, I began to notice that several people dressed like me, with backpacks and walking sticks, etc. were gathering. This must be it! But, I was afraid to get on. Finally, I couldn´t wait any longer, and seeing an older man at the window, I tapped and mouthed ¨St. Jean Pied de Port?¨ He nodded vigorously and tried to open the door for me, but the other car´s door was already open, so I went in there and came into the car where he was sitting with his friend, a small man with a knitted cap and a wooden stick. They had backpacks with the scallop shell, so I knew I was in the right place.

Shortly after a young man with a hat got on, and then a couple, and I could see the man was blind and the woman leading him. They, too, were going to walk. My heart was so full, just being in the train with these people, and we all just sort of struck up a conversation with English, French, Spanish, maybe a little Polish, too. After a bit, the train started to go, and we all fell quiet. As we moved up into the mountains, the clouds came down, low and damp, and I kept thinking of the terrain in North Carolina, around Asheville, Black Mountain, and Montreat. It´s very similar. There were beautiful small gardens with ripening tomatoes and haricot verte. There were cows and sheep, there were the white buildings with the red tiled roofs. It was getting closer, and I was going to do this. It´s very hard to describe everything that I was feeling all at once. I felt surrounded by kindred spirits. I felt nervous. I was scared. I was intimidated and ready, all at the same time. Finally, the train pulled in to the little station, and we all got out and started walking.

Next stop, the official Pilgrim´s Office to become a pilgrim...

Love and blessings to you all...

Crone

Taking The Wrong Train

2007-09-10T04:11:00.000-07:00

Today is Monday, Sept. 10, and I am writing from Roncesvalles, Spain. I´m on a timed computer, and I don´t think I have access to another internet screen, so I don´t think I´ll have any links here, but if you´re interested you can Google any of the places and see pictures and find out more. Anyway, on to the adventure. Friday, I found my bus to Stansted after a ¨dry run¨ and got to the airport in good time. I´d never been there before, but it´s small, and easy to get around in. The only thing is, the gates are like the train platforms in London. They don´t really tell you what gate the plane is going to be at till almost before it arrives. So there are these screens that you keep watching to see your flight has been assigned a gate, THEN you run down to the gate to wait. Also, I flew on Ryanair, which has ¨free seating¨in that it´s first come first serve. Some people had ¨prioritý¨I didn´t, but again managed a asile seat with no one inbetween. Everything was on time and fine. I pretty much napped the whole way. Then on landing, the ¨customs¨was just a quick line where my passport was stamped, and then on to baggage. I had to find an ATM, as you can´t get Euros in London, and I had no useable cash. That done, I got my pack (which I had had to send thru the x-ray machine myself as it was considered "outsized" baggage). Then I got directions for the bus to Bayonne, where I would get my train ticket for St. Jean Pied de Port, where many people begin the Camino.

All was great, in fact, I met 2 German women, ages 60 and 71, who were also on their way. Trust me, I have been quite humbled in any kind of physical ability I might have had. These people walk like fiends! But it´s all right. Everyone does go at their own pace, and no one is thought less of for walking slower. Better to be slow and get there. So, the younger woman spoke English very well and we chated a bit. The ride to Bayonne was lovely, it was sunny, warm but not hot, and we passed through several small villages on our way. As much as possible, I read street signs, store signs, and listened to conversations to see what I could understand.

Once at the station, I got my ticket in good order, then settled to wait. There was a small cafe, so I went in an ordered a paella, which turned out to be of the ¨heat and serve" variety, but oh, well, it did the job. By then, a lot of people were turning up for the trains, and there were a lot of them coming and going in both directions. I was on the right platform, but I read the signs wrong and ended up getting on the wrong train, which I realized as soon as it started moving. I had thought the signs said the train arrives at this time and leaves at that time, but actually they were signs for 2 different trains--one arriving on the platform at a certain time and ANOTHER train leaving at the 2nd time. Well, I got on the first train when I should have been on the second, and ended up headed to Bordeaux. I knew as soon as I left, and a nice woman who had just had major dental work showed me her timetable and said I should get off at Dax and come back--which I did. Fortunately, it was only a half hour ride, but the wait for the next train back was long, and by the time I got back to Bayonne, it was nearly 10pm, and I just couldn´t face getting to St. Jean when everything was closed. So, I went across the street to a bar that had a hotel sign on it, and asked about a room. Remember, I don´t speak any French, but somehow I got my need across, and the man kind of looked at me, and I know he asked me, ¨You want a room with a shower, right?" RIGHT!

So, I paid, they gave me a key and told me how to get through the door. Then I fell into the adventure of getting into a room in a small, French hotel. The door had a combination keypad, so got through that OK, and a motion sensor light, but then there was a narrow, winding staircase that was pitch dark! I looked around for some kind of light switch, but none to be found. I had a flashlight in my pack, but would have to take it off to get it, and there was not enough room, so I felt my way quietly up the stairs. After the first turn, there was a landing with some numbered rooms. I got the light, found out that mine (#19) was not there, so looked for more stairs. Found them, and got to the 2nd floor, and my room, which was in a corner next to a separate shower room. The actual toilet was across the hall, but once in my room, I realized it had a wonderful small shower of its own. PERFECTION! It´s amazing how big and wonderful the small things are when you really need or want them. And what I wanted right then was a SHOWER. Toilet across the hall was no problem when I had that!

So, shower it was, and then I was able to think straight, and try to get myself organized for the following day. I had looked on the schedule and knew the train to St. Jean left in the morning at around 8, so I tried to figure out some things to take out of my pack, but didn´t manage at that time. Then, I went to the window which was large, high, open, and had no screen on it, but the shutters were closed and hooked across it, making a nice breeze in the room. There was a chair right by the window, and I just sat there, content to listen to the bar/restaurant noises, the conversations, the clinking of dishes and silverware, and enjoying the aromas the wafted upward. The restaurant/hotel was on a corner across from another restaurant, so there was a lot of activity, but somehow, the noise was quite comforting. I was in France, I had made a mistake and corrected it, I had found a room, I was clean, and I was happy to be just where I was. I knew, somehow, that even my ¨mistake¨was right, because it had brought me here, and whatever happened the next day would be appropriate. I knew I was loved and watched over, and all would be well. "Tranqille" as the French say. And so it was.

Blessings of the road,

Crone

The Readers' Digest Condensed Version

2007-09-06T08:10:00.000-07:00

Thursday afternoon here, and only about an hour before we leave to go to the Royal Albert Hall to hear a symphony concert that my friend, M., got tickets to for us. Don't forget to click on the links, as I have no way to post photos, and that's the best way I have to show what I've been doing. This will be a "quickie" as I leave the house very early tomorrow to get my bus to the Stansted Airport for the flight to France. After today, I have no idea when or where I'll have access to a computer.

For our walk, we found our way to the Millenium Footbridge, and thence to St. Paul's Cathedral, where our walk started. We met our guide, paid the fee, and as we set off just then, we were suddenly surrounded by the pealing of cathedral bells. Graham, our guide, explained that only on 1 Tuesday evening per month, the St. Paul's Bellringers practice--and we were hearing it. I have to say, it was pretty incredible, as we walked through narrow lanes and mews, followed by the sound of those bells. When we got to Temple Bar, which is not a bar, but a marble archway, Graham told us to look back, and we could see the shadows of the bell ringers as they practiced. Again, quite a site. Graham led us in quite a circle 'round the City of London, which is actually very small, an eclave within the larger "metro" Lonon area. Six thousand residents by night, 300,000 people working there during the day! After that trek, M. and I were happy to go home and hit the sack.

Wednesday, M. had work to do in the city, and while I woke up at 6 a.m. local time, after wandering around the house for a bit, I actually fell back asleep till nearly 10!! I never do that! Anyway, my goal for the morning was to find my way to where I had to catch my bus for tomorrow's flight, and good thing I did, or I would have missed it for sure! I am somewhat familiar with Victoria Station, but I had to find the Green Line Coach station, and everyone I asked just waved their arms in a general direction saying, "Oh, it's just over there, darling, just look for the buses!" Well, I don't know if you've ever been to Victoria Station, but there's a bus about every 5 feet! Finally, I found some yellow-vested city workers taking a smoke break who kindly gave me SPECIFIC directions on how to get to the station. Now I know exactly where to go tomorrow. Mission accomplished!

After that, it was time for breakfast, even though it was shortly after noon. Found a place who did a full English with the best cup of coffee I've had in a while, and was in bacon, egg, and baked bean heaven. Yes, the English serve baked beans with their breakfasts, so when in Rome... I knew that M. had a business lunch and meetings till around 3, so I decided to do a "hop on/hop off" bus tour. I've done it several times before, but the weather yesterday was absolutely brilliant, I sat on the top of the bus, and just enjoyed riding (slowly) around London seeing the sights from a different vantage point. Some of the places we passed on the route I rode were St. Paul's, Trafalgar Square, the Monument to the Great Fire of London in 1666, and Piccadilly Circus, which, with all the extra traffic because of the tube strike, really WAS a circus yesterday! Also, the rumor goes if you sit in Piccadilly Circus for 47 minutes, chances are, no matter where you are from, you will run into someone you know!

It took about 2 hours to go the short distance back to London Bridge train station, where I called M. and we agreed to meet at the Millenium Footbridge and decide what we wanted to do. Oddly, she had walked up to Trafalgar Square, so we probably passed each other at some point on the road! If I'd got off at Piccadilly Circus, maybe I would have met her there...

At the base of the footbridge on the south side of the Thames sits the Tate Modern Art Museum. It used to be a power plant, hence the large chimney in the middle. Yesterday, there was a group from the Royal Bird Society set up with telescopes. I went to see what was going on and apparently, there's a mating pair of peregrine falcons who have been nesting in London across the bridge, but they like to roost on the Tate chimney in the afternoons. Very much like the Pale Male red tailed hawks in the New York Central Park!

After peering through the telescope, I wandere over to the railing and waited for M. It was around 4pm, and the clouds were crossing and uncrossong over the afternoon sun. On the other side of the Thames the skyline of London spread out before me. St. Pauls was directly in front of me, and I watched, lost in time, the interplay of light and shadow on the cathedral dome. There was a man just to my right, sitting on the wall, playing soft jazz on a guitar, and the music, the cries of the gulls, the breeze, the scents of river and people, all just combined in that one moment to transport me away and directly into the heart and soul of the place where I was. At that instant, in that place, I could not think of anywhere else I wanted to be. This, I thought, this is why I travel. I wish all of you a similar experience at some point in your lives, because once you have it, you will never forget it.

Tomorrow--unfamiliar territory begins.

Hasta luego!

LondonCrone

Being a Tourist In London

2007-09-05T15:03:00.000-07:00

I don't know why London fascinates me. Since I have lived in Colorado, I have come to be uncomfortable in large cities, or even in large groups of people. But I love London, and have since the first moment I stepped out of Victoria Station in 2000, when I brought my mother here, onto the busy, crowded, crazy, dirty, smelly streets of this city where humans have lived for over 20,000 years. Perhaps this is just a place on the earth where people OUGHT to be. Whatever the reason, this city owns a little piece of me. I don't want to live here, but I will never pass up an opportunity to visit and merge with the pulse of this place, if only for a day or two.

The last 2 days have been affirming. I was going to say "wonderful" but that word is too generic. Which is not to say the past 2 days haven't been wonderful, indeed, they have, but there's also a deeper significance to them as well. It took me a while to settle on my time of travel for this pilgrimage. First, I planned to leave in the middle of September, but it seemed too close to Sept. 11. Then, G.'s much awaited knee surgery was set for mid-October, so I thought I would go in late August to give myself enough time, but I really didn't want to go in August at all, so that had me all in a twist. After some deep and true discussion, G. assured me that she would survive her surgery with the help of our good friends, so I was back on again in September. But when? A few years ago, I had traveled on Labor Day, and it had been quite pleasant, so I decided that might work again. Labor Day it was, depart on Sept. 3. Then, my friend M. told me that she might be doing her annual house sitting in London around that time. I told her my firm dates, and lo and behold, she would be there at that time, and I was welcome to stay with her for my few days in London. It seemed like it was meant to be.

My flights to London from Denver to Toronto and from Toronto to Heathrow were smooth and easy. I actually had empty seats next to me all the way, and a bulkhead seat to London with enough room to cross my legs! That alone is quite enough to be thankful for these days. Once I arrived at Heathrow (30 minutes early!), I got to the customs cattle call, and waited. However, everyone was in the same boat, and the line moved along pretty well, considering. After I got through, I thought I had better give M. a call to let her know I was here, and what our plan of meeting should be. Lo and behold, she tells me there is a tube strike that day, and that only a few of the tube lines are running. This could be a serious thing, as Heathrow is a good distance west of London City, and a taxi would probably be more than the price of a hotel room!

I tell her I had planned to take the Picadilly Line to Green Park, then switch to the Jubilee Line into London Bridge Station and we would meet here. Amazingly, which lines of the tube were the only ones running? Picadilly and Jubilee, of course! Thus, despite being packed into the train closer than your average sardine, I made it to the London Bridge tube/train station in good order. M. had said to meet at the food court, so I followed my nose, and there she was. From there, we took an eastbound commuter train to East Dulwich (pronounced "Dull-itch"), and 4 stops and about a 1/2 mile walk later, we were at our digs. I was incredibly happy to just drop my backpack and carry-on, which I had lightened considerably at the airport by putting on my boots and adding a few more things to the backpack. After catching my breath, I looked around the house and the yard. Like most city houses in London that I have had experience with (admittedly few), from the front, it was unassuming. The back yard, however, while narrow (maybe 30 feet wide), goes back probably 50 to 75 yards. There's little grass, but many plants--fuscias, asters, goldenrod, begonias, a good stand of blackberry bushes, an apple tree offering a nice big apple, mimosa trees in pots, and a magnolia tree that is currently in bloom. Magnolias in London! Who would have thought?

After my tour, we "picked up" with some fruit, cheese, and bread, and I met Hampton, the 20 year old cat that came with the house. He didn't seem too impressed, as he didn't wake up long enough to meow. We discussed what we might want to do, and settled on doing a "Ghosts of London" walk given by London Walks that evening. But first, I had to have a rest. I knew I couldn't afford to actually sleep, but I did need to lie down. So, off we went. And, since it is hearly 11:30 p.m. here now, I am off as well, to bore you with more London tales tomorrow.

Sleep well!

Crone

Last Day...For A While

2007-09-02T08:34:00.001-07:00

Well, here it is. The culmination of years of thinking, planning, organizing, wondering, questioning, worrying, obsessing, and whatever other "ing" verbs you might want to put in here. I leave tomorrow. I think I'm ready, at least as ready as one can be on the eve of this voyage. Yesterday, G. and I went down to our favorite store and got henna tattoos of the scallop shell on our left upper arms. Today, mine is much darker than it was. I hope it will last at least until I actually get ON the Camino. Had my last Spanish lesson yesterday. Many thanks to my wonderful maestra, K. She's a jewel.

Today's card was very interesting. At first, it didn't seem to fit, then I read this: "...this card is not about being a workaholic. It is about all the ways in which we set up safe but unnatural routines for ourselves and, by doing so, keep the chaotic and spontaneous away from our doors. Life isn't a business to be managed, it's a mystery to be lived. It's time to tear up the time-card, break out of the factory, and take a little trip into the uncharted."

Well. I guess THAT'S pretty clear! All righty, then, let's go! Here's to chaos and uncertainty!

Hasta luego, caridos.

Crone

The Last Walk

2007-08-31T20:22:00.000-07:00

This morning, I took my last walk before I leave. Tomorrow, I have my last Spanish lesson, and I have a little work to finish. After that, I'll be spending time doing some yoga for stretching, some meditation for mental preparation, and some final packing. But, I think I got most of that done today. I just have to decide which Spanish notes I'm going to pack, along with my dictionary, and my little Spanish reading book, which is a great little compact, comprehensive overview of Spanish. I'll be reading that on the plane.

I had moonlight on my walk this morning. The moon is waning from full, but there was still enough light to give me two shadows--one from the moon, and one from the streetlights that are still on at 5:30 in the morning. I kept hearing Cat Stevens' "Moonshadow" in my head. Today, I stopped for a little bit in Bessemer Park (see page 9 of the attached article), and enjoyed the fountain and the statue of the steelworker there. I had not seen that little area before. It's a pretty nice little historic space. The neighborhood where I live is called "Bessemer" and I found out from reading the plaque on the fountain that Sir Henry Bessemer was the inventor of a steel making process, and hence the name of the neighborhood popped up because it was close to the steel mill. Learn something new every day, even in your own back yard.

After that it was work, and errands, and trying to get to see friends who want to connect before I leave. Then the packing and repacking, and tossing out of extraneous stuff. I really do think I have it now, feeling pretty good!

Then, dinner with G. and lots of good talk. I am ready. It's time for me to do this or shut up for good. So, I'm gonna do it. Try real hard to have no expectations other than to be open to whatever the good universe wants to drop on me. All things considered, the first 50 years haven't been so bad. I think this is an auspicious way to start off the next 50!

Blessings of the road,

CroneWalker

A Misty, Moisty Morning

2007-08-30T06:28:00.000-07:00

This is the waymarking logo for El Camino Santiago. This was changed within the last year or two. I remember reading various e-mails that were pro and con. To me, it vaguely resembles the outline of a scallop shell, but I can also see a sunrise, which is not an inappropriate symbol for the Way, except that most people would be walking westward, and therefore wouldn't see too many sunrises. However. That's not the subject of my post, I just wanted to put it in here.

Today, I walked in the mist. Once I was dressed and ready, I stepped outside on the back porch and realized it was very cloudy and misty. Not quite drizzling, but almost. I thought, should I try the poncho on for size? Then, no, it wasn't that big of a deal, and if it seemed like it was getting worse, I could stop under a tree and get out the poncho.

But it was beautiful. All the streetlights and car headlights were surrounded by halos of mist, silvery and shimmery. I could easily believe that I might have been suddenly transported into some magical "midworld" that only existed for that hour or so that I walked. Very shortly after I set out, I was needing tiny windshield wipers for my glasses! But, as I walked north from the house, the actual misting let up, and it was just cloudy. This, more than anything, is what I love about Pueblo weather. You can move 50 yards and literally be in a whole other weather pattern! Anyway, I walked a little farther than yesterday, and I had the pack on, but we are supposed to go to the state fair today with a friend, so I wanted to make sure I still had the "feet" for that, so after I passed the hospital a couple of blocks, I turned south again to head home.

Wham! The drizzle was back and right in my face! So, I decided to zig-zag my way back through the neighborhood, to take advantage of the wind breaking qualities of houses and trees. It was much better, and I arrived home somewhat damp, but none the worse for wear. The hummingbirds, however, adore this weather. There were at least four of them buzzing around the yard when I got home. And as I stepped through the gate, the aroma of our yard really hung in the moist air--the blending of marigolds and mint, the bitter tang of tomato plants, it was definitely the odor of "home" I'm going to miss it, but what a wonderful place to come back to. I am so blessed.

Blessings on all your Roads,

Crone

Suff (and Nonsense)

2007-08-29T16:08:00.000-07:00

Just a quickie walk this morning, maybe 2 miles? I was taking E. to school again today, so wanted to make sure I got back before my daughter arrived with him, Glena still being asleep. Now, it's about 5pm, and I'm supposed to be getting ready for my Spanish lesson at 7pm, and my brain is mush, and I am just wasting time. I spent today with some work (done by 12:30), then unpacking and re-packing my carry on bag. I ditched some more toiletries (or however you spell it), and a couple pairs of socks, but it still heavy. Plus I consolidated some of the ziploc bags. I really don't think I'm bringing anything that I won't use. I need to weigh this thing before I leave, because I do NOT want to be over some kind of weight limit for the airlines. I'm about 99% sure I'm safe going out, as I'll have all the stuff split up into 2 bags, but I don't know about RyanAir. Guess we'll see, right?

Anyway, back to Spanish. I found this great little dictionary, and of course that's got to come, but here's the thing. As I randomly search for words and meaning, I keep coming across certain words on the tops of the pages that just strike me as odd. I mean would anyone traveling to Spain as a tourist REALLY need the word "gearbox"? Wouldn't "engine" do? Or even "transmision"...but perhaps there is no word for "transmission" in Spanish. Or "nose bag". Nose bag? Am I going to Spain to breed horses? Or "crush hat". What IS a "crush hat" anyway? I don't even use that term in English, why would I need to translate it into Spanish? Yet, there it is. Perhaps I should make it my goal to use the word "crush hat" ("clac") while I'm there. Actually, I like the word "clac". "Busco mi clac!" I'm looking for my crush hat! And, actually, my hat DOES crush up. Click the link and check it out. In fact, right now it's folded up and vacuum sealed in a ziploc bag in my carry on bag! So, perhaps it's not unreasonable that I would need to know the term for "crush hat". "Aieee, mi clac he soplado!!" Oh, no, my crush hat has blown away!

Yeah, okay, I need to stop now, before I get REALLY punchy. I predict a fun lesson tonight. I'm in this mood, and my teacher has been working at the State Fair all day. We should be a wonderful combination!

Onward!

Tying Up Loose Ends

2007-08-28T07:56:00.000-07:00

So, I didn't walk this morning. I took my grandson to school instead, but that's OK. Tonight I have my final reflexology session with C, reflexologist and friend extraordinairre. Then dinner with another friend who had not been able to make it to my ceremony. Right now, I'm doodling around on the 'Net, waiting for some work. I should walk or yoga or do some Spanish, but really what I'd love to do is just crawl back in bed and sleep for a few hours.

I did find a decent map of the Camino, if anyone is reading this and is interested. For the readers who may not know, any word in a post that is highlighted probably has a link to another site. So if you click on the highlighted word, you should go to the link, and then can get back here by clicking your back button or arrow.

Yesterday, I bought luggage tags and a new set of eye shades. Both very important. I put on the eye shades to try them out (they are a kind of "molded" shape; I felt like a blind Zorro when I put them on!), and promptly fell asleep for 2 hours...yay, they work. Oh,did you know that in Spanish, "zorro" is fox? "Zorrillo" is skunk! We have both zorros y zorrillos in our neighborhood here. I wonder if I'll see either of them in Spain. Wow, talk about your free association!

I've pretty well created my e-mail list to update as I go along. I just have to write a nice little note to put in my backpack for those folks who are going to search it, and that'll be one more thing out of the way. So, I suppose I'd better go and get something a bit more productive done.

Adios por ahora,

Crone

Packing It

2007-08-27T09:39:00.000-07:00

I am having a love affair with Ziploc double zipper gallon-sized bags. I have pretty much packed everything I'm going to take with me in these bags, INCLUDING a 35" x 70" bath towel. I have also given up a few for weight considerations. I gave up a second flashlight/fan combo because once I put it in the mesh bag I was putting my "keep handy" things in, the bag just got too heavy. I gave up my 2nd ExOficio vented and pocketed overshirt. One should be enough. I gave up my new white wicking t-shirt because, well, you know, I have no idea how dirty I'm going to get, and it's WHITE for goddess' sake. WHAT was I thinking? Plus, as a large woman, I figure it will be easier for me to by shirts in the mens' departments "over there" than it will be to find pants big enough to fit me. Because, you know, every single woman I've ever seen that was from Europe was thin enough to be slid through a mail slot. Not to mention being about 5" shorter than I am. Thus, even after long and serious consideration, I did not give up any pants. And, I will not give up my towel. Again, it's a size consideration. I want a towel that will GO AROUND me. I do not want to be stuck in some God knows what kind of condition showering facility trying to hide behind a postage stamp! Plus, if you've never tried it, a towel makes a pretty good makeshift blanket. They're warm.

So, this morning, I walked with my newly-packed mochila (backpack in Spanish). It fit well, it didn't shift much, and it also felt good knowing that if I did get caught in a downpour, and didn't get my poncho on in time, the majority of my "stuff" would stay dry. Can't beat that. I also packed my carry on bag the same way, because once I get to London, all the stuff in the carry on will go into the backpack (yes, there's enough room), and the carry on bag folds up into itself, and will go in the BP as well. After I manage to get where I need to be in London via tube, train, stairs, etc. I'll know more about whether or not I want to keep everything I brought. Of course, some of it, I'll use up. But, if I get a complete wild hair, I may ask my friend to see if I could talk her into taking a few things back for me. We'll just have to see, I guess. But I'm not giving up my towel!

Humorous Blessings!

Crone

Sunday Morning

2007-08-26T07:05:00.000-07:00

Today, I was back on the walking road, out the door before 5:30 a.m., but not with pack, because I am still in the throes of trying to figure out the best way to manage all my "stuff". So, out the door, down the road. I have figured out a good route that's about 4.5 miles, and takes me down major streets where, if necessary, I could stop for a bathroom break. Very important to 50 year old women, these bathroom breaks!

It's that lovely time of year, the days are still long because of daylight savings time, but despite our ongoing manipulation of the clock, it's still darker longer in the mornings, and it's getting darker earlier in the evenings. You can't fool Mother Nature, no matter what the clock might say. So, the stars were still out when I left, Orion standing guard at my right as I headed a couple blocks east, then turned north. I smelled skunk, and thought I might have seen one up the road a bit, but a truck came along, and blocked my view, and when it had passed, whatever the animal had been, it was gone.

I had thought that Sunday morning at that time would be almost deadly quiet, but it seemed to be even noisier--people out on the porch, doors open, etc. The state fair is in town till Labor Day, so maybe that's got people all eager to get up before 6 am on a Sunday morning, who knows. As I reached the first of the 2 major streets that I walk on, I noticed there was less traffic there, but still, a lot, I thought, for a Sunday. The sky was getting lighter, and the birds were coming alive. I had hoped that I might see the bats again, and I thought at one point I did, something flying low and erratic, but it was too far away for me to really know if it was bats or just sleepy birds!

I turned off the first "main drag" onto the second. Halfway home. Even though it's a very busy street, it's in a residential area, so for this part of my walk, I actually walk on the sidewalks, and being closer to the houses, and under the trees, muffles the sounds of the traffic surprisingly well. The flowers are still well underway: cosmos, black-eyed susans, roses (roses love Pueblo!), etc. As I got up to the hospital that is about 7 blocks from our house, I came out from under the trees and looked to the east, behind the building. The sun was coming up, and the undersides of the clouds were turning rosy, then building quickly to a brilliant orange/fuscia mixture that only lasts for a few moments. Then everything started to turn a lighter orange, brilliant gold, with highlights of white, some mauve, and darker blues on the outskirts of where the sun was coming up. I can't do it justice, and some of you will know exactly what I mean when I say it was a perfect Maxfield Parrish morning sky. I had to stop for a few minutes and just watch it happen. The miracle of a new day coming, yet again. Another chance for all of us to do more things right. What a blessing.

Shortly, I walked on, and as I glanced westward, noticed a large, solitary bird sitting at the very tip top of a big, dead cottonwood tree. I had to cross the street to see what it was. I believe it was a young eagle or other bird of prey. It sat quietly, watching me. I could not get very close to the tree, as there was a lot of detritus from a construction project on the hospital between us. But I got close enough, and he spread his wings a couple of times before flying off. I couldn't swear to the species, but I'm still 99% sure it was some kind of raptor.

After that, it was time to wrap it up. My brief pauses for observation had given me a second wind, and I was home shortly, where I was greeted by the tiny chittering of our visiting summer hummingbirds. They have become used to us coming and going around the yard in the morning, and sometimes will fill right in front of my face and just stop there--face on, as if to say, "Who do you think YOU are, walking around in MY territory?" For such tiny creatures they have immense personalities. Just for the hope of seeing them, I will always plant agastache and anise hyssop and bee balm, no matter where I end up living.

And so, with coffee and breakfast done, I'm here, and now I'm off to do a bit of work. Today's walk was powerful, and I hope, a sign of wonderful walks to come, very soon, in another place.

Blessings on you all,

Crone

Love

2007-08-24T17:43:00.000-07:00

Do I need to say anything else?

I Am Blessed

2007-08-24T17:35:00.000-07:00

Last night was amazing. I can't even describe it. As I thought, exactly those who needed to be here, were here. Even the weather was amazing. As K called in the spirits of the mountains that surround us here in Colorado to be with me on the journey, the thunder and lightening picked up, it started to pour rain, and it hailed. This went on for a few minutes, and then passed, leaving everything washed and cleansed, even as I was.

Then, to symbolize this being the beginning of an entirely new life for myself, G. shaved my head. It was funny, scary, intense, daring, amazing, an entire gamut of emotions. Thank you to A., who took pictures!

I thought about the ceremony all day today, and how wonderful I felt sitting in circle with the 7 women who came to the ceremony, plus my wife, G. I realized that they are my tribe. That's the word that came into my head, and it is so true. Now, I don't see all these women every day; some I don't see very often at all, but we are all heart and soul connected. It is such an amazing feeling, I am both humbled and incredibly uplifted by knowing these women. The love, the trust, the beautiful intentions that they gave me for my journey, how can it not be a total and smashing success with all that surrounding me? How can I worry about anything at all?

I will carry their prayers and intentions with me along El Camino. I will love the Earth and I will love myself, and when I get back, I will begin a new life with my tribe. How wonderful is that?

Blessings to you all,

Crone

Tonight

2007-08-23T16:50:00.000-07:00

Tonight, my shaman/teacher, K, who led our Vision Quest, is coming over to do a blessing ceremony for me, my journey, my stuff, and G. is going to shave my head. Whew! Guess I should have her take a couple of "before" pics. Not that I have all that much hair to begin with--I've always been a short-hair girl, but I was thinking about it today, and the signficance was making me all emotional. It's my own personal symbol of being reborn into the 2nd half of my life. It's a lot to take on. This ceremony is making the whole trip, the culmination of 7 years of planning, thinking, wondering, and walking, a reality. I'm going to do it. Well, I'm going to attempt it, and I feel reasonably confident that I'm going to do it! I have the time, and I have (I hope) the money. It will be fine. All will be well.

I have no idea who's coming. I sent an e-mail to about 10 of my closest "spirit sisters", but no one has responded. Today, I called one person, new on my e-mail list, and she had not received it. Short notice, but she's going to try to come, bless her heart. One person didn't have e-mail, and I called her, but she has to work, and one person I invited in person, and she just called to say her back was out. So, I have no idea. I guess I should have made follow up calls, but I've just been too busy. Whoever comes will be the ones that were meant to be here, that's how I'm looking at it.

I've been really emotional all day. I guess I could compare it to PMS, if I knew what PMS was supposed to be, but I don't. Antsy, itchy, restless, wanting things to be "right" for the ceremony, but feeling pissy when G. tried to help get things in order. But, the basement looks great, and the best part is, pretty much all my stuff is packed, and seems to be reasonably managable. I have a few last minute things to figure out, but I should be well and truly ready before my departure date. And I will be well blessed and protected spiritually. I am alreay incredibly blessed, but tonight is going to bring it all into focus.

Blessings to all of you, too!

Crone

I Can't Believe It's So Close

2007-08-21T18:06:00.000-07:00

Less than two weeks. That's all the time I have left to get ready. I have to consolidate all the STUFF that's lying on my dresser into some kind of organized chaos, so that I can stuff it into my pack and/or my carry on. I have to call bank and c.c. company to let them know I will be out of the country and not to block my debit/credit card if I try to use them. I tried today to get in to see my new doctor at the Health Department, but of course, she's booked, and, of course, I let too much time pass before trying, so that's really my fault. I am walking approximately 4 miles per day in the morning. It's getting easier, even with the pack; however, I did have kind of a scare on Sunday.

Sunday, I walked the 4 miles (mas o menos) to our favorite coffee shop. I actually arrived before it opened, having given myself an hour and a half to get there, so felt good about that. After I arrived, I called G. to come and meet me. She did, and brought a basket of tomatoes, as seen above, to donate to the coffee shop. We are keeping the entire town in tomatoes these days! Anyway, we had coffee, I had a breakfast bagel sandwich with egg and cheese, perfect for what I had been doing, and I told G. that I was going to attempt to walk the 4 miles back, since it was still not too hot.

Off I went. Now, the way to the coffee shop is mostly on a slight downhill slope, so that means, going back, I'm heading uphill all the way. No serious incline except for a hill or two, but still, it's uphill. I have to say, I did pretty darn well until I got right by the hospital that is only about 7 blocks from our house. I stopped to check my boots because I thought I had a rock in my shoe. I sat down on the curb, took off my boots and socks, drank some water, wiped my face, rested for a few minutes. I was feeling good. A little tired, but good. I was fully expecting to get home in just a bit. Well, then I made my fatal mistake. When I put my boots on at any time, I always stand up and bend over to tie them. This is to make sure the socks are not wrinkled, the tongue of the boot is out, etc. So, I did then. Then I put on my pack--right now it's maybe 15 lb? THEN, since my hat, my walking stick, and my water bottle were still on the ground, I bent over to pick them up.

When I stood up again--WHAMMO! I was hit with the biggest, yuckiest head rush ever. I literally had to lean up against the building to keep from falling over. It was horrible. So, I leaned there for a while, drank a little more water, and it started to calm down a bit. I thought, I better move on. I had actually stopped at a closed down sub shop behind the hospital to do all this, so I got up another 2 blocks to where I was right at the hospital...right by the ER in fact. They have recently built on a new driveway for the ambulances to drive up to the ER, and there was a stone retaining wall there by the sidewalk. I was still feeling pretty woozy, so I sat there and took off my pack again. I kind of leaned over to put it on the ground, and nearly passed out on top of it! Again, the head rush. God, it was horrible. After a minute, I manage to get to my phone (which I DO carry while walking around town), and called G. She came right away and picked me up. When I told her what had happened, she said I should NEVER have bent over and put my head lower than my heart while I was walking like that. NOW, they tell me! But it made sense, because as soon as I put my head BACK on the headrest in the car, I felt fine--it was an immediate thing, and I felt fine all the rest of the day, and walked 4 miles this morning.

But, BOY, did I learn a very important lesson! Thanks for teaching me now, and not on the road.

Blessings to you all,

Crone

Just Because

2007-08-16T06:24:00.000-07:00

This is my mom, Joan, who passed away July 11, 2006, after a long battle with diabetes. This picture was taken the day after Christmas, 2005, and it's one of the best of her I had seen in a long time. This is how I remember her, smiling, just about to talk--boy that woman loved to talk!! I am who I am because of her, probably more than anyone. I am walking for her as much as for myself. She needs to be here so people can see her.

I love you, Meeps!

Thursday Morning

2007-08-16T06:11:00.000-07:00

Boy, I make a mean cup of coffee! Sitting here, after my walk, and shower, it's just the best. Yesterday, it was so hard for me to get up and walk, so I blew it off, but I do feel so much better when I get out and get the wind on my face before the sun comes up.

Last night, we had a HUGE thunder/rain storm all up and down the Front Range. Much needed rain, and the light show was incredible. These days, anything like that makes me wonder how I will manage if some kind of storm, etc. comes up when I am walking and far from shelter. Hmm. I suppose I will get wet, and then dry off after it stops raining, or arrive eventually at a place where I can wash and dry my clothes. I am packing most things in plastic bags, just in case.

So, on to today's card. The King of Fire - Creator. Again, a very appropriate card. Fire cards two days in a row, which is totally appropriate as fire represents action, and doing. Lots of that going on these days! Here is the brief quotation: "The King of Fire twlls us that anything that we undertake now, with the understanding that comes from maturity, will enrichment to our own lives and to the lives of others. Using whatever skills you have, whatever you have learned from your own life experience, it is time to express yourself."

Well, as usual, this is dead-on. I've been planning this trip for probably seven years. And seven years ago, I was in better shape than I'm in now. But, I couldn't have done this trek. Spiritually, emotionally, I simply was not ready. But now I am. Even though it may be harder on my body, my soul is in way better shape, and that's where we get our real, true strength. I feel ready to accept the gifts of the Creator, the gifts of balance, and understanding, and integration. I feel so incredibly blessed to be able to do this trip, just as I'd planned so long ago. The Universe is truly an amazing place, with unlimitied powers to offer just what we need at the time we need it.

May you all be so blessed!

Crone

Getting Closer

2007-08-15T16:37:00.000-07:00

So, it's about 5:30 p.m., and I had a big transcription file to do today, and I got about 15 minutes into it, and I just HAD to go lie down and take a nap. I don't know what that was all about. I didn't walk this morning, but did about 4 miles yesterday, feeling good, so I'm encouraged.

The card I got today is 8 of Fire, Traveling. Appropriate, don't you think? It..."indicates a time of movement and change. It may be a physical movement from one place to another (true enough!), or an inner movement from one way of being to antoher." I'm sure that's totally going to be the case.

I'm probably going to stress myself out about this whole trip way more than I should. It all revolves around bodily functions. I don't mind being alone, don't mind the thought of being in a country where I don't speak the language very well, don't mind the physical requirements. But, ah, the bodily functions. SIGH. We are so tied to our bodies and their proper, or improper, workings. I will just deal with it! If I got through the VQ with all the stuff that was going on, then I can do this. I'll use Scarlett O'Hara as my ideal: "I've done murder, I guess I can do this!" Okay, perhaps not the best example when on a spiritual retreat/pilgrimage, but there you are, she came to mind.

I'd like to write more, but my fingers are pooped today, and I need to really get some stuff packed. It's all kind of languishing on my dresser and chair, waiting to be put in its proper place. I did, however, locate my eye shades today, and I'm pleased about that. See, I'm doing that "alternative packing" thing--putting enough in a carry on bag of the correct size requirement (I think my back pack is too big), so that IF anything happens, I'll have the bare minium, but enough to put into a new backpack and go on, if I have to. As Katherine would say, it's my exit strategy, not an energy leak. I'm not worried about something happening to my pack, but just being prepared for all eventualities, like a good Girl Scout. Okay, guess I'd better go upstairs and see what's happening with the weather. Looks like it got cloudy and windy out there.

Blessings on you all,

Crone

Friday Morning

2007-08-10T06:21:00.000-07:00

Happy Friday!

Just a bit before 7:30 this morning, I am back from my walk with the dog, had a shower, got a cuppa here with me, and just finished eating a buffalo burger that I cooked on the grill the other night. Last night's dinner was popcicles (it was hot last night!), so I was hungry this morning when I got back from walking.

My pack is coming together. My "alternate" pack is also coming together. I'll be having my blessing ceremony here at the house on the 23rd. I found out I can fly back to London directly from Santiago. I've got my passport, and my Pilgrim's passport, which get stamped at each alburque to prove that I've walked the Way once I get to Santiago. I have my boots and my sandals. I have my clothes and my socks. I have a very good Spanish/English dictionary. If I had to get up and go today, I could. That's a good feeling.

Yesterday wall all day in Denver. I really enjoyed meeting Andrea and Steve, and being able to share some of our produce bounty with them. I like a businessman who answers the door in socks!! My kind of place to work!

There are just so many thoughts going through my mind right now, it's hard to pull them all together. I am trying to balance out the walking with some yoga, the stretching and strengthening being necessary, too. Plus adding some meditation, and Journeying as well. I will miss the upcoming West direction class with my teacher Katherine, but still need to keep up with the work so I will be ready for it when it cycles around again.

All in all, I am feeling pretty grounded. Because of the interruption in my schedule yesterday, I rescheduled today's Spanish lesson for early Sunday morning. I am going to attempt to walk to my teacher's house, maybe 3.5 miles. That will be a good stroll, and afterwards, I will walk down to one of my favorite coffee shops, and call Glena to meet me and bring me home! That's the way to do it, right??

Blessings on you all!

Crone

Making Progress

2007-08-09T04:58:00.000-07:00

Thursday morning. In a little while, Glena and I go up to Denver to take her to the VA for an appointment with a podiatrist. Additionally, we're also going to stop by and meet the folks I have been doing transcription for for the last several months. We are also taking loads of fresh produce to them!

Here is today's card: 4 of Water, Tuning In. I like this card a lot. I like the colors, and the "mood" of it. To me it feels very calm, and calm is what I am going to need a lot of over the next few weeks. Here is the card's message: "To develop the knack of taking a distance from the mind is one of the greatest blessings. It is what meditation is all about, really--not chanting a mantra, or repeating an affirmation, but just watching, as if the mind belongs to somebody else. You are ready to take this distance now, and to watch the show without getting caught up in the drama. Indulge yourself in the simple freedom of Tuning In whenever you can, and the knack of meditation will grow and deepen in you.

This is so very true, especially the part about being caught up in the drama. G. and I have often talked about how we do NOT want to allow ourselves to be "sucked into" the various dramas of our families or friends, which seem to be many. This does not mean we won't be available to help or offer comfort, but from a detached and loving point of view, not as an active participant. It is such a relief to have come to that place. I hope that I will be able to remember the above words as I travel to different countries, encounter foreign languages and customs, and move through the world at a slower pace.

I also started packing my backpack last night, beginning with....drum roll....76, count 'em, 76 maxi pads of various sizes! Yikes! But I look at it this way. As I use them (and I will), I'll have more room, and somewhat less weight, in my pack. So that's a positive. I also found some great shirts at WalMart that have replaced the other ones I was going to take. I have four of them--dark red, navy, white, and lavender. They are short sleeved, V-neck (which I love), and made of some wicking, quick drying material that will help me stay drier and cooler on the Way. I am very happy to have found them! Four is probably more than many people would take, but it seems right for me. I also have to have a cotton shirt to sleep in.

I've been checking the weather at various places along the Way, and it looks like I will be packing appropriately. I guess my only real concern in that regard is rain, but my pants are all very quick drying, and I will take a poncho to go over my pack, so I should be all right. And of course, my very special hat!

I will be giving this blogsite out to a number of friends/family, and will try to chart my progress here as much as possible, given the frequency of Internet cafes. Since I am not taking a camera, I won't be posting pictures, but will try my best to paint verbal pictures for everyone back home who has supported me so wondefully.

It's time for another cup of coffee, then to pick produce!

Blessings,

Crone

My Other Bat Story

2007-08-06T09:03:00.000-07:00

I went back and searched both my blogs, because I thought I had posted this story, but I guess I didn't. Anyway, here's my other bat story...

My mom passed away Tuesday, July 11, 2006, in Atlanta, GA, where she had lived since 1967. G. and I had arrived at her house from Colorado on Sunday evening, went to see her in hosp. on Monday morning, where she had been in and out of ICU for a bit over a month. She initially went in to have treatment for a diabetic foot ucler, then progressed to breathing problems because of CHF, and the night they released her out of ICU and into a regular room, she had what we later found out was a cardiac arrest, coded, and they revived her. Well, after they "revived" her, basically she was on a vent and pretty non-responsive.

Anyway, when I visited her, she was back in ICU, and unable to speak, but she recognized my voice, and she looked at me when I asked her to, blinked when I asked her to, and so I know that she knew I was there. My sister had told me that practically her last words had been about my daughter, her oldset grandchild, who had been going through a lot of rough times. I was able to pass on to my mom that things were looking up with her, that she was working, and that her 2 great-grandsons were doing well.

We only stayed for a short while, kissed her goodbye, and said we would come again in the morning. We also wanted to talk to her doctor about DNR, etc. She had been very clear our entire lives that she did not want anything "long and drawn out" if a good recovery wasn't possible. That was Monday.

In the wee hours of Tuesday morning, my brother called me, stating the hospital had just called, and mother's breathing was becoming very labored. We had requested a do not reintubate that day, and the nurses had kindly put it in the chart. Paul said that the nurses told him that they were making her comfortable. I woke up Glena and told her what was going on. By the time I even got laid back down, Paul called again, and said the hospital had just called, and mother had passed. It was about 2:30 a.m.

Paul lives about 60 miles away from my mother's house, where the rest of us were staying (I have 2 brothers and 1 sister), so he said he would head over. I woke up everyone else and let them know. My sister was exhausted, and was having cancer surgery the next day, so she went back to bed. My other brother and I waited up for Paul, and when he got there, we just sat quietly in the family room, crying a little, laughing a little, and thinking how strange it was knowing that Mother wasn't ever going to be in that house again.

Around 5:30, we all started to fade. The boys said they were going to try to go back to sleep, and I said I wanted to go out on the back deck for a while. Mother had built that deck on the back of the house after my dad died in 1990. She loved it, and always said HE would have loved it, too, but he would never have let her build it! Like everything else around the hosue, it had kind of fallen a bit into disrepair since my mom's health began failing, but it was still very sturdy and safe. I pulled a lawn chair out and sat in the middle of the deck looking out into the dark back yard. It was very quiet.

My mother's house is only 4 miles from the Atlanta airport, one of the worlds busiest, but where her house sits is surrounded by a few acres of undeveloped woods, and her house is at the end of a dead-end street, so there is almost no traffic. It was that magic time of just barely beginning to get light. I could see the silhouettes of the trees, but only as darker images against a nearly black background. From time to time, I thought I saw something move quickly around my head, but didn't give it much thought.

A few minutes past, and increment by increment, the yard began to get lighter. Suddenly, I realized what that perceived "movement" was--it was HUNDREDS of BATS. They suddenly appeared swooping and flying all around me as I sat mesmerized in the chair. I lived in that house from 1967 to 1992, on and off, and have visited many times, and usually spend early mornings on the deck. I had NEVER seen anything like those bats. As I sat, amazed, I had an incredibly strong feeling that these bats were souls, and that this was my mother, come to say good by to me, to us, to her house, to her life. It was at once comforting and awe inspiring. I felt the wings around me, the breeze they lifted across my face, and in the coolness the morning air, I felt the tears I didn't know I had shed drying on my cheeks.

Signs & Symbols

2007-08-06T06:19:00.000-07:00

Monday morning. It's odd, working from home, working whenever I have work, being able to do a bit here and a bit there, that Monday would have any meaning as MONDAY, per se, but it does. There is still the "feeling" of beginning another week. I walked this morning, a long one, trying to get this heavy body and these old feet in some kind of shape for my upcoming trek. It's been hot here during the day, so I prefer to walk in the predawn hours, leaving somewhere between 5 and 5:30 am. It's a magic time. There's always a little breeze and the sounds of the birds and other day creatures waking up.

This morning, after I had been underway for a short while, I happed to look up at the lightening sky. There was the waning moon directly overhead, edges blurred by a few low hanging, wispy clouds. And, suddently, three black streaks flashing right overhead. Three bats!! They dipped and dived around me for a few minutes, and then they were on their way, probably to hide and sleep as the sun came up. I am always happy to see bats because I know they eat mosquitos, but for the last year or so, the bat has been especially dear to me. When I see them, I feel very close to my mother, who passed away last summer. Seeing those bats put a smile on my face and my long walk flew by, even with the dog having to sniff every blade of grass along the way to make sure she peed in JUST the right place!

Naturally, when I got home, I pulled out "Animal Speak" by Ted Andrews. One passage in particular stood out to me: "The authors...refer to the bat as reflecting the traditional shaman's death--the breaking down of the former self through intense tests. It is a facing of your greatest fears--that it is the time to die to some aspect of your life that is no longer suitable for you.

"Most people fear transitions, holding onto a "better the devil you know than the one you don't" kind of attitude. If bat has flown into your life, then it is time to face your fears and prepare for change. You are being challenged to let go of the old and create the new."

Could that be any more right on? During my vision quest, I had to face all kinds of intense challenges, the physical challenge of bleeding, and societal challenge of bleeding and being in close proximity to several men that I didn't know very well, the challenge of heat, of being alone in wilderness, etc. This upcoming walk promises to offer even more challeges, physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. I KNOW that some inner part of me is going to have to die or be completely transformed, which is basically the same thing when you think about it. I work hard on having no expectations of the outcome, only that I know I will be different when I get back. I what way, I don't know, but any journey changes a person, and one like this, well, all I can think of is a catepillar into a cocoon into a butterfly. I hope that I may emerge triumphant and beautiful.

And so it is.

Blessings on you all.

Crone

Happy August!

2007-08-02T05:45:00.000-07:00

It's August 2, 6:46 a.m. as I write from Colorado. In a month, September 3, I leave for Spain. It's becoming more real by the day. There is so much to do, and I am constantly thinking and re-thinking. Of course, this week I am having my period. I suppose that is what is first and foremost on my mind, where will I be able to take care of those needs, etc. Once again, I am so grateful for having gone on the Vision Quest before taking this longer trip because of everything that I dealt with there. Somehow, I will manage. That's just all there is to it. Not doing this isn't an option. It has nothing to do with what anyone else might think, or even the loss of the money on the plane ticket...it's that I would have let myself down more profoundly than I ever have before in my life. And I can't, I won't, live with that. So, I'm going. I realize I may not finish, due to time, or other unforeseen circumstances. That is all right. At least I will have gone and made and honest attempt. So, when the doubts rush in, and they do, that is what I tell myself, and I feel better immediately. I AM ready to do this trip emotionally.

Physcially, I'm working on it. Yesterday was just too "draining" of a day to walk, so I did yoga instead, and meditation. I firmly believe that each are equally important. Yoga definitely helps build my core strength and focus, as well as helping my balance. This morning, I woke up early, before 5am, and just went ahead and got up and took the dog for a walk. We did our usual route, down to the hospital, across and back, about 20 square blocks, and I have no idea what the distance it. I would say between 2 and 3 miles. I'll do mostly the same walk in reverse tomorrow, even though I don't like going clockwise, because of having to walk on the wrong side of the road.

Then, on Saturday, I am thinking of walking solo (dog will be SOOOOO unhappy) down to a little coffee shop further away, and taking the cell phone to call Glena when I get there to see if she would want to join me (and, yeah, give me a ride back). I'm getting a bit of a hot spot under the 2nd and 3rd toes of my right foot, and I don't want to aggravate it into a blister before I even leave! However, I did make my magic foot ointment yesterday, another batch with NO honey this time, and it's perfect! Well, it could probably use a little bit more beeswax, but it spreads on the skin beautifully. I put in cypress oil for circulation, geranium oil for skin, lavender for all over marvelous properties and clove oil for a bit of antifungal. Oh, plus vitamin E oil. It's luxurious! All combined in infused oils of calendula, comfrey, and plantain, every one of those fabulous for healing skin and keeping it healthy.

The morning walks are really good for me. This is a seasonal transition time, where, if you pay the slightest bit of attention, you will notice the days getting shorter, and even cooler (yes, even under the summer heat it is there!). I love the quiet of the early mornings, and Peaches is a good walking companion--she rarely if ever barks at anything, even tho all the other dogs love to bark at her, and she keeps me going

Today's card is a Major Arcana card, Number VII - Awareness. As always, these cards just pop out a message that need to hear right at the moment. The card shows a figure pushing through a veil, or rather, burning through it. The veil is illusion, but the fire is blue, cool. The flame is not the hot flame of passion, but the cool flame of awareness. The message is "...Let yourself settle, and remember that deep inside you are just a witness, eternally silent, aware, and unchanged. A channel is now opening from the circumference of activity to that center of witnessing It will help you become detached, and a new awareness will lift the veil from your eyes."

True, true, and true. I am learning detachment. I have been a student of that for a while, with my own small Buddhist studies, and we worked on it quite a bit in the Directions of the Medicine Wheel in my Shamanic studies, and now this. I must remain detached from everything that is going on for this trip, even my physical condition, even my excitement, nervousness, and fear. That detachment will allow me to keep my "self" open and available for whatever miraculous thing I may encounter, both on the Way, before I leave, and after I return. Faith. It's always about faith, and staying out of the way long enough to allow it to work.

Blessings of Awareness,

Crone

Counting Down

2007-07-30T05:57:00.000-07:00

Two more days left in July, then August, and then I'm on my way. It seems almost impossible that I'm actually going to do this, but I know I am. In the last few days, the "real world" has been trying to encroach on me; real world meaning in most cases "financial reality". This past year, I have been so blissful because I've had a pretty decent bank account, and haven't had to work full time. This will not be the case when I get back. I am working to make that all right. I am working on preparing various options to explore without letting the situation overwhelm me. And, still, be open to whatever happens on the Road, to who I will meet, the places I will see, everything.

Today, after my walk, I drew a card from my favorite Tarot deck, the Osho Zen deck. I've worked with this deck for years, and it is completely amazing to me how accurate the cards are, or how "on target" the message is when you pick one. Today, my pick was 6 of Rainbows - Compromise, seen here above. Once again, the cards give me something to think about. Indeed, what I was just saying about how to manage my life/finances when I return from the Road.

The message of the card is: "The two figures on this card remind us of the sleazy and conspiratorial situations we can get into when we compromise our own truth. It is one thing to meet another halfway, to understand a point of view different from our onw and work towards a harmony of the opposing forces. It is quite another to "cave in" and betray our own truth." This cuts directly to the question of what am I going to do when I get back? Right now, I am working part time for a great medical transcription company and really enjoy it. I know I will have to work for years and years, that's just a given. Retirement for me is not an option and I am okay with that. But it's HOW I work that is important to me, and I have discovered that I LOVE working from home. Sooo, I can see if these folks have more work for me; I can apply to national transcription companies, do local fliers, etc. and see what happens.

But mostly, I can have faith that all will work out as it needs to. My basic life expenses are quite few, actually. What has me more worried is my credit card debt, and if truth were told, I have enough money in various accounts that I COULD pay them off it I wanted to. I'd have to pay penalties, etc., but I COULD do it. So, no worries. Keep the faith, keep walking, keep going forward. "All will be well, all will be well, all manner of thing will be well." --Dame Julian of Norwich.

Blessings of uncertainty to you all,

Crone

Walking, walking, walking

2007-07-25T16:43:00.000-07:00

Every morning, I've been getting up at about 5:15 a.m. and walking the dog. I try to go another block or so every day. I can't do much more, though, because I think I'll wear out the dog! She's just a little pound poodle, Peaches, so an hour's walk for her is a big deal. She loves it, however, because as soon as she hears me click on my fanny pack, she's dashing across the room to make sure I don't leave without her!!

I've been watching some YouTube videos of The Camino that were sent via email from a group that I've belonged to since I hatched this wild plan to do this, back 7 years ago, if you can believe that. My Spanish lessons are coming along, and I feel fairly confident that I will at least be able to accomplish rudimentary communication while I'm there. I'm starting to hear Spanish in my head a lot and if Glena wouldn't mind, I'd be watching the few Spanish channels that we have on our DirecTV! In fact, I did watch today while she was out, and what did I see? A commercial for a whole set of tapes, etc. to learn Ingles! Irony, eh??

My shamanic teacher has agreed to do a blessing for me before I leave. I plan to invite a few close friends who have been so supportive of this endeavor since I announced it so long ago. I can't believe it's just barely more than a month away. I feel so blessed to be able to do this. I know my mother is watching with a smile on her face. She always wanted to travel, and now, through me, she will. I hope to take some photos with me to show as I go along. Meeps, Glena, the boys and Jessica, our house, garden, and of course, Peaches! I know it's "frivolous" weight, but pictures will make an instant connection when you are struggling with words!

I want to be able to find the words for this trip. I am trying to journey on the days when I don't have Spanish lessons, to keep up with my yoga, to work, to study, to put a little bit of time in many areas of my life. The balancing act is delicate, but that is all right. Soon, for a little while, I will not have to balance anything, just put on my pack every morning, and put one foot in front of the other until I reach my destination. And, truthfully, all other worries and trepidations aside, I think the blissful sense of relief that will bring is going to outweigh any other concerns I might have. It's like I am finally living the fantasy I had of walking back to Oklahoma City from Atlanta when I was a sad little kid, uprooted for the umpteenth time and wanting to go back home. I will make that journey for the little girl that was me.

Blessings,

Crone