Walking the Path
I have been on the road for a month as of today and it is time to break the silence. A few highlights:
I walked 220 miles in 2 weeks. I did so without much prior knowledge of the Camino de Santiago, the historic trail that runs across northern Spain. I thought I had the right shoes for such a trek, but the opposite soon became apparent. I got blisters. Lots and lots of painful blisters, mainly on my left foot. It was not always fun, and very often it was tiring, but it never failed to be interesting or thought-provoking, and I can say with certainty that I am glad to have had such an experience and would not have had it any other way.
I slept in rooms with as many as 12 other people, even resting for a night in a dark, ominous cave that became known as "The Death Chamber". I ate bread. Lots and lots of delicious European bread, sometimes crusty, occasionally dense, and always shoved down my throat at record pace. I fell in love with bocadillos, the Spanish sandwiches that can often be as big as your forearm. I never met one I didn't like. I drank tons of coffee, deciding that walking 15-20 miles a day was enough of a reason to have that second (and third) caffe americano or con leche every afternoon. I briefly contemplated incorporating Serrano ham, all chewy and thin and delicious, into every meal for the rest of my life. I stopped eating chocolate, started eating arroz con leche (rice with sweet milk, dusted with cinnamon) and flushed down whatever sustenance I happened to get while walking each day with a glass of red wine and a smile.
I had great walking partners in Lynn and Jodie, whose presence on the trail was always welcomed and appreciated. We talked a lot, laughed a lot, farted a lot, and laughed at the farts (a lot). Or, you could just say we bonded--a lot. We came up with our own language, our own unique style of looking at the Camino and our journey together. Jodie popped my ugly foot blisters with a needle until I had nerve enough to take care of them myself, sometimes sitting in awe that so much fluid could be contained in such a small area. We held daily "Compeed Conferences", which entailed deciding how and where to apply those European lifesaving bandages to the tender areas of our feet. Jodie came up with the "Compeed Cross", which was two bandages forming a cross on the sole of the foot, providing relief for days on end. As part of the daily routine, the three of us developed our own pilgrim morning talk show after breakfast. Highlights included the review of the previous night's accommodations ("I loved the hot shower, but why does the water have to shut off every 30 seconds?"), the morning pilgrim traffic report ("watch out for the pilgrim bottleneck up ahead at Sarria"), a pollution index that warned of the pungent and occasionally overwhelming smell of manure as we galavanted through farm after farm in the middle of nowhere (the most dangerous level--and most frequent--was code purple), and of course, a warm and fuzzy human interest story to end the whole thing. One morning it featured a cute, mangy little dog that followed us three miles to the next hostel, whom I named Hollywood, while another saw us reminiscing over the bull that kept trying to mount the cow in the pasture during the previous days' walk. It is always good form to end the news with a funny.
I have been meeting people from all over the world. There was Josh, a chatty and sarcastic 21-year old from Pennsylvania with wild, curly brown locks who had just come from the Ukraine and who kept a running count of his blisters, just in case anyone wanted to know the tally. There was Isabel, a lovely young Catalan woman with an infectious smile, deep brown eyes and a penchant for running into us in the most random of spots. I liked her immediately, as did most everyone else who was lucky enough to engage with her. She taught me some Spanish, I taught her some English slang, and eventually I spent a long weekend at her home outside of Barcelona, taking a tapas tour with her friends (during which I coherently strung together some drunken Spanish sentences, confirming that it is easier to speak and understand a foreign language when your guard has been let down by copious amounts of wine) and getting delicious home-cooking and non-stop laundry service from her wonderfully energetic mother, who would patiently wait for Isabel to leave home before entering and scooping up all the dirty laundry she could get her hands on, mine included. There was Janis (Yanis) from Latvia, the only person whom I have ever met from that country, and who (like Isabel) kept popping up all over. He introduced me to Latvian disco music, which is light and sugary and just as vacuous as American disco, maybe even more so. There was a Canadian woman whose name escapes me at the moment--maybe it was Debbie, I can't say for sure--but whom I met while sitting at a bus stop waiting to head back to Santiago on the last day after the whole walking thing was over. In the midst of our conversation she told me about a program called Diverbo, in which you speak English for a week at a posh hotel in exchange for free room and board. Next Friday I will be heading to Salamanca to do this. Whatever her name was, I am grateful for the message, and even more grateful that I paid attention to the curiously interested feeling inside that kept urging me to apply.
I have been thinking a lot about my life, my home, wherever that may be, what I want to be, who I am now, what makes me happy. I have seen how I do things my own way, how I learn lessons in my own time. I have felt nothing but extreme gratitude for my way of doing things. MY path. I am happy to be this person, doing these things, learning these lessons. I walked the last 100 miles of the Camino in my black Reef flip flops. People were stunned. One man told me I was courageous. Another Spanish woman, I think she yelled at me about it although I couldn't be 100% sure. I let go of what the book says, what everyone else says, and put the flip flops on, doing it my way, navigating with relative ease and certainly with far less pain than in my La Sportiva trail shoes.
I have felt both lost and found. There were yellow arrows to direct us all along the Camino. There are no arrows now. I have to follow my own arrows again, and I am. Before embarking on this journey I declared that anything was fair game, and I am surprised to know that this means everything. I have ups and downs. I cried during the Camino, thinking about some unhealed past relationships and how there is still work to do to release them fully. I cried after the walk was over, tears of joy from way down deep, realizing that what I really want has always been here--right here--and is not out there. I have sensed that traveling is wonderful, but so is being home. I have felt the terror and loneliness of being in Madrid, the biggest city in Spain, with no real plan or sense of anything, hot on the heels of 15 days of walking and introspection and a sort of comfort that came from having my course all charted out for me. I have also felt the joy of communicating with someone in a foreign tongue, courtesy of Google Translate and a willingness to go with it and get over myself. I have thought a lot about Hawaii, the place where I just came from, what made it so special, and then remember that I have to live now--in this moment--and that no matter what place I call home in the future, there will never be a place to actually "end up". It is all in motion, never quite stopping until it's all over, and there is something truly exquisite in all of that, no mistakes for sure.
I have made some other observations. On the Camino I heard a cricket's chirp and realized that I was hearing the sound of all crickets, everywhere. I don't know how or why, I just knew that it was. One night I couldn't stop laughing at the absurdity of the Camino and what we all were doing, how we were following yellow arrows all over Spain, and the fact that this was totally meaningless in and of itself. I have had the revelation that farting is always hilarious and that appreciating such a disgusting bodily function is actually no less a spiritual experience than walking 220 miles across a dirt trail is. I have rediscovered a burning desire to learn another language, picking up some Spanish with relative ease and longing to be able to communicate with the people here through more than just pointing and a single word or two. I have thought about the future, the near-future, and then tossed those thoughts into the garbage bin once they started to deliver their obligatory and inevitable stress. Today, I felt a little homesick so I ate a burger and fries at a small, half-empty restaurant called "La Vespa Burger House" and then came back to the hostel and typed all of this out, never feeling for one second that I was missing out on a thing. There is as much wisdom in that as in anything else I have seen or done in the past month. It is peaceful to not fight with yourself, to do nothing if that is what you really want to do. I forgot how much peace there is in just sitting still. I'm sure I will forget again, but for now, I am content.
So that is where I have been during the past month. Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings. Thank you for listening.
- Posted using BlogPress from Ipad
I walked 220 miles in 2 weeks. I did so without much prior knowledge of the Camino de Santiago, the historic trail that runs across northern Spain. I thought I had the right shoes for such a trek, but the opposite soon became apparent. I got blisters. Lots and lots of painful blisters, mainly on my left foot. It was not always fun, and very often it was tiring, but it never failed to be interesting or thought-provoking, and I can say with certainty that I am glad to have had such an experience and would not have had it any other way.
I slept in rooms with as many as 12 other people, even resting for a night in a dark, ominous cave that became known as "The Death Chamber". I ate bread. Lots and lots of delicious European bread, sometimes crusty, occasionally dense, and always shoved down my throat at record pace. I fell in love with bocadillos, the Spanish sandwiches that can often be as big as your forearm. I never met one I didn't like. I drank tons of coffee, deciding that walking 15-20 miles a day was enough of a reason to have that second (and third) caffe americano or con leche every afternoon. I briefly contemplated incorporating Serrano ham, all chewy and thin and delicious, into every meal for the rest of my life. I stopped eating chocolate, started eating arroz con leche (rice with sweet milk, dusted with cinnamon) and flushed down whatever sustenance I happened to get while walking each day with a glass of red wine and a smile.
I had great walking partners in Lynn and Jodie, whose presence on the trail was always welcomed and appreciated. We talked a lot, laughed a lot, farted a lot, and laughed at the farts (a lot). Or, you could just say we bonded--a lot. We came up with our own language, our own unique style of looking at the Camino and our journey together. Jodie popped my ugly foot blisters with a needle until I had nerve enough to take care of them myself, sometimes sitting in awe that so much fluid could be contained in such a small area. We held daily "Compeed Conferences", which entailed deciding how and where to apply those European lifesaving bandages to the tender areas of our feet. Jodie came up with the "Compeed Cross", which was two bandages forming a cross on the sole of the foot, providing relief for days on end. As part of the daily routine, the three of us developed our own pilgrim morning talk show after breakfast. Highlights included the review of the previous night's accommodations ("I loved the hot shower, but why does the water have to shut off every 30 seconds?"), the morning pilgrim traffic report ("watch out for the pilgrim bottleneck up ahead at Sarria"), a pollution index that warned of the pungent and occasionally overwhelming smell of manure as we galavanted through farm after farm in the middle of nowhere (the most dangerous level--and most frequent--was code purple), and of course, a warm and fuzzy human interest story to end the whole thing. One morning it featured a cute, mangy little dog that followed us three miles to the next hostel, whom I named Hollywood, while another saw us reminiscing over the bull that kept trying to mount the cow in the pasture during the previous days' walk. It is always good form to end the news with a funny.
I have been meeting people from all over the world. There was Josh, a chatty and sarcastic 21-year old from Pennsylvania with wild, curly brown locks who had just come from the Ukraine and who kept a running count of his blisters, just in case anyone wanted to know the tally. There was Isabel, a lovely young Catalan woman with an infectious smile, deep brown eyes and a penchant for running into us in the most random of spots. I liked her immediately, as did most everyone else who was lucky enough to engage with her. She taught me some Spanish, I taught her some English slang, and eventually I spent a long weekend at her home outside of Barcelona, taking a tapas tour with her friends (during which I coherently strung together some drunken Spanish sentences, confirming that it is easier to speak and understand a foreign language when your guard has been let down by copious amounts of wine) and getting delicious home-cooking and non-stop laundry service from her wonderfully energetic mother, who would patiently wait for Isabel to leave home before entering and scooping up all the dirty laundry she could get her hands on, mine included. There was Janis (Yanis) from Latvia, the only person whom I have ever met from that country, and who (like Isabel) kept popping up all over. He introduced me to Latvian disco music, which is light and sugary and just as vacuous as American disco, maybe even more so. There was a Canadian woman whose name escapes me at the moment--maybe it was Debbie, I can't say for sure--but whom I met while sitting at a bus stop waiting to head back to Santiago on the last day after the whole walking thing was over. In the midst of our conversation she told me about a program called Diverbo, in which you speak English for a week at a posh hotel in exchange for free room and board. Next Friday I will be heading to Salamanca to do this. Whatever her name was, I am grateful for the message, and even more grateful that I paid attention to the curiously interested feeling inside that kept urging me to apply.
I have been thinking a lot about my life, my home, wherever that may be, what I want to be, who I am now, what makes me happy. I have seen how I do things my own way, how I learn lessons in my own time. I have felt nothing but extreme gratitude for my way of doing things. MY path. I am happy to be this person, doing these things, learning these lessons. I walked the last 100 miles of the Camino in my black Reef flip flops. People were stunned. One man told me I was courageous. Another Spanish woman, I think she yelled at me about it although I couldn't be 100% sure. I let go of what the book says, what everyone else says, and put the flip flops on, doing it my way, navigating with relative ease and certainly with far less pain than in my La Sportiva trail shoes.
I have felt both lost and found. There were yellow arrows to direct us all along the Camino. There are no arrows now. I have to follow my own arrows again, and I am. Before embarking on this journey I declared that anything was fair game, and I am surprised to know that this means everything. I have ups and downs. I cried during the Camino, thinking about some unhealed past relationships and how there is still work to do to release them fully. I cried after the walk was over, tears of joy from way down deep, realizing that what I really want has always been here--right here--and is not out there. I have sensed that traveling is wonderful, but so is being home. I have felt the terror and loneliness of being in Madrid, the biggest city in Spain, with no real plan or sense of anything, hot on the heels of 15 days of walking and introspection and a sort of comfort that came from having my course all charted out for me. I have also felt the joy of communicating with someone in a foreign tongue, courtesy of Google Translate and a willingness to go with it and get over myself. I have thought a lot about Hawaii, the place where I just came from, what made it so special, and then remember that I have to live now--in this moment--and that no matter what place I call home in the future, there will never be a place to actually "end up". It is all in motion, never quite stopping until it's all over, and there is something truly exquisite in all of that, no mistakes for sure.
I have made some other observations. On the Camino I heard a cricket's chirp and realized that I was hearing the sound of all crickets, everywhere. I don't know how or why, I just knew that it was. One night I couldn't stop laughing at the absurdity of the Camino and what we all were doing, how we were following yellow arrows all over Spain, and the fact that this was totally meaningless in and of itself. I have had the revelation that farting is always hilarious and that appreciating such a disgusting bodily function is actually no less a spiritual experience than walking 220 miles across a dirt trail is. I have rediscovered a burning desire to learn another language, picking up some Spanish with relative ease and longing to be able to communicate with the people here through more than just pointing and a single word or two. I have thought about the future, the near-future, and then tossed those thoughts into the garbage bin once they started to deliver their obligatory and inevitable stress. Today, I felt a little homesick so I ate a burger and fries at a small, half-empty restaurant called "La Vespa Burger House" and then came back to the hostel and typed all of this out, never feeling for one second that I was missing out on a thing. There is as much wisdom in that as in anything else I have seen or done in the past month. It is peaceful to not fight with yourself, to do nothing if that is what you really want to do. I forgot how much peace there is in just sitting still. I'm sure I will forget again, but for now, I am content.
So that is where I have been during the past month. Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings. Thank you for listening.
- Posted using BlogPress from Ipad
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