Many people, including other pilgrims, have asked me if I would do it again. It's possible that like the 40-something male pattern baldness Jesus impersonator wearing a blue robe and carrying a tiny satchel who has purportedly walked the Way more than 12 times, I could grow addicted to the Camino. It's an easy, simple lifestyle. Being outside all of the time feels great. The walking is often meditative. There are no imminent nagging concerns of bills or family or lists or work. In the afternoon and evening, there is good company. At night, one sleeps to the rhythm of snoring. In the morning, it all happens again.
Still, for me, part of the magic was that I didn't know what to expect along the Way. It was all new. I suppose it could be nice to have a look at things for a second time now that I have some idea what's coming, but I'm not so sure. It's a big wide world to explore, and 6 weeks is a long, long time to dedicate to re-experiencing something. Besides, I keep vowing that I'm only going to cut my hair this way once . . .
That said, there are a few circumstances under which I would hike the Camino Frances again.
1. I would walk the same route again about 30 years from now. As I've written before, I may need to prove to myself that I can keep up with my 50 and 60 something pilgrim friends from this round. I wouldn't be surprised to find the same folks on the trail again, ages 80 and 90 something. I hope I do. They're a stubborn and optimistic and inspiring bunch.
2. I'd also consider walking this route again if someone I really cared about asked me to do it with him/her. It's equally possible, though, that I would encourage him/her to do it alone.
3. I think it would also be a good place for me to return to if I was trying to work out something difficult in my life.
This summer, I only did one section of the Camino de Santiago, the Spanish part of the Camino Frances. This is the most populated with the best infrastructure for pilgrims. As pilgrim Rob used to say whenever anyone got lost, "There are many roads to Santiago."
There are lots of other paths to explore. I'd like to do the French part of the Camino Frances from Le Puy to St. Jean Pied de Port (where I started this year). I've heard it's a tougher walk, and my French could definitely use some work. The Camino del Norte, which travels along Spain's northern coast is also intriguing, as are the other main routes--Via de la Plata and Camino Portugues. I think my friend Penny has walked them all. She claims she's done now, but I have a feeling she'll start inventing new roads to Santiago . . .
Monday, July 9, 2007
clean sheets? so that's how it is in France . . .
I am slowly easing back into reading The Washington Post. In my 2 month absence, it has turned into a humor newspaper. Here's proof. It was bound to happen once they bought out The Onion.
Be sure to enjoy the graphic of his 5 day journey. To appreciate my scorn, review this map which shows my 44 day path (including 6 rest days), starting at St. Jean Pied-de-Port on the border between France and Spain, just east of Roncesvalles, and ending at Finisterre, the dot on the sea.
Now, now Bridget. To each pilgrim, his own pilgrimage. Still, Mr. Robert V. Caputo, we're just not making a whole lot of progress on combating that stereotype of American laziness . . .
Be sure to enjoy the graphic of his 5 day journey. To appreciate my scorn, review this map which shows my 44 day path (including 6 rest days), starting at St. Jean Pied-de-Port on the border between France and Spain, just east of Roncesvalles, and ending at Finisterre, the dot on the sea.
Now, now Bridget. To each pilgrim, his own pilgrimage. Still, Mr. Robert V. Caputo, we're just not making a whole lot of progress on combating that stereotype of American laziness . . .
Thursday, July 5, 2007
"How did you like it?"
I watched the sun set over the ocean at Finisterre with a bunch of pilgrims who I didn't really know--a collection of Germans who I had met briefly a few days before. A guy from Amsterdam who I remembered having seen once about 3 weeks previously. Quite a lot of people I had never seen before. It was perfect. It was just like every other day of the Camino--the most important and the most mundane of moments can be shared with strangers. So we gathered on the rocks and lit fires and drank alcohol and talked about feet and traded stories and laughed.
It was an oddly private experience, though. This quiet celebration was meaningful for the pilgrims, but there were some tourists scattered around. To them, it was just a pretty sunset in a pretty place. Nothing special.
One girl told us she was in Santiago for a wedding and was just checking out the sights. The pilgrims were idly chatting with her. She asked about the Camino and the logistics and such. Then she asked one German pilgrim, a guy who I had only briefly met, "How is it? How did you like it?"
I was curious how he would respond. It's a lot to sum up, to process. I knew I would have to answer this question soon, and it seems impossibly huge to explain to someone how grand the experience is. What in the world would he say? What in the world would I say?
As he answered her, he looked at me, right in the eye, and said, "It's one of the best experiences of my life."
I love those efficient Germans.
That's my answer, too. It's one of the best experiences of my life.
It was an oddly private experience, though. This quiet celebration was meaningful for the pilgrims, but there were some tourists scattered around. To them, it was just a pretty sunset in a pretty place. Nothing special.
One girl told us she was in Santiago for a wedding and was just checking out the sights. The pilgrims were idly chatting with her. She asked about the Camino and the logistics and such. Then she asked one German pilgrim, a guy who I had only briefly met, "How is it? How did you like it?"
I was curious how he would respond. It's a lot to sum up, to process. I knew I would have to answer this question soon, and it seems impossibly huge to explain to someone how grand the experience is. What in the world would he say? What in the world would I say?
As he answered her, he looked at me, right in the eye, and said, "It's one of the best experiences of my life."
I love those efficient Germans.
That's my answer, too. It's one of the best experiences of my life.
the new world
Back in the day, Cabo Finisterre was known as the end of the world. There is a lighthouse there that overlooks the sea, and each night, pilgrims gather to celebrate the completion of their pilgrimage by ceremonially burning clothing or boots while watching the sun drop off the edge of the Earth.
Just over a week ago, I walked up to that lighthouse at Finisterre.
While I was walking up the road by the sea, I turned back and looked east for awhile. I looked at where I had come from. One of my favorite things to do on the Camino was to see where I had come from. I liked to see the cities and towns grow smaller and fade into the distance as I powered myself westward.
So as I was nearing the end of the Camino, of my journey, of the world, I paused to look back over the Camino for a final time. I looked for the cities and mountains and flowers and people and rivers and chocolate croissants and slugs, but I couldn't see them all. They were invisible now.
So, I turned and looked forward. I've enjoyed doing that, too. I like to squint into the distance and see new parts of the landscape draw closer. There was always so much to anticipate. My friend used to tell me that on the Camino, what you were anticipating would appear just over the next rise, just around the next bend. It was a surprise, but you could keep your eyes on it and your feet moving and you would get there.
But this time, as I walked up to the lighthouse, there wasn't much to see beyond it. I felt a little sad. The sea lay flat out before me, and as I gathered with the pilgrims to watch the sun sink into the ocean, I pretended that I could see my invisible country, pretended that I could see just where I was going.
Fast forward through one week (including a bus and a taxi and a train and a taxi and a taxi and a plane and another plane and a car and a car and a car--not that I was paying unnaturally close attention to my experiences in motorized transportation), and this morning, I found myself in a hotel room in Salem, Massachusetts, having just celebrated America's birthday with my family. Still jetlagged, I woke early.
I looked around my huge hotel room and pondered what to do. I climbed out of my crisp sheets in the massive bed. I didn't watch tv or read a book or take a bath. I didn't put on a new sundress. I didn't do any of the luxurious things I had been dreaming of for weeks. Instead, I dug deep into my backpack, and I pulled out my filthy hiking pants and my crusty socks. I dressed. I laced up my boots.
I went out for a walk.
I've been coming to Salem regularly since I was born, but I'm usually in a car. I didn't know quite where to go. I felt flummoxed by all of the options, and then I noticed that there was a red stripe for tourists to follow. Perfect. I'm good at following the painted lines.
Just a short ways away from my hotel, I came across a lighthouse at the end of a wharf. It was squat and small and jutted out into a cove. It looked like the top tier of a wedding cake--or of another lighthouse far away, one that I had seen just over a week ago. I had never noticed the Salem lighthouse before; in 33 years of driving by it, I had never noticed it.
So I walked out to that lighthouse, and I had a look around. I read a sign about how important the port of Salem had been to the development of America. This lighthouse might be small, but it was mighty. It was part of the world beyond the supposed end of the world, Finisterre.
I looked out at the water, but there was no flat expanse. It was mostly surrounded by land, so I looked at the water itself and thought about how it was the same water that was lapping against the shores of Spain. I imagined that I had walked to this lighthouse.
I looked eastward again, just as I had when I was walking toward the lighthouse at Finisterre. I still couldn't see my Camino in the distance. I still couldn't see all of those miles that I had walked across. I looked again for the cities and mountains and flowers and people and rivers and chocolate croissants and slugs. They were still invisible.
But this time, when I turned westward, I saw a New World, my world. It feels different, a little foreign, and kind of hard to navigate. But the Camino stretches out before me, and I am still walking.
Just over a week ago, I walked up to that lighthouse at Finisterre.
While I was walking up the road by the sea, I turned back and looked east for awhile. I looked at where I had come from. One of my favorite things to do on the Camino was to see where I had come from. I liked to see the cities and towns grow smaller and fade into the distance as I powered myself westward.
So as I was nearing the end of the Camino, of my journey, of the world, I paused to look back over the Camino for a final time. I looked for the cities and mountains and flowers and people and rivers and chocolate croissants and slugs, but I couldn't see them all. They were invisible now.
So, I turned and looked forward. I've enjoyed doing that, too. I like to squint into the distance and see new parts of the landscape draw closer. There was always so much to anticipate. My friend used to tell me that on the Camino, what you were anticipating would appear just over the next rise, just around the next bend. It was a surprise, but you could keep your eyes on it and your feet moving and you would get there.
But this time, as I walked up to the lighthouse, there wasn't much to see beyond it. I felt a little sad. The sea lay flat out before me, and as I gathered with the pilgrims to watch the sun sink into the ocean, I pretended that I could see my invisible country, pretended that I could see just where I was going.
Fast forward through one week (including a bus and a taxi and a train and a taxi and a taxi and a plane and another plane and a car and a car and a car--not that I was paying unnaturally close attention to my experiences in motorized transportation), and this morning, I found myself in a hotel room in Salem, Massachusetts, having just celebrated America's birthday with my family. Still jetlagged, I woke early.
I looked around my huge hotel room and pondered what to do. I climbed out of my crisp sheets in the massive bed. I didn't watch tv or read a book or take a bath. I didn't put on a new sundress. I didn't do any of the luxurious things I had been dreaming of for weeks. Instead, I dug deep into my backpack, and I pulled out my filthy hiking pants and my crusty socks. I dressed. I laced up my boots.
I went out for a walk.
I've been coming to Salem regularly since I was born, but I'm usually in a car. I didn't know quite where to go. I felt flummoxed by all of the options, and then I noticed that there was a red stripe for tourists to follow. Perfect. I'm good at following the painted lines.
Just a short ways away from my hotel, I came across a lighthouse at the end of a wharf. It was squat and small and jutted out into a cove. It looked like the top tier of a wedding cake--or of another lighthouse far away, one that I had seen just over a week ago. I had never noticed the Salem lighthouse before; in 33 years of driving by it, I had never noticed it.
So I walked out to that lighthouse, and I had a look around. I read a sign about how important the port of Salem had been to the development of America. This lighthouse might be small, but it was mighty. It was part of the world beyond the supposed end of the world, Finisterre.
I looked out at the water, but there was no flat expanse. It was mostly surrounded by land, so I looked at the water itself and thought about how it was the same water that was lapping against the shores of Spain. I imagined that I had walked to this lighthouse.
I looked eastward again, just as I had when I was walking toward the lighthouse at Finisterre. I still couldn't see my Camino in the distance. I still couldn't see all of those miles that I had walked across. I looked again for the cities and mountains and flowers and people and rivers and chocolate croissants and slugs. They were still invisible.
But this time, when I turned westward, I saw a New World, my world. It feels different, a little foreign, and kind of hard to navigate. But the Camino stretches out before me, and I am still walking.
Monday, July 2, 2007
the meaning of the English word "sincere"
I brought only one t-shirt with me to the Camino. I chose an orange t-shirt that I bought last year at Minuteman Pizza in Uyuni Bolivia, the site of an outstanding travel experience. The pizza was tasty, and the salt flats were amazing, but that's not why Uyuni is important to me. I brought it because while I was there I met people there who taught me some things about the world--about having appendicitis in unfortunate circumstances, about bravery, about kindness, about knowing Spanish medical vocabulary, about humor, about local anesthesia. I brought it to remind me that no matter where I travel, the important part is the people. Without them, the places don´t end up mattering quite as much. I travel by myself all of the time, but I have never yet traveled alone.
I remember stopping for a breakfast Cola Cao (hot chocolate to which I am addicted) in Triacastela and striking up a conversation with a German bicyclist named Nils. I was trying to explain to him the meaning of the English word "sincere." I told him that being sincere sometimes sounds kind of silly and embarrassing. Then later on I told him kind of awkwardly that I wished that he were walking so that we could walk together. "Oh. I guess that´s an example of being sincere," I said. He walked his bike with me for awhile, and we kept talking.
Nils, this posting is an example of the word "sincere."
I haven't written many names on the blog up until now because I didn't want readers to get confused, but now that it's done, there are some folks who I want to acknowledge . . .
When I think of Cusco, Peru, I remember a Canadian woman named Carolyn in her green fleece telling me about this thing called the Camino de Santiago. Throughout my walk, she has sent me funny recollections and words of encouragement. I hope that one day I can provide someone with the gift of the Camino in the same way that she has offered it up to me.
Larrasoaña is a worthless little town on the edge of the Pyrenees where I helped dry the tears of a lovely Essex girl named Ceri with whom I shared both my first and last dinners on the Camino.
My favorite massage parlor in Spain is located just on the edge of Los Arcos. It was recommended to me by Paul and Rob. That town also has a very nice church.
Najera reminds me of a couple of Americans named Jen and Luke who saved me from a snoring bedmate. This is just the kind of goodwill I would expect from fellow W&M alums.
The highlight of Sahagun was watching the dream team of Canadian ladies cheerfully sing and cluck as they went at my feet with sharp objects and stinging liquids. Actually, it always made me smile when Gwen and Annabel and Jeanine and Adrianna turned up on the trail. Heeeeere weeeee goooooo! Yeeee-haw!
Reliegos, just outside of Leon, is tiny and boring, forgettable. I only remember it because I was there with Sam and Marcus who had also walked 70K in two days. We made dinner. We had our blisters repaired by Spanish pilgrims. We laughed at each other and tried not to get banned from the local store for being careless with garlic bulbs.
The peaceful village of Rabanal reminds me of laundry fights and sunrise dance parties with the singing Gerhard and his lovely Henrietta.
I was surprised to find that the Cruz de Ferro was a memorable experience for me, but I think it made a particularly large impression because when I walked down the pile of rocks with tears in my eyes, there was a big hug from Irish Ali awaiting me.
The walk to Molinaseca was one of the most beautiful of the Camino, but when I got to the end, I was tired and hungry--and Euro-less. Kind Tobias volunteered to lend me some money.
In Cacabelos, I offered some pizza to three tired walkers who wandered into a restaurant at the end of a very long day. The next day, in Villafranco, I happened upon Patsy, Pam, and Franklin just as I was feeling truly crummy and lonely for the first time on the Camino. Of course, once I found them, that mood switched quickly.
The first thing I think about when I recall the beautiful town and famous monastery of Samos will not be the chanting monks. I will think of Luke and Stacie and the monk spotting game, of earning points for spying monks. (Bonus points for nuns.) And when I think about my best meals on the Camino, I will always remember the famous "Completo" of Negreira.
The horreos (pretty raised granaries) that are common in Galicia remind me of my best Spanish teacher, Marta, chiding me for not keeping up with my regional vocabulary.
I'll remember a lot of things about the final long day into Santiago, including the company of Josefina, a pilgrim I had met only two days before. We set out early, squinting in the dark to find the yellow arrows and cheering one another onward in the final push to expunge our sins.
Way back in Burgos, I made Stefan's acquaintance as he slept on the bunk above me; half a country later, on my first night in Santiago, we and I celebrated our birthdays together (thanks to C, G, and A)--with eating and singing and even a little dancing . . .
Santiago's museum exhibit on Lord of the Rings was interesting, but it was really only fun because I was there with Florian. We got to the top floor, looked around stealthily to make sure we weren't going to be caught by other pilgrims, and then we took the elevator down two floors. Triumphant, luxurious wimpiness.
Spotting the sea for the first time was a spectacular moment, but there was no one to help me marvel. I was feeling a bit lost, until I looked down and read a note from Peter, who had placed a rocky note at my feet to welcome me there.
I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge the yobs/Boy Band, Jesus, Purple Man, Silver Fox, Gerard Depardieu, and all of the other nameless folks who made the voyage worthwhile.
My final night in Santiago, I shared a room with Penny. She presented me with a book, an English book, and we talked about how one of the best parts of the Camino is the good company.
-----
Thank you for the company.
I remember stopping for a breakfast Cola Cao (hot chocolate to which I am addicted) in Triacastela and striking up a conversation with a German bicyclist named Nils. I was trying to explain to him the meaning of the English word "sincere." I told him that being sincere sometimes sounds kind of silly and embarrassing. Then later on I told him kind of awkwardly that I wished that he were walking so that we could walk together. "Oh. I guess that´s an example of being sincere," I said. He walked his bike with me for awhile, and we kept talking.
Nils, this posting is an example of the word "sincere."
I haven't written many names on the blog up until now because I didn't want readers to get confused, but now that it's done, there are some folks who I want to acknowledge . . .
When I think of Cusco, Peru, I remember a Canadian woman named Carolyn in her green fleece telling me about this thing called the Camino de Santiago. Throughout my walk, she has sent me funny recollections and words of encouragement. I hope that one day I can provide someone with the gift of the Camino in the same way that she has offered it up to me.
Larrasoaña is a worthless little town on the edge of the Pyrenees where I helped dry the tears of a lovely Essex girl named Ceri with whom I shared both my first and last dinners on the Camino.
My favorite massage parlor in Spain is located just on the edge of Los Arcos. It was recommended to me by Paul and Rob. That town also has a very nice church.
Najera reminds me of a couple of Americans named Jen and Luke who saved me from a snoring bedmate. This is just the kind of goodwill I would expect from fellow W&M alums.
The highlight of Sahagun was watching the dream team of Canadian ladies cheerfully sing and cluck as they went at my feet with sharp objects and stinging liquids. Actually, it always made me smile when Gwen and Annabel and Jeanine and Adrianna turned up on the trail. Heeeeere weeeee goooooo! Yeeee-haw!
Reliegos, just outside of Leon, is tiny and boring, forgettable. I only remember it because I was there with Sam and Marcus who had also walked 70K in two days. We made dinner. We had our blisters repaired by Spanish pilgrims. We laughed at each other and tried not to get banned from the local store for being careless with garlic bulbs.
The peaceful village of Rabanal reminds me of laundry fights and sunrise dance parties with the singing Gerhard and his lovely Henrietta.
I was surprised to find that the Cruz de Ferro was a memorable experience for me, but I think it made a particularly large impression because when I walked down the pile of rocks with tears in my eyes, there was a big hug from Irish Ali awaiting me.
The walk to Molinaseca was one of the most beautiful of the Camino, but when I got to the end, I was tired and hungry--and Euro-less. Kind Tobias volunteered to lend me some money.
In Cacabelos, I offered some pizza to three tired walkers who wandered into a restaurant at the end of a very long day. The next day, in Villafranco, I happened upon Patsy, Pam, and Franklin just as I was feeling truly crummy and lonely for the first time on the Camino. Of course, once I found them, that mood switched quickly.
The first thing I think about when I recall the beautiful town and famous monastery of Samos will not be the chanting monks. I will think of Luke and Stacie and the monk spotting game, of earning points for spying monks. (Bonus points for nuns.) And when I think about my best meals on the Camino, I will always remember the famous "Completo" of Negreira.
The horreos (pretty raised granaries) that are common in Galicia remind me of my best Spanish teacher, Marta, chiding me for not keeping up with my regional vocabulary.
I'll remember a lot of things about the final long day into Santiago, including the company of Josefina, a pilgrim I had met only two days before. We set out early, squinting in the dark to find the yellow arrows and cheering one another onward in the final push to expunge our sins.
Way back in Burgos, I made Stefan's acquaintance as he slept on the bunk above me; half a country later, on my first night in Santiago, we and I celebrated our birthdays together (thanks to C, G, and A)--with eating and singing and even a little dancing . . .
Santiago's museum exhibit on Lord of the Rings was interesting, but it was really only fun because I was there with Florian. We got to the top floor, looked around stealthily to make sure we weren't going to be caught by other pilgrims, and then we took the elevator down two floors. Triumphant, luxurious wimpiness.
Spotting the sea for the first time was a spectacular moment, but there was no one to help me marvel. I was feeling a bit lost, until I looked down and read a note from Peter, who had placed a rocky note at my feet to welcome me there.
I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge the yobs/Boy Band, Jesus, Purple Man, Silver Fox, Gerard Depardieu, and all of the other nameless folks who made the voyage worthwhile.
My final night in Santiago, I shared a room with Penny. She presented me with a book, an English book, and we talked about how one of the best parts of the Camino is the good company.
-----
Thank you for the company.
mi ritmo--my rhythm
In the beginning, people kept telling me to find my own rhythm. Don´t go too fast, they said. Don´t go too slow. Just go at your own rhythm.
I laughed. The rhythm of my walking seemed comparable to a 3 year old playing her new drumset--irregular in tempo and volume, somewhat grating. When I walk, I ramble and shuffle, tripping on stones and weaving from time to time. My feet drag noisily. My toe turns inward; I´m pigeon-toed. My awkward gait used to make me feel self-conscious
The funny thing is that I love this movement now. I do have a rhythm. It´s mine, all mine. I move fast when I go up. I pick my way down especially slowly when I go down. I am entirely clumsy and graceless. When I walk alone, it has a predictable unpredictability--like most of the rest of my life. And I thud along happily, meandering, glad.
I laughed. The rhythm of my walking seemed comparable to a 3 year old playing her new drumset--irregular in tempo and volume, somewhat grating. When I walk, I ramble and shuffle, tripping on stones and weaving from time to time. My feet drag noisily. My toe turns inward; I´m pigeon-toed. My awkward gait used to make me feel self-conscious
The funny thing is that I love this movement now. I do have a rhythm. It´s mine, all mine. I move fast when I go up. I pick my way down especially slowly when I go down. I am entirely clumsy and graceless. When I walk alone, it has a predictable unpredictability--like most of the rest of my life. And I thud along happily, meandering, glad.
yo camino
There is thing I have definitely learned from walking across the Iberian Peninsula: I love to walk.
I have always been envious of friends who have found their sport, the form of exercise that doesn´t feel like exercise--running, tennis, yoga, bicycling. I have wished that I had some similar type of play. Now I do. It´s not going to raise my heart rate a whole lot. It´s not going to make me amazingly fit. It is going to make me happy.
I loved getting up and putting on my boots and wandering around. I love moving my body.
I can only think of one time on the Camino when I wanted to quit walking before I got to my destination. I was just outisde of Leon when I got lost (I was thinking of Bush at the time.) and had to wend through a really yucky urban area and it was hot, and I just wanted to take the damn bus. I didn´t like walking then.
Usually, though, even when I was miserable, I was glad to be walking. When I was going through an industrial strip outside of Burgos, I was glad that I was outside, even in the pollution. I felt superior to the people in the cars.
There was a day that was so rainy that my boots and socks got wet. I didn´t mind walking in the downpour and the rivers of puddles, but I was afraid I would get blisters and wouldn´t be able to walk anymore. The prospect of not being able to walk was the worst part. That´s the worst part when I think about going home now--not being able to walk, having to be the person in the car.
Sometimes, though, I´ll be the person walking, walking.
I have always been envious of friends who have found their sport, the form of exercise that doesn´t feel like exercise--running, tennis, yoga, bicycling. I have wished that I had some similar type of play. Now I do. It´s not going to raise my heart rate a whole lot. It´s not going to make me amazingly fit. It is going to make me happy.
I loved getting up and putting on my boots and wandering around. I love moving my body.
I can only think of one time on the Camino when I wanted to quit walking before I got to my destination. I was just outisde of Leon when I got lost (I was thinking of Bush at the time.) and had to wend through a really yucky urban area and it was hot, and I just wanted to take the damn bus. I didn´t like walking then.
Usually, though, even when I was miserable, I was glad to be walking. When I was going through an industrial strip outside of Burgos, I was glad that I was outside, even in the pollution. I felt superior to the people in the cars.
There was a day that was so rainy that my boots and socks got wet. I didn´t mind walking in the downpour and the rivers of puddles, but I was afraid I would get blisters and wouldn´t be able to walk anymore. The prospect of not being able to walk was the worst part. That´s the worst part when I think about going home now--not being able to walk, having to be the person in the car.
Sometimes, though, I´ll be the person walking, walking.
the things i thought i already knew
I´m not quite sure what I´ve learned from the Camino. I could spew out an honest and glorious list of things that are important to me from the experience, but I´m not sure I could actually point to specific things I have learned. Part of that is because being on the Camino is so far removed from real life that I don´t have a solid idea of how my experiences will translate. I´m cautious to sound naive or to proclaim that I am a changed person, though I do think that any kind of travel and new experience can have a profound effect on a person.
That said, there are three things I relearned.
1. I´m happy. Soy feliz. Those of you who have studied Spanish will understand the difference between soy y estoy in this case. The general translation is that I´m not simply smiling at this moment. I´m generally happy with my life, with my choices, with my career, with my friends, with my family. I´m happy with who I am. I´m not perfect. I´m not satisfied. But I´m blessed and proud and laughing most of the time. I´m not done trying to get better at it, though.
2. My body is amazing. Although I could have articulated this before the walk, I definitely didn´t feel it in the same way. I have gained a confidence that I didn´t know I lacked, an appreciation for what my body is capable of accomplishing. I won´t pretend that I have silenced all self-criticism and grown entirely accepting of my physical form, but I do believe in myself quite a bit more than I did before.
3. The world can be a peaceful place. I watched it happen over and over. Admittedly, pilgrims are a self-selected group; they want to be on the Camino. Still, they form an amazing community. They co-exist despite differences in ages, abilities, experiences, customs, nationalities. They make each other laugh despite physical pain and torrential rain. Even the faiths, the source of much conflict in the world, are different. For a purportedly Catholic pilgrimage, there is quite a variety of attitudes toward religion, especially toward the Catholic Church. Most people didn´t even speak the same language. Are there disagreements? Sure. They get sorted out, though. In 6 weeks of walking, I only witnessed one that was acrimonious. The Camino demonstrates that words aren´t really necessary to offer sympathy about hurting feet, to share a piece of chocolate, to admire a field of flowers, or to complain about snoring. Some people say that the Camino holds a sort of magic. While I agree that it is a special place, I think that the main thing that makes it special is that people choose to live peacefully and cooperatively despite obstacles.
I may not always be happy with my life or my body, but I hope I never forget that the Camino taught me that when I hope for peace, I do so because it is possible. I´m not sure I believed that before. Now, I have some proof. Call me naive or a Pollyanna if you will. No me importa. I have learned to hope.
That said, there are three things I relearned.
1. I´m happy. Soy feliz. Those of you who have studied Spanish will understand the difference between soy y estoy in this case. The general translation is that I´m not simply smiling at this moment. I´m generally happy with my life, with my choices, with my career, with my friends, with my family. I´m happy with who I am. I´m not perfect. I´m not satisfied. But I´m blessed and proud and laughing most of the time. I´m not done trying to get better at it, though.
2. My body is amazing. Although I could have articulated this before the walk, I definitely didn´t feel it in the same way. I have gained a confidence that I didn´t know I lacked, an appreciation for what my body is capable of accomplishing. I won´t pretend that I have silenced all self-criticism and grown entirely accepting of my physical form, but I do believe in myself quite a bit more than I did before.
3. The world can be a peaceful place. I watched it happen over and over. Admittedly, pilgrims are a self-selected group; they want to be on the Camino. Still, they form an amazing community. They co-exist despite differences in ages, abilities, experiences, customs, nationalities. They make each other laugh despite physical pain and torrential rain. Even the faiths, the source of much conflict in the world, are different. For a purportedly Catholic pilgrimage, there is quite a variety of attitudes toward religion, especially toward the Catholic Church. Most people didn´t even speak the same language. Are there disagreements? Sure. They get sorted out, though. In 6 weeks of walking, I only witnessed one that was acrimonious. The Camino demonstrates that words aren´t really necessary to offer sympathy about hurting feet, to share a piece of chocolate, to admire a field of flowers, or to complain about snoring. Some people say that the Camino holds a sort of magic. While I agree that it is a special place, I think that the main thing that makes it special is that people choose to live peacefully and cooperatively despite obstacles.
I may not always be happy with my life or my body, but I hope I never forget that the Camino taught me that when I hope for peace, I do so because it is possible. I´m not sure I believed that before. Now, I have some proof. Call me naive or a Pollyanna if you will. No me importa. I have learned to hope.
a walk in the park
It has been weeks and weeks since my legs have been sore from walking. I normally do a few stretches, and every once in awhile, I feel a twinge. Mostly, my legs just carry me along quite happily.
Until now.
People gave me lots of good advice about the Camino, about hiking, about gear, about blisters. No one mentioned, however, that my legs would get angry with me once I stopped. Apparently my legs ache, actually ache, to walk more. Bizarre.
I tried to pacify them today by going for a walk in the park. I even wore my boots! But apparently, a walk in the park is nothing more than that. They´re still complaining.
Until now.
People gave me lots of good advice about the Camino, about hiking, about gear, about blisters. No one mentioned, however, that my legs would get angry with me once I stopped. Apparently my legs ache, actually ache, to walk more. Bizarre.
I tried to pacify them today by going for a walk in the park. I even wore my boots! But apparently, a walk in the park is nothing more than that. They´re still complaining.
not just a mile away
I saw this reverse culture shock coming from 854K away. That doesn´t make it one bit easier. This morning I used a spoon to eat yogurt while wearing a clean dress and reading a heavy English book. So luxurious and so sad.
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