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The best souvenir is the one you can't share

There is a group of buskers playing an upbeat melody while tourists stand by to listen.  The trumpet player's elastic cheeks puff out like balloons.  A teenage girl wearing a skirt and high tops begins to dance, her arms stretched out wide, swinging herself in circles.  Her mouth is open in laughter and her eyes reflect the street lamp above her.  

By the river people are feeding the waterfowl.  There is a little boy running amongst the swans, shrieking with delight each time he manages to touch one, but stamping his foot at the pigeons each time a swan escapes his chubby fingers.  The little girl nearby is trying to feed the swans with the bread her mother has entrusted her with.  She, too, squeals in excitement as the swans rush to claim the chunks of bread.  The children's reactions mirror each other when a couple strolls past with their dog and all of the birds scatter; they each begin to pout, their lower lips trembling, and run to hang on tightly to their mothers' legs.  

These are moments that cannot be captured by a camera lens.  It always amuses me to be wandering around amidst hordes of tourists, all of whom have their cameras in front of their faces, snapping photos of everything in sight.  Their tour guide with a yellow duck attached to a stick blabs away about the year 1652 and that one king, and the dude from the 1300's who married that one woman.  The yellow duck bobs in and out of the crowds and the pack of tourists follow along like kindergarteners on a leash.  There are always a few stragglers, the ones kneeling down to get a good angle on that castle with their Canon Rebels that have become extensions of their noses.  The funniest part of the whole spectacle is when someone points their camera at a building to take an artsy shot of a balcony with an ornate lamp, and all of a sudden thirty other cameras point in that direction, terrified to miss something they were supposed to photograph.

  

It makes me chuckle, but quite honestly I miss their enthusiasm.  I have gotten to the point of not taking photos of everything in sight because it's not a novel experience anymore.  The massive Prague castle looming over me as the sun sets is a spectacular vision that will forever be etched in my memory, but the lighting had cast shadows in all the wrong places and there wasn't enough space in the square to get a good shot.  So I let my camera hang by my side and instead tried to memorize the flecks of gold glinting in the sun and the way the eyes of the people in the carvings seem to follow you. These are the things you just cannot capture, no matter how expensive your camera is.One of the most lasting lessons I've learned from traveling is knowing when to put your camera down. Some things are better off stowed away in your memory, where they can be photoshopped by your experiences and emotions.  The best lighting and filters come from how you were feeling at the time and who you were with. 

I don't blame anyone for trying to capture the moments, the historical cathedrals and castles, the monuments, or their extravagant dinner plates.  I do it, too.  It's a preservation technique, and our digital devices guarantee us an unlimited number of memories.  But once in awhile, it's better to soak in your surroundings instead of trying to catch them like fireflies in a jar.  You might have them, but they're not free to flit around and morph with your feelings.  After all, nobody spends that kind of money on a plane ticket just to get a photo of a landmark.  The best and most valuable souvenirs you can possibly bring home are your memories.

K

Prague, Czech Republic

Never alone

Paca was absolutely right.  The hardest thing about the Camino is letting it go.

When I got to Valencia, I felt numb.  It was disturbing to me how badly I wanted to go home, but all I could think about was curling up in my own bed, turning on some music, and tuning out the world.  I didn't want to be traveling anymore.

I allowed myself a day and a half to be mopey, but then it was time to wake up and face reality: the Camino is no longer my reality. It is a world of its own, and it exists in a tiny little bubble that eventually you have to burst. I love traveling more than anything, and the fact that I was considering booking myself an earlier flight home was upsetting.

I am incredibly lucky that I have friends all over the world, so I was able to ease back into traveling alone.  Abi, who I met in London in September, came to Valencia to spend a few days with me.  If he hadn't been there, I think I might have forgotten to eat.  When I got to Barcelona, Anton was there to meet me and let me stay at his apartment.  I met Anton a few years ago when he let me couchsurf at his place.  And the next day, Ungüento Jim drove to Barcelona from Madrid!  I went from feeling hopelessly lonely to being surrounded by people I love.

When you travel alone, you're never actually alone; you meet people at hostels or you make friends with the people you stay with.  You always have someone to talk to, someone to make sightseeing plans with, or someone to eat dinner with.  What traveling alone typically lacks, though, is that circle of support that keeps you going.  You form fast friendships because it's necessary, and you might even become Facebook friends, but you don't have anyone to share the important things with.  I feel so blessed to have been able to spend the last week with people who care about me instead of having to face this unique transition alone.  

One night in Valencia, I told Abi I had a headache and was feeling really sad.  He told me to take a nap, and when he woke me up he had cooked dinner for us.  We spent a few days wandering around the city at a leisurely pace with no agenda.  Having someone walk me to the train station and wait for me to turn around and wave one last time... there are few better feelings in the world.  It's the feeling I get every time my dad battles a snowstorm to drive me to the airport in Detroit so I can travel the world, or the feeling when my best friend Matt takes me to the airport and hugs me for a full minute, telling me he has watched the movie "Taken" a few times to refresh his memory on how to save me if something goes wrong.  It's the feeling I got today when Jim woke up at 4am to drive me in his rental car to the airport so I can fly to Prague, and it's the feeling I have right now knowing that my mama is meeting me near Chicago in a few weeks to take me home.  The people who love me and support my wanderlust by making my travels possible... I owe them the world.  Literally.

K

Barcelona, Spain

It's the end of the world as we know it

I watch Galicia blow past me outside the window at 300 kilometers per hour.  I feel sick; I've been walking at a mere 5kph for more than five weeks.  The lush, green landscape of the mountains reminds me of Guatemala, except I'm on a train wearing a scarf and a fleece jacket instead of on a chicken bus wearing shorts and flip flops.

On Saturday we drove to Finisterre, which is known as "the end of the world," and for many pilgrims, the end of the Camino.  After arriving to Santiago, many people continue walking another eighty kilometers to get to this quaint little town on the ocean.  I suppose for some the draw is reaching the coast, but for others it is because they haven't accepted the end.  They feel the need to keep walking, or to spend just a few more days with their treasured companions.  To be honest, if my schedule was wide open I probably would have walked it, too.  The Camino is addicting; I can see how people lose themselves entirely to it.  We have met people who stay on the Way for years, walking back and forth, working here and there at different albergues, repeating the same trek over and over again.  As Paca wisely said, "I think one of the lessons of the Camino is learning to let it go."

It is proving to be one of the hardest lessons yet.

We have faced countless ups and downs in the last few weeks.  There were times that I was so miserable that I seriously considered quitting.  Walking in the nonstop rain for days on end, wearing a raincoat that wasn't actually waterproof, knowing that everything in my pack that was dry was getting soaked and everything that was already wet from the day before was never going to dry.  Having to sit down every night and stick a sterilized needle and thread through my blisters.  Tromping through puddles in sandals, my socks filled with water, mud, and cow shit for eight hours straight.  (And then having to peel the skin off my raw blisters because the tiny needle-holes got filled with cow shit water.)  Walking through the endless Spanish plains in the blazing sun with kilometer after kilometer of nothing but empty fields and haystacks, my mind slowly turning itself inside out.  There were showers that would electrocute you every time you pushed the button to keep the water going, bed bugs around every corner, rude waiters and hospitaleros, and people who snored so loud that even with wax earplugs you couldn't sleep through it.  It's actually quite incredible that people can make sounds that loud without being conscious.

Through all of the bad times, though, were some of the most incredible experiences of my life.  There was one day that we were at a restaurant having lunch and the four of us were laughing so hard we were nearly crying.  I felt on top of the world in that moment, surrounded by my friends and laughing about Jim's foot cream. We spent hours and hours each day just laughing about the silliest things. We had serious conversations about how to change the world, we ate chocolate all day, and we slowly made our way across Spain.  Seeing the world on foot was the most intimate way I have experienced new places.  When you're in a train or a car, you miss the little details.  You don't get to see the old men playing bocce in the park, you don't notice the people carefully cutting grape bunches from the vines during harvest.  You don't get to stop and chat with the old woman who tells you about how her dog humps the throw-pillows every day.  Walking between these tiny rural villages in Spain gave us the chance to become part of the Way.  When you can feel the ground beneath your feet and smell the grapes ready for harvest, you connect with the land.  When you wash your socks and underwear by hand and carefully bandage your feet, you feel alive and veritable.  The raw emotion that you feel every day, the connections that you form with complete strangers as you brush your teeth together, they make you realize how precious each and every moment is.  

As the mountains fade back into plains outside the window, memories flash in and out of view.  My mind, body, and soul are exhausted.  I feel like I am a hundred years old, but I also feel like I have earned it.

K

Valencia, Spain

Santiago de Compostela

Yesterday felt like an absolutely normal day of walking.  We woke up and packed our bags.  We had coffee and toast at a cafe.  We walked.  I peed behind a bush.  We ate a second breakfast of eggs and ham.  We walked.  We stopped and ate some chocolate.  I peed behind a tree.  We stopped and had a few afternoon beers.  We took some goofy videos.  We entered a big city.  We stopped at a cafe so I could pee.  We walked some more.  As we neared the historic part of Santiago, I was excited, but not overly emotional.  I had expected to cry when we arrived, but I didn't feel any emotion welling up.

I know I keep saying this, but it's difficult to explain the feeling of walking around the corner and seeing the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela.  I felt an overwhelming urge to drop to my knees, but I was worried I might not be able to get back up.  Plus it had been raining all day, although in hindsight I was already soaked and it wouldn't have mattered.

My first emotion was relief.  Pure, delicious relief.  I was tingling with what I can only imagine as every single cell in my body rejoicing with the prospect of healing those damn blisters once and for all and giving my poor hips a break.  The next emotion was sadness.  I realized as I stared up at the cathedral, still linking arms with Emily, that we were done.  Our little family would be split up in a few days.  I would no longer be surrounded by people who understood.  41 days of fun, pain, love, suffering, joy, and fellowship... done. Then came the awe.  I think this was the point at which I started crying.  With Emily hugging me, Paca jumping up and down, and the cathedral in the background, I realized the enormity of what we had just completed.  We walked across a country.  We walked over 500 miles.  I knew all along what we were doing, but the incredible feeling of having accomplished something so massive... This photo says it all:

We all danced around and screamed and cried.  Emily threw her bag on the ground and beat it with her walking stick.  Nina spoke on the phone with her grandfather.  Paca started jabbering excitedly about the celebration that we would have later that night.  Jim took photo after photo after photo.  It was one of the most incredible moments of my life.

Later on, before the pilgrim's mass at the cathedral, I wandered down into the crypt of St. James without knowing where I was going.  I saw someone praying, read the sign and realized with a jolt: this is why I just walked 800 kilometers, and I stumbled upon it by accident.  I stood awkwardly behind the gawkers, trying to come up with a plan on the fly.  How do you pray to a saint you just walked across a country for?  Especially if you didn't do it purely for that reason?  Eventually I just knelt down, closed my eyes, and thanked him for keeping us safe during our journey.  That was it.  That's all I could come up with, but I think he understood.

The mass was the most beautiful service I have ever attended.  The priest spoke directly to the pilgrims in a way that touched me more than any sermon has.  He listed the pilgrims by country and where they started from.  And the Botafumeiro... I have never experienced anything like it.  Six men in red robes working together to swing a massive incense burner across the entire cathedral, the smell wafting through the pews, the little rush of air you could feel as it swung past.... it was surreal.

We did it.  

We walked the Camino de Santiago.

K

Santiago de Compostela, Spain

Once a pilgrim, always a pilgrim

It's very difficult to describe the Camino to people who have not walked it, but here I am, trying to put words to something that is next to impossible to explain.

How can you possibly describe the people you spend 24/7 with? I mean literally 24/7.  We sleep in the same room, wake up at the same time, walk for 8 hours or so together, and when we get to the albergues we are miraculously not sick of each other yet and spend the entire evening together.  We have inside jokes, we know each other's shitting habits, we know how each person takes their coffee and what to order for each other if someone is in the restroom when the waiter comes.  Emily likes an Americano with her breakfast and will take a napolitana pastry any time of day if the restaurant has them.  Paca will have one coffee with breakfast and another coffee to take outside to smoke a cigarette, and she will also have a napolitana whenever possible.  Jim likes cafe con leche but has switched to Americano because he's trying to avoid dairy.  Nina drinks tea and cannot stand coffee.  They know that I want a cafe con leche and that I like croissants, not napolitanas.  

How can you explain the incredible people you meet along the way?  The people who touch your life in a lasting way, even if you only know them for a few days or even a few minutes.  The hospitalera who dried my soaking wet sleeping bag on our very first day, even though the wait for laundry was hours long.  She took my face in her hands, saw how exhausted and frustrated I was, and said, "I wouldn't want my daughter to sleep in a cold room in a wet sleeping bag."  The random man who stopped Emily and I one day when we took a wrong turn.  "Peregrinas!  Están fuera del camino!"  He then took the time to explain to us where we needed to walk to get back on the path.  José, the owner of the pensión in Sarría, who we first thought was a miserable old grump but who turned out to be cheerful and generous, giving us loads of free pintxos (like tapas) while we sat at the bar for a few beers.  There's Roland, the guy with the donkey who we ran into constantly.

There's Matthew, the firefighter from Texas, who I had an instant connection with.  A classic Texan gentleman mixed with the chivalry you find only in veterans, Matthew is easily one of my most memorable Camino friends.  I won't deny my affection for him, and I'm sure he wouldn't deny his, but it wasn't meant to be.  The Camino is funny like that, bringing people together under such an intense circumstance when we all know it has to end eventually.  We walked with him for a few days before he left to catch up with the group he started with.  When he left, I felt empty for awhile.

There's Pepe, the Italian soccer commentator who we have somehow managed to cross paths with constantly for the last week and a half.  We've only really gotten to know him in the last few days, and the more we see him the more we love him.  There's Dani, the Swiss techie who is in between jobs right now.  He is one of the sweetest guys I've ever met, and extremely intelligent.  There's the group of Korean teenagers and their teacher, who never stop giggling.  I don't know how they're so damn happy all the time, but I love them for it.  

The people on the Camino are unlike any group of travelers I've ever met.  We all have the same end goal, but we all have different reasons.  We all have different bodies and different limitations, different needs and different desires, but we're all the same at heart, where it matters.  The Camino is meant to put everyone on the same level.  It doesn't matter your heritage, your age, or your net worth: we all have to face many of the same struggles.  We all get blisters at some point, we all have to deal with the pouring rain, and we all have to sleep in a room with a hundred other people, thirty of whom are snoring.  

At the end of the day, a pilgrim is a pilgrim, and it's a state of being that challenges me to find the right words.

K

Pedrouzo, Spain

In attempt to describe my friends...

I've been avoiding this entry for awhile now, because it's the most important of all. It's very difficult to describe my friends on the Camino, but I'm going to try.  To my friends, the closest friends I've ever met while traveling, I apologize for my feeble attempt to put words to how I feel about you all.

Jim

Emily and I were staying in a beautiful old monastery in San Juan de Ortega when we met Jim.  Emily was at the restaurant downstairs icing her bug bites, which at the time she thought were from bedbugs; she was having a massive allergic reaction to them and was not a happy camper.  I was tending to my poor feet, putting antibiotic cream on the blisters that I had threaded.  A man walked over and peered down at my feet, examining my handiwork.  "Compeed fucked up my feet," I said to him, glancing up.  (Compeed, the European version of second skin, had failed to prevent blisters and had instead ripped the skin off of them.)  The man then launched into a lengthy explanation of his successful use of Compeed and how the sleeping conditions tonight were going to be ideal due to the draftiness of the monastery and the cold air coming in through the windows.  "I really like it to be around 55 degrees when I'm sleeping," he told me.  After a few more exchanges about blisters, ideal temperatures, and where we were from, he went back to his bed and I continued with my feet.  A few minutes later, he announced that he has found a bedbug, but that it could be an ant because he was by the window.  I begged him not to mention this to Emily.  We lost him for a few days in the hustle and bustle of the city of Burgos, but later ran into him and have been walking with him ever since.

Jim loves to talk and converse.  When he finds something he likes or thinks is useful, he wants everyone to know about it.  For example, he'll tell anyone who will listen how effective his jar of ungüento is.  "It's this cream made especially for pilgrims.  It has a blend of things like aloe and mint.  You should try it!  I haven't had a blister since I started using it!"  We tease Jim incessantly about ungüento, but I think what it really comes down to is his love for connecting with people.  He wants to take care of everybody, and he does that in the ways he knows how.  From explaining how the stock market works to giving me aqua-heal bandaids, Jim has an answer for everything.

I don't always think he's right, though, which is where we clash.  He's extremely intelligent and also ridiculously stubborn.  This combination, when mixed with my own stubborn, opinionated attitude, can sometimes be a bit like gunpowder.  I have walked away from him before, fuming mad, over a conversation about prescriptive versus descriptive linguistics.  At the top of the mountain where we stopped for lunch, he walked over, gave me a wordless hug, and then it was like nothing ever happened.  That's what I love about Jim.  He knows he gets under my skin, and I know I get under his, but I think that's why it works so well.  He makes me think about things in a way I normally don't, and I challenge him to defend his opinions.

Jim has kids my age, but we're peers.  He knows how to cheer me up when I'm sad and knows more about me than most of my friends my age.  He's reliable, loyal, goofy, and has a really big heart.  He cares about his friends and would do anything for them, from giving Emily his poncho in the pouring rain to bringing over a bottle of wine for me when I was having a bad night.

Paca

A few days after Burgos we stopped for breakfast in San Bol, where we ran into Jim.  He was very grumpy, going on in his Jim-like fashion about how the camino isn't a race, and racing to catch up to people will just give you blisters, and how he was done chasing after the group who always walked just a little bit too far.  We told him we were only going 18 kilometers that day, which would give him a 13k day, and that he should join us and forget about that other group.  He went outside to discuss this new plan with a dark-haired girl, and when he came back he announced that he and Paca would be coming along.

Her feet were destroyed.  To this day, I don't know how she managed to walk on them.  Her blisters had almost sent her to Barcelona to wait on the beach for her friend to finish the Camino, but Jim somehow managed to convince her to give it a couple more days.  I took a liking to Paca immediately after leaving San Bol.  Her zest and sassy attitude are my favorite things about her.  We skipped all of the introductory conversations and went straight to discussing some pretty heavy stuff about the Camino and what we had already learned from it.  By the time we got to what we had begun referring to as "second breakfast" in the next town, I felt like I had known Paca for the whole Camino.

Within a few days, I felt like I had known Paca for my entire life.  She is one of the funniest people I've ever met and still incredibly sweet at the same time.  Her witty remarks never fail to make me laugh and her humor is contagious.  I can talk to her about anything and know that she is going to not only listen and help me, but also make me feel better about it.  She has a very wise view of the world and always knows just what to say.  She knows how to maneuver through any social situation with grace, whether it be rescuing me from a creepy old man talking my ear off or lightening the mood when it's getting tense.  

Nina

We met Nina at the top of a small mountain before descending into Astorga.  There was this little shack with a snack bar outside called Casa de los Dioses.  It was a donativo, meaning you put in a few coins and take what you'd like.  Emily, Paca and I were making fun of Jim about his ungüento, which he was explaining to Nina.  "It's really amazing!  Let me find it and show it to you!"  He began digging frantically through his bag to show off the foot cream, but couldn't find it.  He accused Paca of taking it, which only increased the hilarity of the situation.  Nina giggled along with us and later told us that watching the four of us interact was like watching a really funny TV show.

Nina is kind, gentle, and incredibly sweet.  She is soft-spoken but has a heart of gold, always watching out for all of us.  She is very observant, and after two days or so she began stockpiling napkins from restaurants in her fanny pack because she noticed that I stop to pee almost every hour.  She is a chocolate fiend and the best at grocery store pit stops, coming out with gummies, chocolate, and a salty trail mix that Paca has dubbed Gringo Mix.  Nina is the kind of person you can always rely on to be there with open arms.

And of course...

Emily

Emy is my best friend, mi media naranja, the sister I never had.  I've known her since we were Girl Scouts at age 5 and she knows me better than I know myself.  When she asked me to do the Camino with her, I jumped at the chance to travel, to do something exciting, and most of all to spend an entire month with her since I hardly ever get to see her.

Emily is the most amazing person I know.  She's intelligent, funny, athletic, goofy, down to earth, and freaking gorgeous to boot.  Everything she does, she does with heart, passion, skill, and an open mind.  She's a fearless traveler, having lived all over the world: Argentina, Egypt, Australia, and most recently Paris (to name just a few!) and she has also done extensive travel throughout her whole life.  I contracted the travel bug from her and she is always an inspiration to me.  A year and a half ago, she called me and told me she was moving to Paris.  I told her I already knew that, and she said, "No, I mean next week.  Next week I'm moving to Paris."  She's going to medical school next year and I know she'll be the most incredible doctor.

Our group knows Emily as the hero of the Camino.  From carrying someone else's backpack for 10 kilometers while already carrying her own to being our navigator, she freaking rocks the Camino's socks off.  She can climb mountains as if they were simple little sledding hills and always has the most level, even-keeled mindset.  Every single day, my best friend amazes me with her intelligence and capabilities.  Oh, did I mention she's an amazing cook?

Emily is the one who will go to the grocery store to buy supplies for dinner and always come back with a little treat that she knows I love.  She will tell me if I have a booger or if what I'm wearing is absurd.  She will call me out on my bullshit, but still be on my side and not judge me.  She can tell within a few seconds if I'm upset and always knows what to do to cheer me up.  She could walk much faster and much longer each day, but she doesn't because she knows my pace and my limits.

She is my favorite person in the whole world.  Thank you, Emy, for sticking with me no matter what.

K

Portomarín, Spain

The ants go marching one by one

There's this thing we have started to call the Pilgrim Dance.  When we get up from sitting down for longer than ten minutes, we all look like we're 100 years old.  We clutch at one hip or the other, stumble for the first few steps, and for the next minute or so we walk like we have sticks up our asses.  It's what distinguishes pilgrims from locals, as if the sexy hiking pants and crocs weren't enough of a giveaway.

Ahh, dignity.  How I miss you.

There's the Pilgrim Dance, hairy legs, sock tan lines, hanging my delicates next to the tighty-whities of an eighty-year-old German guy, shamelessly sticking needles into my toes, singing in the community showers, and ants in my pants. (Oh, I never told that story? Yeah, don't squat to pee in a field without thoroughly stamping the grass down first.)  I walk around these cute European towns, browsing boutiques and drinking coffee in beautiful plazas, in THIS: 

Look closer:

There's having scrapes on your knees from trying to pick blackberries, getting a bruise from hitting the same doorknob three fucking times within ten minutes, and walking around for hours without noticing your greasy orange chorizo lipliner.  There's attempting to flirt with a cute guy and then realizing your entire back is noticeably covered in sweat from your pack.  One time at a cafe, I smiled at a cute local guy on my way out the door.  I bent to pick up my pack and imagined myself gracefully swinging it onto my back to make a grand exit, but was completely overtaken by the Pilgrim Dance and ended up tripping over my own walking stick and knocking the chair over with my pack.  And every day I commit the greatest fashion faux pas of all time:

The funniest part?  Apparently in Venezuela, if you wear socks and sandals it means you have diarrhea.

Stay classy, San Diego.

K

Vega de Valcarce, Spain

Give us this day our daily bread

I stand outside the door to the church, uncertain.  Do I go in? Do I not go in?  Mass is at 8:00, the Rosary is at 7:45, and confession is at 7:30.  It is 7:34; I have missed confession.  Menos mal... I probably shouldn't confess in Spanish anyways, just to be on the safe side.

I go in and choose a seat on the right side in the back, so as few people as possible can watch me blunder my way through mass.  There are four or five elderly women kneeling already, and others start trickling in.  They're all well over seventy, and I'm starting to wonder if this is a women's-only service.  I close my eyes and let the smells of the church wash over me.  I couldn't name the scents if you offered me a million dollars, but they are smells I am very familiar with.  Combined, they stir up so many memories within me that I am overcome with emotion.  I remember the time I got to carry the North Star to the altar during the Nativity program on Christmas Eve, even though I really wanted to be Mary.  I remember how we used to stay after church to eat donuts, how my brother would squeal with excitement every time the organ sounded, and how we always sat in the exact same pew every single week.  I met my first boyfriend at church, I started my period at church; I grew up there.

I also remember the confusion I felt at age fourteen when I was told it was time for my "confirmation."  A few years later, I realized how ridiculous it was for me to confirm my faith in something I didn't even fully understand.  At age fourteen, how can you possibly know that you want to go through confirmation?  I remember sitting at mass one Sunday and realizing with a jolt that I was reciting parts of the mass under my breath along with the priest, and also realizing that I had been doing that for as long as I could remember.  What did they even mean?  The words spoken in monotone, the words I had memorized without meaning to, the words that I was supposed to understand; I realized they meant nothing to me.  I'm pretty sure it was a short while after that day that I stopped going to church. 

Finding myself surrounded by Spanish women in this ornate stone church, all of whom look at me kindly and nod my way as I glance around, I don't know what to feel.  Before I have a chance to consider the options, the chuch is filled with a woman's voice, which is a bit crackly over the microphone.  She's speaking very quickly and never changes pitch, and then she pauses as the thirty or so women and five men mumble back.  The Rosary has begun.  I've sat through one before, and I probably even participated because it was for my grandpa's funeral, but it's another experience entirely when it's in another language.  I catch a few words now and then, so I know roughly where we are on the prayer string, but they are mumbling so fast and so monotonously that I can't keep up.

It's finally done and mass promptly begins.  The priest has a nice voice, but I can't really understand because of the echoes.  Up, down, up, down, up down.  I do my best to follow, but my sore legs slow me down.  This actually turns out to be okay because I am the youngest person in this church by at least forty years, so we're standing and sitting at the same pace.  The priest lifts the host to bless it, and I find myself reciting the English version in my head.  Right on cue, I murmer "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you but only say the word and I shall be healed."  Maybe I'm not as rusty as I thought.  We begin the Lord's Prayer, and I'm surprised at how difficult it is to say it in English while listening to everyone else say it in Spanish.  I stumble through it, and my mind wanders to a linguistics class where we discussed that very phenomenon.  

We stand for the Eucharist and I feel like a robot.  Walking towards the altar, I imagine myself at age eight wearing a white dress for my First Communion.   I was so excited that day!  We had a party and I got my picture taken a bazillion times.  Today, however, I feel empty.  "The body of Christ." Right hand cupped under left.  "Amen."  Right hand to mouth.  Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Amen.  Cross hands.  Walk back to pew.  Kneel.  Close eyes.  What have I just done?  What does it mean?  It tastes and smells so familiar, and yet so foreign.  It feels natural, but my mind is racing.  Is it just muscle memory, or is this what's right for me?  It's hard to say.

The priest asks all of the pilgrims to come forward for the traditional blessing of the pilgrim.  There are five of us and we all join hands while the priest asks God to watch over us and take care of our pain, hunger, and thirst.  I feel warmth and happiness radiating around me, and for the first time since I can remember I feel at home in a church.  

I'm not sure what to make of all of this, so I guess I'll just keep walking.

K

Astorga, Spain

These boots weren't made for walking

Okay.  I think I am finally ready to talk about my boots.

It all began on a rainy Friday in Traverse City sometime in May.  I was taking my lunch break to wander around the backpacking store downtown, mostly to lighten my mood and give me something to be excited about.  I decided I would go back another day to buy the shoes.  A few days and two hundred dollars later, I was the proud owner of a great pair of Merrells that were specifically designed to help women walk long distances without too much strain on their hips, and a pair of the fugliest sandals I had ever seen, AKA Chacos.

The Chacos were easy to break in-- I just wore them for a week while working on my feet at the Cherry Festival.  Ugly as they were, they were ridiculously comfortable and supportive.  The Merrells, on the other hand, proved a trickier pair to find the time for.  Our relationship was rocky from the start.  I loved them; I loved looking at them and trying them on over and over again, but I just didn't have the time for them.  If I was going to walk 500 miles across Spain, I needed to spend my time working, not practicing walking.  I've been walking since 1990, I thought to myself, how hard could it be?  So my shoes sat, dejected and lonely, waiting for me to notice them.  But they were always on my mind.

I promise I spent a few hours breaking them in.  Like, at least eight.  Maybe my boots were more needy than that.  Maybe they just got jealous that I spent so much time wearing my cute ballet flats at the office, or my clunky black clogs at the restaurant.  We spent some quality time together on the airplane and the Merrells hugged my feet; I could almost feel them smiling.

Whatever the case may be, about halfway up the Pyranees on day one I started to feel "hot spots" on my heels.  Like a good pilgrim, doing what I had been told constantly for the last twenty-four hours, I stopped and took my shoes off and applied Compeed, the European version of Second-Skin.  I put the boots back on and proceeded up the mountain into the mist.  When it started to rain I briefly considered my shoes, remembering that I used to dunk my soccer cleats in a bucket of water before wearing them for the first time.  Maybe it'll be like that, I thought.  When it started to hail and lightning started flashing, my shoes were the furthest thing from my mind.

Realistically, the blisters on the sides of both heels probably happened for multiple reasons.  The shoes were not broken in sufficiently, I was walking down a very steep mountain with water halfway up my shins, and they were not the right shape for my foot.  Through the pain, infection, and everyone and their grandma (literally, sometimes) trying to tell me what was the best remedy for blisters, I carried the Merrells faithfully on my pack.  I untied them every night and placed them with the other pilgrims' boots.  After the infection cleared, I tried to wear them again and ended up with blisters on top of the raw skin from the previous blisters.

So it was back to the Chaco's.  My boots hung off my pack every single day, adding weight to my shoulders.  I tried one more time to wear them, but ended up angrily chucking them at the ground.  Looking back, it was the perfect metaphor.  The boots were painful and continued to hurt me, and yet here I was, carrying them around even though I knew I would never wear them again.  I was done with the boots, but I couldn't let them go.  

I always hold onto pain, thinking that maybe someday it will be useful, but it never is and all it does it add weight to my shoulders.  I think that maybe the pain represents a lesson, that I need to carry it around in order to remember it.  Maybe it will prevent me from making the same mistakes in the future, or maybe it will ward off any future pain.  

Camino lesson # 1: Don't hold onto unnecessary weight.

This is how I ended up leaving my boots in the tiny Pilgrim village of Hornillos del Camino.  I laid them gently outside the door of the Monastery and put on my backpack, feeling a thousand different emotions all at once.  Before turning to leave, I bent down to tighten the strap of my sandal and my Nalgene water bottle (read: hard plastic with one liter of water in it) fell onto my foot, right onto those thin little foot bones and nerves and tendons.  White stars flashing before my eyes, tears building yet again in my eyes, I put the water bottle back in my bag and picked up my shoe and hurled it at the wall as hard as I could.  The wall was actually a medieval church, I realized.  I just threw a shoe at a church.  Before I knew it, I was chucking the other shoe at the church, my water falling out of my bag again in the process.

Camino lesson #2312312382194134927328741023981312: Don't throw your shoes at a church.

But with each step, I felt lighter.  I let go of the self-loathing for letting myself get blisters.  I let go of the frustration for not knowing where I was going.  I let go of the anger I felt towards the liars, the cheaters, and the cowards.  I let go of the crushed dreams, the failed attempts, and the times I was blindsided.  As I walked into the darkness, my world erupted with light.

I learned how to let go of the shoes.

K

Calzadilla de los Hermanillos, Spain

I see London, I see France...

Brushing your teeth with someone is an intimate experience.  Usually you're married to the person, you're best friends, or you're dating. Tonight I brushed my teeth with a lady who doesn't speak much English.  I don't know where she's from because when I was going to ask her, she had a mouth full of foam.  She didn't say anything to me because after she spit the foam out, I was flossing my molars.  As I flossed, she put a heavy cream on her face, smiled at me, and left the bathroom.  While I finished up with the floss, a German guy who was maybe in his 60's walked in and began to brush.  We stood there, comrades in personal hygiene. He said nothing when I pulled out my zit cream, and I said nothing when he picked his nose with toilet paper.  

I have experienced more intimate, personal things with these "strangers" than I have with some of my closest friends and family members.  I can't even remember the last time I saw my dad brush his teeth (I promise he does, though!).  The other morning there were seven middle-aged French men in nothing but their tighty-whities walking around the room.  The scariest part was that I didn't even really notice...

 

This morning when I was stretching and yawning, trying to convince myself to sit up, I rolled over and came face to face with a 70 year old Spanish gentleman who had his chin on my mattress, waiting for me to notice he was there.  "Está lloviendo," he told me with a grin.  I knew it was raining, because my face was right next to the open window and I had also looked at the weather the night before, but he was so excited to talk to me that I couldn't help but smile back.  We had had a conversation the night before about his previous hiking experiences in the rain and this week's rainy forecast.  He patted me on the cheek and headed off to the bathroom with his toothbrush, wearing absolutely nothing but his underpants.

K

Boadilla del Camino, Spain

You are the way

We arrive to San Juan de Ortega just in time-- I don't think my body could have carried me another step.  This kind of exhaustion is still completely unfamiliar to me.  I hate it, but I love it.

I have felt many different kinds of fatigue.  The absolute physical exhaustion after playing three ninety-minute soccer matches in one day is exhilarating, especially after winning.  I remember that the feeling of relief when I took off my cleats and sat down to stretch was pure bliss and felt well-earned.  The mental exhaustion of writing a twenty-page paper in another language always left me a little hazy, sometimes to the point of not being able to string together a full sentence in either language.  I always felt so proud of myself.  I would sit back with a sigh, re-count the page numbers, and click the save button about eight more times, just in case.  With only about 5% brain function remaining, I would shut my laptop, promising myself that I would proofread it tomorrow even though I always knew I wouldn't.  The emotional exhaustion of depression used to consume me entirely, rendering me unable to operate normally in society.  I was so worn out that I couldn't feel any emotions at all.  Love, joy, angst, misery... I felt nothing.  

I guess the closest I can come to describing the exhaustion I feel now is is how you would feel after crying for an hour.  Not just a few tears, but those shoulder-shaking, soul-wrenching sob sessions that make you sleepy for two days and leave your eyes burning and red.  When you're done crying, you feel relieved but still haunted by what induced the tears to begin with.  Then add the searing blister pains, muscle cramps, sunburn, and overall got-hit-by-a-semi-truck feeling.  That is the exhaustion of the Camino.  It leaves me with a combination of all of the symptoms I described earlier,and then some.  Pride, exhilaration, numbness, shame, awe... 

Emily and I have likened the Camino to a lifetime playing out in the time it takes you to walk 800 kilometers.  Every day, you feel the emotions you would normally feel in a month's time.  You are forced to face demons you didn't know still existed within you, you feel things you haven't felt in years, and you have hour after hour after hour of walking into the distance to think about it.

The ups and downs, the fellowship, the diversity of people, the honesty, the struggles and successes, they all represent your life.  The pack you carry is the weight of your material belongings and your emotional baggage, and the kilometers represent the milestones you've reached.  You have nothing but your own two feet propelling you forward.  You are the vehicle in which you must traverse life.  Someone might offer to carry your pack for a few kilometers if you can't, but ultimately you must carry it yourself.  Others will be there to help and guide you as best they can, but it is your Camino.  You ARE the way.

The blisters are my imperfections that I can only heal and learn how to deal with.  My scars are my past, and without them I would be full of gaping wounds.  The exhaustion is, well, exhausting, but it's a sign that I'm alive and living as much as I possibly can.  It's what makes me fall sound asleep every night to be able to wake up so I can do it all over again.

I feel more like myself right now than I have ever felt in my life.

K

San Juan de Ortega, Spain

Logroooooooño

In Pamplona, I felt a little guilty putting the Camino on pause, like maybe I was cheating the Way or avoiding something I was supposed to be doing.  Now I understand a bit better what it's all about.  My foot was infected-- why the hell would I have expected myself to walk on it?  I would have told anyone else to take a break, so why would I not give myself the same TLC and understanding that I give others?  Plus, Pamplona is a kick-ass city that I could see myself returning to live in someday.  If we hadn't stopped, we would not have met Lori and Suzanne.  We would not have stopped in the little town of Zirauki, and even if we had it would have been days before their festival.  Everything happens for a reason!

So this time around, I didn't feel guilty about stopping to enjoy Logroño.  I'm walking across Spain-- I deserve to enjoy the places I stay! The Camino is meant to make you live in the moment, because while you're here there is nothing but right now.  And living in the moment in Logroño meant taking care of our feet... and eating tapas and drinking damn good wine.

For those of you who haven't been to Spain, tapas are a truly glorious experience.  I don't think I stopped grinning for the entire time we wandered around Calle Laurel, the famous tapas street.  I'll be honest... at first I had no idea how to "do" tapas.  Luckily, we ran into the Spaniards from Santander who were at our hostel.  In typical Kelly fashion, I bluntly stated that I was clueless and could they please show me how to proceed now that we were on the correct street.  It ended up being a simple pay-as-you-go system where you order drinks and one of the numerous delicious concoctions on display on the bar.  (Apparently in some cities, you get free tapas with every drink you order!)  They heat up the tapas, you pay, and then you take your mouthwatering delicacies to a table and enjoy.  The pacing last night was such that by the time you got the food, you were already halfway done with your glass of wine.  Perfect!  Each tapa consists of about four bites of pure bliss.  We ate a crostini with goat cheese, orange marmalade, and walnuts, a mini chorizo burger, garlic sautéed mushrooms with mini shrimp, bull tail "brisket," and steak and mashed potatoes wrapped in a tortilla.  I also ate another goat cheese crostini from another bar that had raspberry preserves, candied walnuts, and sunflower seeds because, well, why wouldn't I?  The wine was perfect, the tapas nearly made me dance with delight, the Spanish guys were hilarious, and I was with my best friend in Spain.  Talk about living in the moment!

When we arrived at our destination for today, we found Elona sitting at a cafe!  It had been more than a week since we last saw her, but she has been taking her time and also spent a few days in Logroño.  It was like seeing a long-lost friend after many years, and with a jolt I realized just how much these new friends, my new family, mean to me.  Everything happens for a reason, and our timing was impeccable.  Had we dawdled just five minutes longer in the park watching ducks, or had we decided to stay at the first albergue we looked at, we would have missed her.  I'm not sure how or why, but our paths were meant to cross again and I have a feeling we'll be seeing her again very soon.

K

Navarrete, La Rioja, Spain

Remember when I said all dignity had been lost?

Well I found some more that was hiding...

and promptly lost that, too. 

What day is it?

Time has ceased to matter.  The days blend together and I don't remember what happened on which day.  There was one day that we walked through a field of grasshoppers and I was sure they were going to leave welts on my legs there were so many of them bouncing around.  Did you know they're cannibals?  Many of them had been squished by cars or pilgrims, and... well, you get it.  Once we were stopped by a group of mountain bikers who asked us to take their photo by a waterfall, so we had them take one of us, too.  I tripped and had to put my foot in the river while walking out to the waterfall,  but it actually felt pretty good in the heat.  While we posed for the photo, we realized that they could steal our stuff and run away if they had wanted to.  Oops.  There was the time that we arrived at our destination at 12h45 and at 13h the town's yearly week-long festival began with fireworks and the church bells right above our heads clanging incessantly for a good five minutes.  A group of little boys ran up to the fountain we were sitting by, put a firework in it, and sprinted away just as water exploded out of the fountain.  The entire town was dressed in white with red accents in celebration.  

A typical day on the Camino goes something like this:

Someone's alarm clock goes off around 6am and you can hear the collective groaning of the fifty or so people in the room.  I push my earplugs in tighter and roll over, the bed creaking incessantly as I do so.  I wonder if the person in the bunk below me has gotten any sleep with my tossing and turning.  Someone turns the lights on at 6:30 (or 6:25 if they're being impatient) and I wake up again.  At this point I lay in my bed and watch the commotion of people trying to repack their bags, bandage up their feet, and get everything sorted for the day.  I love people-watching and hate waking up, so this just seems like the natural thing to do.  I lounge in my bed until 6:40 or so, stretching and making funny faces at Emily, before I finally get out of my sleeping bag.  Usually I plop down on the floor and pretend to sort things (even though they were never unsorted, because everything I have with me is in a bag of some kind inside my pack) while really just leaning against the bedpost and trying to wake up.

Once our bags are packed and we're ready to go, we sit down for a small breakfast.  Today, for example, it consisted of one hard boiled egg and an apple.  This leaves me very cranky, because I now refuse to drink vending machine coffee after a few bad experiences but need the caffeine, and one egg and an apple is not enough of a breakfast for me.  We leave the albergue around 7:30 or so, depending on how much we dawdle, and this typically puts us in the last third of the pack.  After a kilometer or so, we're warmed up and have a pretty decent pace.  We might chat with others, we might walk alone.  Within the first two hours, we usually find a restaurant with a good espresso machine and plop down for what I consider a real breakfast: coffee.  Today I had cafe con leche (espresso with milk), a yogurt, and a croissant.  Oh, and I also bought some plums and a banana.  I am now a very happy, well-fed pilgrim with a few extra snacks to eat along the way.

We resume walking, my socks getting progressively filthier because I am wearing sandals with them.  (Remember, all dignity has already been lost.)  We stop every once in awhile, but it's less frequent now than it was a week ago.  We've gotten pretty good at getting to the essentials without stopping, and my bladder seems to have expanded a bit.  We might stop to have a picnic of baguette, chorizo or canned tuna, and cheese, or we might keep walking until we get to the town for the day and have lunch then.  We usually arrive anywhere from 1:30 to 3:30, at which point we proudly hand over our pilgrim passports to have them stamped, pay the six euros for a bed, and start unwinding for the afternoon.  What happens after that varies day to day, but typically includes a shower, washing our clothes by hand, and reading or journaling for a bit.  Today we sat under a tree and shared a bottle of wine with these two Canadian gals who have been friends for the same number of years that Emily and I have, but who are more than twice our age. 

Of course, strange things always happen along the way, and if something can go wrong, it will inevitably go wrong for me.  Today, for example, I went to pick a few wild blackberries and ended up with tiny thorns in my legs.  Blisters, a sore Achille's, bruises, scrapes, allergies... apparently I'm a recipe for disaster.  But so many amazing, random things have happened as well.  During the festival that we found ourselves at a few days ago, I got pulled into the middle of the drunken dancing circle to help the guy with the microphone demonstrate this goofy dance the whole town was doing and ended up dancing in a circle with my finger in his belly button.  Good thing I speak Spanish, or who knows where I could have put my hand... Today we happened upon a guy with a donkey who didn't want to walk anymore, so I sang to him and told him what a handsome donkey he was in Spanish (he was a Spanish donkey with a Hungarian owner, so perhaps he was just feeling homesick) and he seemed to like that a bit.  Every time something random like this happens, I have to pinch myself to remember that this is real.  I keep saying that I'm avoiding "real life" by traveling, but perhaps this IS my real life.

I really hope it is.

K

Viana, Spain

Perma-purple tongue

This morning we woke up around the same time as the other pilgrims left.  As we made our way downstairs to have breakfast, I tried to count the bottles of wine we drank last night.  I think between five of us, we drank four bottles.  Not bad.

We are now steadily climbing into the mountains yet again.  The blister on my right heel is throbbing and my Achilles' tendon is sore, probably because I walked on tip-toes for 16 kilometers on Monday.  Shit.  Emily has her headphones in, but I have decided to do the Camino earbud-free.  It's time to face myself and stop ignoring the noise in my head.  A couple with grey hair passes us.  Damnit.  Why didn't I train for this?  A man who looks to be about 65 passes us, wheezing, "Buen camino!"  I grudgingly reply, but I'm really angry now.  I have the stamina, strength, and drive!  Why can't I just fucking walk?!  Another middle-aged couple breezes past.  "Buen camino!"  I keep my head down, ashamed for not having the decency to respond.  Angry tears well up in my eyes, threatening to fall for the second time this week, which is already more than I've cried in the last year.  I yank off my bag, sit on the side of the path and start untying my shoe while tears silently stream down my face.  Emily puts her bag on the path and tells me to put my foot on it so my leg stops shaking.  She's so thoughtful and selfless.  I switch back to my Chacos sandals, blow my nose, and get up.  "I swear, I was only crying to relieve the sinus pressure," I tell Emily with a grin.  She smiles and puts her earbuds back in and we fall into a slow but rhythmic pace.  

I miss Elona, the Danish lady who danced at the snack stand at the top of the mountain 5 kilometers from Zubiri.  We crisscrossed paths with her all afternoon on day 2 and she slept in the bunk above me at Trinidad de Arre.  I also miss Sylvia from Brazil and her no-nonsense attitude.  She made our elderly friend Nick drink a coke and eat a banana at the snack stand where Elona was dancing and stayed up chatting with us by candlelight where the monks bandaged my foot.  I miss Susan and Hildy, the two feisty baby-boomers we ate dinner with after surviving the hailstorm on our first day.  "I'm embarrassed that I let this happen," I told Susan one night, referencing my blisters.  She took my face in her hands, looked me dead in the eye and said, "You get rid of that thought right now.  It happened, now you just need to take care of yourself.  You have absolutely no reason to be embarrassed."  I tried to let it go then, but today it is sizzling at the front of my mind, scorching any remaining positivity.  I miss Dorothy and Toto, our friends from Kansas who brought the guitelele, a hybrid between a guitar and a ukelele.  At breakfast in Zubiri, Dorothy said that Toto and Nikko could take turns carrying my pack and he would carry me to Pamplona.  Emily could be with the "original" group right now if it weren't for me.  Hell, I could be with them too!  I can't get them out of my head.  There's something about having started with them and sharing crucial moments together.  I wonder if they miss us, too.

One kilometer to go.  I can see the town in the distance.  I contemplate walking the other seven kilometers to Puente la Reina, to try to close the gap between us and our friends, but with my leg shaking with every step I take, I don't think it's even possible.  I have to listen to my body.  

We arrive just in time to get beds at the albergue and I go straight to take a nap in the hopes of easing a bit of the self-loathing that seems to be the theme for this day.  

End rant.  Tomorrow is a new day.  

K

Uterga, Spain

Running with the bulls... or not.

I woke up in Zubiri on Monday morning and felt like I had been hit by a semi-truck that threw me into the path of an oncoming train.  I guess sleeping on the cement floor will do that to you.  But hey... at least we had a roof over our heads and somewhere to shower.  Everything happens for a reason.  Everything happens for a reason.  Everything happens for a reason.

I'm still trying to find the reason for these damn blisters that have landed me in Pamplona for a few days to rest.  I walked on my tip toes for about 16 kilometers on Monday and slept at Trinidad de Arre, an ancient church and hospital that has been a pilgrims' albergue for over 1,000 years.  There are three retired monks who run it, and one of them bandaged my foot by candlelight when the power went out.  He assured me that one of my blisters was infected and that I had to go to the doctor the next day.

Yesterday Emily and I spent the first part of the afternoon at the doctor, where it was deemed that my blister was indeed infected and that I couldn't walk again until Thursday or later.  I had saved the left foot from infection because I had threaded that blister with a needle and thread, allowing it to stay open and begin to heal.  I'm kicking myself for not doing it to the right foot as well.  The blister is so deep that I cannot put any pressure on the heel when I walk.  

Everything happens for a reason.  Being stuck in Pamplona is wonderful!  I love the Camino and the people we have met so far, but I'm grateful for having the chance to explore this beautiful city.  Emily and I both love the old, winding streets with the colorful buildings and their beautiful balconies.  Last night, Hugo from Quebec cooked for us and tonight I made omelets.  It has been a necessary break from the Camino, but I'm anxious to start walking again.

Time for more wine.

K

Pamplona, Spain

Guardian angels

When I woke up this morning, I felt like a pile of cow shit.  Not horse shit or sheep shit, but a big, fat, cowpie.  The Spanish guys in the bunk next to us were so jovial and energetic that I wanted to punch them in the face.  If they hadn't been so damn gorgeous, I might have.  They were starting the Camino today by bicycle, and between trying to flirt with us and guzzling protein shakes were chattering excitedly about the ride.  Idiots.

It was a brisk 50 degrees or so and pouring rain for the first few hours of our walk and I was trying desperately to think positively.  "Well, at least we're getting the shitty weather out of the way the first few days," I told Emily.  "It seriously can only get better from here!"  She halfheartedly agreed with me and by the time the rain stopped and the sun peeked through the clouds we found ourselves in a cute little town where we bought bread, cheese, and chorizo for five euros.  Score!  Our pace quickened and before we knew it we were in a town about halfway to Zubiri, our destination for the day.  

A kilometer or so later, we ran into a man who was panting heavily and having a difficult time making it up some of the hills.  A group of Spanish women took his pack (they were having their bags transported for them and delivered to their next albergue) so he could walk easier and I climbed the hill at his pace to make sure he made it to the top.

There wasn't a top.  There was kilometer after kilometer of hilly landscape to traverse, and Emily and I fell into his pace, trailing him to make sure he was alright.  Since his pack was gone, he had no water; this only strengthened our resolve to stick with him and we spent the rest of the afternoon going at the pace of our 73-year-old friend Nick.  He was a retired urologist from California with a wife and three grown children.  We didn't get much more than that out of him because he was having a hard time speaking as he walked.  Emily and I mostly just hung back and goofed around taking photos and singing weird songs, and I found myself increasingly grateful for our pace because my blisters were becoming so uncomfortable I could hardly walk.  Elona, a gal from Denmark we had been on pace with all day, told us that Nick was lucky to have two guardian angels adopt him.

Maybe it was the other way around.  

I really do think that everything happens for a reason, so when we were given sleeping space on a cement gym floor because every bed in town was occupied, we tried to stay positive.  We had arrived about four hours later than expected and it would have been easy to blame our predicament on being too nice; instead, we looked at it as a valid reason to drink a lot of wine.  We found a bottle for less than three euros and enjoyed a hearty dinner of baguette, chorizo, and cheese from the comfort of the cement floor with our friend Nikko, who taught us to slice off the top half of a plastic water bottle to use as a cup for wine.  I think all remaining dignity was lost when we starting hanging our underwear on a line next to perfect strangers' underwear, so this actually seemed pretty classy.

After an evening filled with music, laughter, and drinking cheap red wine from an old powerade bottle, I think we're ready to attempt to sleep on the cement floor.  God, this is going to suck.

K

Zubiri, Spain

Albergue: This could be a hostel, a municipal albergue with hundreds of beds, a bed and breakfast, etc.  

Day one

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

It really is holy, too... Tonight I'm sleeping in an ancient monastery with 100 people in one room.  There are 50 bunk beds in the old hospital part of the monastery, and each row has two bunks shoved next to each other with a gap in between just large enough to walk through.  This means that because Emily is sleeping above me, there is a person in the bed next to me who I could literally be spooning with at any moment.  She speaks Afrikaans and has just informed me that she talks a lot in her sleep.

Today was one of the best days of my life, and it was also one of the worst.  I'm having trouble deciding which is the stronger sentiment, although right now I'm leaning towards worst because of my chattering teeth.  I am not prepared for this journey.  The day started out all sunshine and daisies-- literally.  Sure, walking uphill for hours on end was a bit difficult, but Emily and I were goofing around, chatting with new friends and taking photos of everything.  The French countryside was stunning and I was with my best friend for the first time in almost a year.

It started to get eerie when the walkers thinned out as more and more people passed us.  It was a cloudy day, and we were so high into the mountains (1,000 meters or so) that the fog was dense around us and we could only see a few meters in any direction.  We could hear cowbells in the distance, but could not see who or what they belonged to.  I learned how to tell the difference between cow shit, sheep shit, and horse shit... you never know; it might come in handy someday.  We would hear the cowbells for ages before a random animal would pop out of the mist.  Our eyelashes and hair were covered in clouds and we struggled to see the pathway.

It started to rain somewhere around the French/Spanish border.  We stopped and put the rain covers on our backpacks, still goofing around.  It started to rain a bit harder; we put our raincoats on.  Puddles started to form, lightning flashed, and thunder boomed in the distance.  We fell silent and slogged along.  The thunder got closer, the rain fell heavier, and the lightning was more frequent.  We passed a hut and decided to keep trekking.

One kilometer further, we were nearly stampeded by a flock of sheep running down the mountain.  I think I started laughing hysterically at this point because Emily pointed out that the sheep were running away from the peak of the mountain and we were approaching it.  The storm was now directly above us; lightning, thunder, hail, flash floods... Fuck.  Every ounce of my heart was saying, Keep going!  If you just make it to Roncesvalles, you will be safe and you'll have a hot shower!  My brain countered with, Turn back.  Go downhill, get into the hut and out of the storm. Wait it out.  Emily and I weighed our options from the cover of the forest and decided to go with our own instincts instead of the flock's.  

This is how we found ourselves on the 1,450 meter peak of a mountain in the middle of a hailstorm.  I was pretty sure this was the exact manner and location of Emilio Esteves' death in the movie The Way, but I tried not to think about it.  We started the descent and waded through the mudslides for another hour and a half, singing every song that we both know the words to, mainly Grease and Disney.  After 29 kilometers we eventually made it to the monastery where I have never been more grateful for shelter in my life.

My legs ache, my body aches, I have a blister on each foot, and my sleeping bag is wet because my rain cover failed miserably.  It turns out my raincoat is not hail-proof, either.  The room is already echoing with snores and I'm pretty sure the lady next to me is going to roll onto my bed any minute at the rate she is thrashing around.  Oh, did you read the part about the lightning and the hail and flash floods on the top of a mountain?  So, let me end by saying... 

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

K

Roncesvalles, Spain