Kachemak Camino — Nanwalek, Alaska

In the spirit of making the Camino a continuous way of living, not a one-stop adventure, I am going to keep writing this blog. It may describe the adventures and quests surrounding everyday life, or those that take me far from home. 

Today, those wanderings take me to the public school in Nanwalek. Nanwalek is a village on the outer coast of Alaska's Kenai Peninsula. It is about 20 or 25 minutes (or one long held breath) via bush plane from Homer. Homer is where I was born and raised and now live, and despite this fact I have never been to Nanwalek. Because the only way to get there is by boat or plane and it is very, very small. But it also happens to be smack-you-upside-the-face beautiful. 

This is the view from my classroom, where I'm substitute teaching the rest of the week. I think a lightly falling snow, onto a quaint lagoon village, on one's first day in a very unique and wild place, is sort of like nature or the powers that be showing off. It's almost TOO MUCH pretty. "Uh, yeah, you're welcome for this glorious frosty sunset. Mystical snowfall? DONE. Next. I've got all day. Actually, I have all the days. And guess what else? Swans. How about some gorgeous swans just passing through on their way to the magical forest of love and everything-is-great-always."

(For the record the students told me they were swans, and while I didn't verify it, these kids tend to be right about nature things. The magical forest part was my addition.) 

But despite its natural beauty, awe was not the first feeling I experienced upon making my way to Nanwalek. No, that emotion would be fear. Because arriving in this village is unlike any bush plane experience I've ever had. And I've had some interesting ones. I've flown along the pitch black coast of the Arctic Ocean in winter, on my way to the village of Wainwright with only a stack of 20 fragrant pizzas as my fellow passengers. I've riden through the narrow and notoriously windy mountain pass that leads to King Cove on the Alaska Peninsula, to meet my father and our fishing boat for a long run to homeport. I've landed on the island of Adak, near the end of the Aleutian Chain, where you can't see anything but waves until the wheels are actually on the ground. 

But this was something new. You can actually see most of the runway in the above photo, but let me slide over to the right here and give you the full picture.

Yes that is my iPhone you can see in the window reflection...but the point is, that small strip of gravel with water on both sides is the runway. It's gorgeous really, waves crashing on one side, skiffs tied off on the other. But it doesn't just have water flanking it. It has a mountain on each end too. There's the one you can see ahead of me, and there's the one that's behind the school in which I am standing. So basically this is what's going on:

So the plane comes in, from the "left" if you will, passes by the runway on one end, then makes an abrupt 180-degree, sharp downward turn across the face of the far mountain. You can actually see a whole section where they've cut down a swath of trees so that there's room for the plane to bank in without scraping spruce. And then, before the plane has a chance to come back to center, it lands on the strip of runway on ONE FUCKING WHEEL. And that's not a sketchy landing, that was the plan. One wheel is the PLAN. So you have a hard about face, a flyby of imposing hillside, then a single-wheel landing on a strip of gravel in the middle of the ocean. Now, I've got a lot of plane-flying, wilderness-hopping, Alaskan friends that will probably just nod along like this is all par for the course because you're a bunch of wild things. And it is. But I think we can all admit, even just to ourselves, that this is sheer awesome madness. Even if it is just the way business gets done in Nanwalek. Also, these planes tend to be about the size of my Subaru. 

Which is why I was able to take this up close picture of the controls. Because I called front seat/window seat/wing seat/emergency exit seat/best seat. 

Here is a more accurate, though summertime, photo of the real thing that I took from the Interweb. 

Needless to say, I am happy to be here. I stepped off the plane at 9:15 and popped up the hill to the school, only missing the first few minutes of class. While I was a special needs aid for almost five years, this was my first time in charge of a classroom. With a late start, no less. But the school and the kids and the other adults working around me were wonderful and forgiving, and now I am camped out for the night on a mattress down the hall from the classroom. It was odd and lovely to be once again packing my backpack, filling it with a few days worth of food and a sleeping bag, all the necessary things. And a few not. 

And those white splotches on the window are indeed from children throwing snowballs at the school, because they know someone is in here, and that's a good enough reason to through snowballs in anyone's book. 

An Arrival — Santiago de Compostela, Spain

One kilometer from the Santiago Cathedral, I stopped to get a lemon soda. 

This doesn't make a lot of sense, especially since I'd just finished an 800 kilometer journey, and my destination was literally around the next corner. But I just wasn't ready yet. Neither was my friend Talitha, so we agreed we needed to stop and regroup before heading in to the maze of oldtown buildings surrounding the historic plaza. Part of it was practical needs. My feet were aching and I hadn't seen a bathroom in a while. 

"I just don't want to walk into the square and have my only thoughts be, 'shit my feet hurt and I have to pee,'" I told Talitha.

We weren't the only ones. I saw several pilgrims I knew scattered in the cafes on the outskirts. Having beers and snacks. Sitting on benches consulting battered maps. What were we doing? It was right there. All arrows going to Santiago Cathedral. Seriously, there were arrows everywhere. 

I was completely ready to be done walking. My feet looked and felt atrocious. My few remaining clothing items were perma-dirty (as evidenced by the smell I encountered upon reentering my hotel room that evening.) My bones and muscles were a sort of collective tired that only a week of laying around on soft surfaces while groaning was going to fix. And I desperately wanted to hug my dog and my parents and my friends at home. So why was I dragging my feet through Santiago, the very place I'd worked so hard to reach? 

Maybe the same reason I'd felt like vomiting all day. I didn't actually want to be done. 

We left early in the morning, long before the sun came up. Neither Talitha or I had a working headlamp at that point so we waited at the edge of the forest for someone illuminating. A Spanish man went by at a veritable trot, his flashlight making an ivory beam through the stand of dripping pine and eucalyptus trees. We made tracks behind him, along with another man in need of light. Normally I spend a lot of time looking at my feet while walking, picking my footing carefully, petrified of slipping. But looking down was useless in the pitch black, and the only way I was going to get warning of any upcoming speed bumps was by watching the feet of the front man. So I hustled, picking my feet up awkwardly high each step, hoping to avoid trip-inducing rocks by basically doing a high-knee drill through the woods in the dark. 

We'd gone about three miles when the porch light of an open cafe appeared at the other side of an under-road tunnel. It was time for first breakfast. We loitered over cafe con leche and croissants, watching for daylight. Then we did the same thing three miles later. And again. Every few miles I'd also complain that I was sick to my stomach. Of course it wasn't the coffee and heavy cream we were downing every three miles. That couldn't be it. No, I know now it was the dread of finishing the great big thing I'd decided to do. 

The final two weeks I'd been in a haze of peaceful discomfort. So much so that I stopped taking pictures, stopped writing blog posts, and just let myself zone out. Soreness and fatigue and the encroaching chill of fall were irksome, but none of that really mattered. I was at ease. I knew what I was doing, and I had a vague-sort-of-bewildered-but-good-enough philosophy for why I was doing it. Those two simple facts allowed me to get up every day with confidence and serenity. Put on the shoes, pack the backpack, fill the water bottle, check the map, walk. 

In my everyday life, that litmus test I mentioned — the what am I doing and why bit — is usually impossible for me to answer. Even on a very basic level. Maybe I know I need to change the cat litter and do a few newspaper interviews. But I'm never sure I quite know how to do it right. Maybe I'll spill it on the bathroom floor. Maybe I'll freeze and forget what questions to ask. And WHY? I barely know why I do anything. As frantically involved as I am in extra curricular activities, most of the time I'm still like a kid trying to do algebra. I want to raise my hand and ask, "Uh, what is the freaking point of all this again?" 

But not when I'm walking. Everything makes sense when I'm walking. I keep things clean and neat, I keep myself well fed and hydrated, I take precautions to stay dry, I eat decent food, I rest, I get up early, I work hard, and I do it because I need those things to get to where I'm going.  

And that is why, at a standstill a kilometer from my destination, I felt like I was going to throw up. Because my very particular peace-inducing purpose was about to be achieved, and, uh, what the fuck now? 

But of course I did complete the last kilometer, weaving through the streets of Santiago until I found the cathedral. And of course I did sit on the stones of the square with a few dozen other pilgrims and stare up at its gothic spires and consider the last 500 miles. And I watched an Italian man sink to his knees, weeping and singing to this shrine to Santiago. And I considered Saint James himself, mostly how little I still knew about him, wondering how much of the lore around the saint holds true to the man. Wondering if he'd recognize the modern pilgrim as a fellow to those who walked centuries before us. Wondering if the ancient pagans that passed this spot, on their journey to the coast, before the Catholics laid claim to it, would have had a place for me in their midst. 

Mostly I wondered about what to do next. Aside from finish grad school and pay my bills and try to make reasonable decisions about my future. As I acknowledged the expected but distressing lack of epiphany, staring as I was at THE cathedral, I accepted that which I knew to be true from the beginning: the Camino doesn't end in Santiago. It doesn't even end in Finisterre, that windy rock on the western coast. It doesn't end in Spain, or any other earthly place we can walk or swim or fly to. It is a way we may move through this life, until we should find the next one. A way to learn with your body and spirit as well as your mind. 

Those things don't have to add up to an epiphany to be grand. In my life they mean small victories. The Camino, for instance, is responsible for these simple facts: When I got home I cleaned car loads of stuff I don't need out of my house, I run almost every day, I get up early, and my house is still clean even though I've been home for three weeks. These things, normal as they sound, are a pretty big deal for me. There's other things. But not things I can necessarily describe. Which, for once, I'm ok with. But I can say I know things about myself and about my world in a way that is different and stronger and more tangible to me than ever before, even though I cannot put them into words.  

And thankfully my sadness over finishing has passed, though not before I moped around a bit, joining some fellow pilgrims for a few long-faced meals before hugging them goodbye, bidding them all a Buen Camino. 

Communication Guide — Along the Way, Spain

My last post was about just a few of the people I have met that have made this last five weeks incredible. But there are, inevitably, people around that aren't always utterly delightful. It's just the natural way of things. And I know that sometimes I am one of those non-delightful individuals. The great thing about the Camino is that it does wrench the elemental quirks out of us and put them right out there for everyone to see. The travel plan we've all entered into makes it difficult for us to be anything but our bare essentials. This brings out a lot of good in people. And then there's the other stuff. And I can't imagine this place without it. They fall into some basic categories, a few of which I've explored here. 

THE ADVISORS

Michele and I compared notes recently on the many individuals who have been generously giving out their well informed opinions, completely free of charge. There are some standard archetypes within this category. The following mock-ups give you the basic idea of conversations happening across the Camino at this very moment — with a little embellishment and some potential responses.

1: The Weight Checker: "That bag is far too heavy. You will absolutely not make it to Santiago with that. Go directly to the post office or the garbage can before you fall over and die from it." 

— This advice is almost always given by someone you have never spoken to before. So this would not be a good time to start speaking to them. —

2: The Licensed Physician (pssst, not a real doctor): "I see you have a blister there. You'll want to drain it well, keep it clean and dry, and then protect it while you're walking."

— Really? Because I was going to light it on FIRE! Thank God you were here! —

3: The Personal Trainer: "I see your legs are sore. I can show you an excellent calf and achilles stretch. It's really essential to take care of your muscles when you're asking this much of them. Just brace your toes against any wall like so...."

— Oh shit did you take 7th grade gym class TOO? No Way! We should probably plan a spring wedding. We have so much in common already. Why wait? Sometimes you just know. —

4: The Tour Guide: "You should get up, not lay in bed all afternoon. Get out and see this beautiful city!"

— It's best to respond to this with physical violence, not words, as rose colored glasses must often be knocked off forcibly. However, if you are unable to move your limbs due to obsessive daily walking, a threatening groan will suffice. —

THE ETIQUETTE CHALLENGED

 

1: The Nudist: This person can be found shaving leisurely in front of the bathroom mirror in the men's and women's shared toilet/shower/laundry area. 9 out of 10 times this person is a male around 70 years of age, and you will recognize him by his loose white underpants, which will somehow manage to be too baggy and too small at the same time. They will have a well defined stain in the nether regions, which is the only region this clothing item has. 

2: The Sharer: This person likes to have long meaningful conversations with a person who does not speak the same language they do. They share pertinent details about their personal life - likes and dislikes, occupation, favorite artists - all in a slow, simplified speech pattern one usually reserves for particularly stupid cats. Last night I heard a French man say to a California woman, as he tried to crawl into his bunkbed: "It is ok you keep talking, but I lay down now." This is a signal to the Sharer to stop sharing, but it is unlikely to be effective. 

3: The Early Riser: This paranoid sadist enjoys rising many hours before dawn. It is easiest to identify this creature by the piercing beam of LED light streaming from the nuclear lamp on its forehead. Like some sort of electric unicorn. You will hear the rustle of their nylon backpack, and the crinkling of whatever plastic their food is wrapped in, and likely the sound of them whispering to one another. "Did you get my foot cream?" "Yes I have your foot cream." But no matter what the sound, do not, DO NOT, turn toward them or make noise of any kind. This will disturb their nest deconstruction and cause them to turn sharply toward you, pointing their beam of cornea bursting light directly at you. 

There are many more archetypes to be found along the Camino. I will be updating you on these periodically, as I believe we should all be aware the possibility of coming across or becoming one of them at any moment. 

Travel Posse — Fonfria, Spain

We've formed an odd little tribe. It's not the first for any of us — we've all walked with different groups here and there. And it's always hard to know how long these travel posses will last. But these women are just my speed, in more ways than one. 

We're all on the Camino alone. All of us single women. There's the razor sharp Canadian writer, Michelle. She's quick to laugh and is the only one of us that speaks any Spanish. Then there's Salt Cay Cindy, who cooks for us and has southern sass coming out her ears. Her nickname comes from the island in Turks and Caicos where she spends half her year. Then of course there's the nurse Talitha, a Dutch atheist who is both kind and delightfully frank in her perfect, merciless English. Our ages vary but the company is consistent, and it works well. Canadian humorist, Salt Cay Cindy, a Dutch nurse, and me. It's good times.

I'll post a less shadowed picture later...

I was sitting with my three amigas a few days ago while they shared a pitcher of sangria and talked about the ethics of taking the bus on certain legs instead of walking. Some people say it threatens the purity of the pilgrimage, but Cindy and Michele are all for it. Each to his own Camino, they say. 

"I think God forgives us for taking the bus," Michele said, grinning over her glass. 

"God doesn't exist..." Talitha reminds us, waggling her ice cubes. 

Everyone comes at the spirituality aspect from a different angle, but what we all have in common is a willingness to discuss it. This is what I like about the Camino. It is full of spiritual thinkers, but followers of rigid religious dogma are less frequent. 

Myself, I agree with Michelle. Each to their own Camino. If you want to take a bus, take a bus. You think every medieval pilgrim turned down a donkey ride or a free spot on a carriage rolling by? I think not. 

No matter how it shakes out, any Pilgrim will meet a bizarre collection of people each day that find new ways to blow one's mind. Like the Dutch man that started his Camino from his front step on the first of July. Kissed his wife, hugged his granddaughter, and set out. Or the man from Madagascar, who travels with a small, golden-haired dog and always sleeps outside. Or the Korean teenagers that giggle at everything. From empty toilet paper rolls to bee stings.  

Talitha and I have gotten to know each other well enough now that she's calling me on my shennanigans — large and small. 

"Damn, there's no extra blankets," I said to Talitha. She looked at my sleeping bag on the bunk.

"Do you get cold at night?" She's not making eye contact with me. I'm wondering where this is going.

"Well, no. But it's like a security thing. Why?" She starts to laugh.

"Because every time I am in the lower bunk, I wake up in the morning to see your extra blanket on the floor. It makes no sense." 

I agreed that it indeed made no sense.

It's hard to add up the good advice she's given me. Most recently she gently suggested that I stop researching Spa resorts for the end of the month and finish the Camino first. 

"This is why you're irritable," she said. "In your head you've already finished." 

I couldn't argue with her. A few minutes earlier she'd read me the kilometers and terrain report for tomorrow's hike. From the great height of my creaking top bunk I muttered that I was "not happy about that horse shit" and kept typing. Then we both laughed, because my deplorable attitude was so hopelessly inappropriate. 

But she agreed with me, for the most part, that the hippie boys in the kitchen playing guitar and flute should likely be silenced, if not bludgeoned, so we're really on the same page. 

It's hard to describe how grateful I am to have met these interesting women with whom I can now share meals and laundry loads and gripes and hiking plans. Yesterday I took a scenic route, and it was particularly hard. And it didn't help that on the last bit of the climb, the adorable couple in front of me stopped every hundred feet or so to kiss, like a bunch of jerks. I almost started throwing rocks. But I didn't have the energy, and I knew that my three amigas were waiting in La Faba with a dinner plan and a bed set aside for me.

 

Sure enough, as I stumbled up the last hill, Talitha was sitting on the fountain with a cigarette and a smile. 

"You're here. You don't have to do anything. Just sit down." How nice to hear those words, and know they were true. But it is likely that we are splitting up tomorrow. Despite the comfort of this group, we are still individual Pilgrims, and our paths were always meant to diverge. 

Some pictures from the last week or so...and sorry for the lack of updates. 

Yesterday I opted for the harder route, and was rewarded with beautiful views of the foggy valley below. I didn't see a soul for four hours — rare indeed on the Camino — aside from one older gentleman in his chestnut grove. 

An interesting stop between towns. This hostel/alter/shaded patio/dog party is in an almost abandoned village and famous for its single resident, Thomas, that regularly dresses as a knight. 

This is normal in Europe apparently. Talitha thought it was silly that I wanted a picture with this completely standard shopping device. But she took it anyway. 

The good thing about getting up before dawn every day. 

Castle!! The whole time we walked around I secretly pretended I was a tragic character from Game of Thrones, preparing to avenge something. "Winter is Coming!!!!!!"  

A little pile of snacks and water, provided for Pilgrims for an optional donation. There's nice people here. 

Foncebadon. 

Hilltop.

Oreos and Sarah Palin — Mansilla, Spain

A few days ago I got a packet of Oreos for being from Alaska. In his six years of running a shop on the Camino, Emil doesn't remember ever meeting an Alaskan. And for that, I got a special prize. He snuck the blue and white package in with my other groceries with a wink, and I clapped my hands, and I felt very, very young. 

This morning, I ate them for breakfast, halfway through a lazy 11-mile walk. I spent several of those miles trying not to throw up my prize. My body seems to have become very militant, and chastises the processed foods I used to gobble. 

"No! Zis is not nourishment! You cad, you irresponsible nitwit, feeding your tummy zis cookie!" 

Now, I'm not saying that I've gone to the dark side of calorie counting. My stomach has no problem with the chocolate croissants I prefer to start my morning with. It just seems to need REAL food. Go figure? I don't eat that much processed food at home anymore either, but I think American food in general is much more complex and dressed up than what I've been eating. Which is mostly bread, cheese, sardines, apples and potatoes. I'm sure not all Spanish people eat this way, but it seems fairly typical of the walking folk I'm alongside here. 

So, no more Alaska Oreos, no matter how well intentioned. It's amazing, actually, how much street cred my far away home gets me. Eyebrow raises, little bursts of surprised laughter, excited ooohs and aahhhs. People drop their little walls down, because I've surprised them just enough. Silently, I know that having been born and raised in Alaska has nothing to do with anything I did, but why focus on that. 

"How many people live in Alaska?"

" —insert made-up number here —"

"Wow! So few!" 

I should probably look up Alaska's population. So far I have said various numbers that differ by several millions. 

The one drawback to pulling out my effortless party trick is that, inevitably, someone brings up the old SP. 

"So, what happened there?" 

I want to say, uh, I don't know. I was busy being youthfully irresponsible when she got elected and forgot to control the fate of the governorship. And besides, have we not forgotten about Sarah Palin yet? Can we not let her ladyship fade away into the great peaceful obscurity that most of us relish? 

The worst times are when I can't get a read on the political leanings of the question asker, and also when I can. The liberals are entirely too confrontational sometimes. Even though I agree with them, I am a little weary of people expecting the general Alaska population to answer every mystery of the Palin debacle. Yes, we are the ones who elected her. But, no, I cannot explain, "What happened there." But, an attempt from a fairly uninterested young woman might go: A right-leaning state elected a charismatic religious lady to drive for a while, never suspecting that the mother ship would come along and recruit her to be first mate — and then find out that she probably should have failed her driver's test. 

Then there's the conservatives. I made the mistake of assuming that the nice Catholic people I was eating with shared my same political leanings. I have no idea what on earth led me to that assumption. But when I called SP's leap to the presidential ticket a horrifying experience for Alaska and an embarassing reflection of our state's actual leadership potential, eyebrows went up. They were very polite, but, we weren't on the same page. 

I guess there's some obvious observations here — when only a small percentage of the population turns out to vote, and an even SMALLER percentage has substantial awareness of the people and issues they're voting on, some bull shit sneaks through. It happens all over the country, it's just not every day that a presidential candidate decides to roll the dice on a gimmick. 

And that I think is what frustrates me the most about it all. Not that Sarah Palin was ill equipped for the National Stage, but that her presence there and the Alaska schtick that came with it was such a gimmick. And it didn't work. Thank God. 

ALL THIS BEING SAID, I am not a political guru. I write community news stories sometimes but I make no claims at understanding all the nuances of American or Alaskan political history. I cannot answer all the questions about these topics, or even guarantee that the opinions I do have are the right ones. I just want to go one day in the Spanish countryside without being asked about Sarah Palin, and without forcing a laugh when people ask me if I really CAN see Russia from my house. 

And much like my dietary choices, I might need to join my fellow Americans in being more discerning in regards to our political leaders, no matter the right or left leaning. And maybe that starts with encouraging the people around us, whose ideas and communications methods we respect, to start running for office. Looking at national or state-wide elections sometimes feels daunting for me, and I feel a little, or a lot, powerless. But leadership does not exist only on the National stage. Robust and innovative methods of problem solving can be fostered within our communities in a way that seeps into our national dialogue. And if you think that's too optimistic of me, then maybe you should lie back and wait for the end of days. I'm going to try to get one my talkative liberal friends to run for city council, or state representative, or President of the Good Intentions Club, and see what happens. 

All the Work While Crying — Sahagun, Spain

Today is the deadline for my first mailing for grad school. I've completed the reading. I've written the literary critique essays on the books. I just have to finish, my uh, you know, writing writing. The stuff I am supposedly creating from my writerly self. The stuff that I've been referring to as my REAL writing for a few years now. You know, not the news writing or the blog writing or the lengthy email writing, but my REAL writing. 

So I got myself a private room at a hostel. My VERY OWN BATHROOM even. And I bought some super snacky snacks.

The very exciting place where all of this happens. I know, it's got that European, bars on the windows, prison dormitory kind of charm.

And I have limited my freaking out time to a reasonable amount. And I have begun to work. Except for right now, obviously, because I am writing a blog about how I am working. And also except for the hour I spent spreading out all my backpack contents while listening to some podcasts, because in here I can't bother anyone else with them. And also except for the time I spent staring at the back of my eyelids in the shower. And looking for an ATM and snacks. Except for those times I am working and it's going really, really well. I have only eaten two of the eight cookies in the box I bought. I think I will need the other six later when I'm crying over my iPad. Because of, you know, how well it will be going. Let me reuse a favorite diagram.

I am in Sahagun, a city that feels strange to me but I can't tell if it's strange because I'm so jacked up on deadline anxiety, or if it actually is weird. The first hotel I came to, the one advertised most aggressively online that I thought I was destined for, was all locked up and quiet. Which is a shame because I was looking forward to the sauna. Which is not great since I am supposed to be writing. So maybe it's good that I'm staying in the hostel attached to the convent, in my private streetside room, where I hope the piety of the nuns will seep up through the tile and improve my writing efficiency. I think that kind of thing happens, right? Isn't that why people go on "writing retreats?" Those magical things where you are away from all your other life so you can get shit done? I think it is possible that those things would work for other people. But I'm pretty sure I would just wander around, looking at trees and eating cookies, until the very last day of the retreat. Then I would weep, and pull my hair out in my little private room, and produce all the stuff that proves I am a productive person. A "writer." 

I think it's possible that I should stop using air quotes when referring to my life's dream. It seems a little, "passively aggressively self-deprecating." And I prefer to be up front about that crap. For instance: I'm a fraud. Because cookie crumbs and good intentions do not a writer make. Too maudlin? Yeah, probably, but overstated bouts of insecurity are a good motivator you know? Besides, the night is young and full of potential...and there's always the nuns to bounce ideas off of. 

"Donde esta THESAURUS? No? Necessito INSPIRATION. Esta M&Ms and Diet Coke por favor? Magic 8 Ball? ROPE?"

No no, just kidding. I have a little more faith than that. It will get done. The great pit of deadlines never fails to arrive, and always, out of its musty depths, emerges something to put on the page. And I've had 250 miles to consider this particular story. 

So, into the ravine. 

Mixed Messages — Itero de la Vega, Spain

So I was going along, having an extended selection of arguments with people in my head. You know, the way you do when you're traveling alone through the Spanish countryside. It's really the best time for getting into completely fabricated disputes with members of your inner circle of friends, or family, or the stranger that was snoring, or whoever, you know? I even caught myself having a row with Jonathan Brierley, who wrote the Camino guide I'm using. These are the kind of vital things I was using my brain power for yesterday morning. 

Through no fault of any of the people I was pretending to talk to, I was having kind of a crap morning. And isn't that kind of why I'm here? To hash out all my issues with myself so that I am whole and better able to interact with my loved ones later? Partly yes. But in that moment of self-indulgent negativity, my methodology wasn't very effective. And I probably would have continued on like that for HOURS. Except, I looked up, and saw this.

Now, I am sure that this is meant for some other Hannah, long past this section of trail. Perhaps long gone from Santiago and off to her home by now. Who knows if it referred to a bad blister or a hangover or a fight with her boyfriend or a bit of bad news from home. It doesn't really matter now how it got there. Because it was exactly what I needed at that moment. I laughed. I laughed a lot. And from that moment on it was like the negative thoughts weren't even able to get in, because every time I'd remember that ridiculous message and laugh again. So I said a little apology to the innocent people I was arguing with, and I made my way to Itero de la Vega. 

There are so many messages left along the way. There are the private ones, left in nooks of ancient walls.

There are the post its and Sharpie notes and rock formations scrawling messages to companions following behind. There are well wishes to and from strangers. There are bits of stories, like this one, which I'm just dying to hear the rest of. 

There's an endless line of messages, none of which are particularly for me, but most of which have something to offer me if I pay attention. There's also the ones with the negative connotations. Like the "Fuck You Americans," scattered along the trail. These messages make me very sad, and it hurts in my heart more than I ever thought it would. I knew going in, the basics, that people generally dislike Americans. It's one of the reasons I always say I'm from Alaska when people ask. They know it's America, but people regard it a little differently somehow. Unless they remember to ask about Sarah Palin, which they often do, and it's all downhill from there. 

I wish I could ask the person writing the angry words, what part are you angry at? Corporate America? Military America? Political power America? Consumer America? Because most of us feel some or a lot of frustration regarding those things too. We have a lot of stuff we don't need, and a lot of us have a lot of money compared to the rest of the world. That's not quite fair, it's true. 

And like the rest of all humanity that came before us, there's a lot of things that we've done wrong. 

I would like to know the author's ideas for making it better, what it would take to alleviate the anger. And I really do want to know in general how I might be a better American, and how I might help to make my country a better neighbor and a better home. Not because I dislike it now, but because where there are problems and complaints there should also be attempts at solutions. 

I agree that there's a boat load of douchey Americans — as I heard one person put it. But there's a lot of douchey people from everywhere. That's part of being on the planet, some people are short-sighted jerks and they come in all colors and accents. And even most of them have a story and something redeemable to offer if you listen, and people who love them. I would hope that everyone does. 

And wouldn't you know it, right before I finished writing this I flipped to tomorrow's guidebook info, and found this Longfellow quote at the top.

“If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility."

And Now Random Pictures in Closing

Sometimes I turn around in the morning and remember, oh yeah, sunrise.

And I love evidence of progress. Here's this hill as I approach it. And the next picture, looking back at it from the top of the next hill on the other side. If you look carefully you can see the hilltop ruins in both pics.

The distant one in the center. 

 Last night's patio, and its looming farmer.

 

The part of the morning before your feet start to hurt and optimistic facial expressions abound.

Thank God for Compassionate Waitresses — Rabe de las Calzadas, Spain

She didn't laugh, not very hard at least. And the yelling was minimal. Just enough, really, so that I didn't damage the display too bad. 

They looked so real, see. And why, WHY, if the pastries are plastic, are there so many of them? And why is there a stack of plates and a set of tongs on top of the case? And a door that slides easily open? And why is there no sign that keeps me from behaving like a moron? 

"No! Senora!! No!" She ran over to me and I froze, dropping the tongs back onto the plastic case. 

"I'm sorry...not ok?" I didn't know what to do. The sign over the fruit and drinks said, in English, "self serve." I assumed this applied to desserts too. 

"No, it's...display." Her English was quite good. But in my panic I didn't even realize she was speaking my own native language. So I continued to stare deeply into her eyes, fear keeping me immobile and mute. She tried a new tact. 

"You bite," she mimed biting down hard on something. "Hurt very bad, yes?" 

 

Ooohhhh. It's a display. I will break my teeth on it. Stop pawing at the plastic food. Got it. It was to her credit that she smiled right away and I started to thaw out.

I followed her to the counter and ordered the pastry and a sandwich. I paid for everything and followed a waiter outside to a table, wanting to bolt and leave Burgos behind me forever. I ate both items as quickly as possible, then continued to the city's massive Cathedral for a pilgrim mass. But I never quite got over the encounter.

Things like this, these little mistakes, they're like the snow that gets under the cuff of your glove. Even though you're mostly dry, that spot of cold and wet on your wrist is like a slow death of irritation. I sit and dwell on it, on my awkwardness, and start to remember all my other mistakes. The little ones, the medium ones, the muy grande. Sometimes I walk and just think of stuff I've done wrong. Long lists of them, great wailing chants of them, and as the sun heats up the dust around me I listen to myself whine away each dry minute. Any one of us can slip into this depressed, narcissistic rhythm. I loved the way Anne Lamott put it in the book I just read. "I am the piece of shit around which the universe revolves."  

But a day full of only walking and self-pity is a very, very long day. So I don't let it stay long, but it's hard work to kick it out. I think about my feet connecting to the rock and dirt below me, I think of my momentum across the planet, of the things living all around my moving feet, and I think that I could be the thistle and the grape and the grasshopper. That my connection to all these forms of being is a way toward peaceful thinking. That I could be a good and kind and flawed person. I know this seems like an obvious lesson — that of course we all contain good and bad, failures and successes, joy and anxiety. But actually accepting that, giving up any expectation of perfection and the guilt of past mistakes, is not such a simple chore. Not for me. Once again, something I understand with my mind, but not with my full self. 

It makes me think I might need to learn a few of the basics over again — if not all of them. Because to me, self forgiveness seems as terrifying as finally learning to use chopsticks. Which I swear to sweet baby Jesus I will never, ever master. That's not so difficult either, you say? Monkeys can do it, you say? People have tried to teach me both: Be nicer to yourself, nobody's perfect. You just have to put your thumb here and your finger here, then move them like this...

Hogwash.

We lots of those sayings to deal with it yes? You win some you lose some. Just do your best. Everyone makes mistakes. No one is perfect. It's time to move on. Blah blah blah. 

But some days, all you can manage is, why am I so damn WRONG? Like yesterday when I walked in circles for hours looking for my hotel. Or when I finally got a city map and it tore in half in my hands, somehow. Or when I accidentally crossed in front of traffic and when I couldn't understand the unfamiliar words around me and when I clawed at a display case of plastic food and didn't realize it was plastic until a woman yelled at me. Some days, you just get it wrong. 

But it doesn't have to stay that way. So when I was walking and whining to myself this morning, I started on a different rant. A sort of mantra of forgiveness, I guess you could call it, and I made myself think of just that and the grasshoppers for a while. I asked myself to let go of the bad and welcome the good back in its place. I asked myself to turn my weaknesses into strengths where I was able. I asked myself to let the past lie in its place. And it wasn't about the plastic croissants anymore, of course, they just opened the door. 

Even though I resisted, even though part of me wanted to wrap my bad attitude around me like a favorite sweater that itches but you wear it anyway, I kept at it. And after a while I was more interested in the hills and hay than my own self-loathing, and after a while I remembered that the universe does not revolve around me, and after a while I stopped thinking of myself much at all and remembered to enjoy what I was doing. And I did, and I am. This, despite its frustrations, is a very good day. A success.

And yet, I have no intention of making any further attempts with the chopsticks. Call me a quitter, but that crap is for the birds. 

European Shuffle — Along the Way, Spain

There are ALWAYS at least five or six jet trails visible in the sky at all times. I know I'm from Alaska...but that's a lot, right?

A Good Thing — Granon, Spain

At the parish hostel in Granon, everyone helps. The two hospitaleros, young men hardly older than myself, handed out vegetables and cutting boards and assorted knives. In a few different languages and with a myriad of hand gestures, they indicated that we were to make salad and dice the stew vegetables. And so, 20 people began chopping. 

"I am not helping yet," said a tall blond man across from me. "Perhaps you give me half your lettuce, and I will chop. Maybe will be more efficient yes?" 

"Oh Jesus, you must be German," said my delightfully mouthy friend Jess from a few nights back.

She was right. Though I have noticed people are often poking at the Germans. The Irish did it too, said the Germans are too militant about their walking schedules. And on the first night, when a German man suggested we all, "Find ze discoteque," the Hungarian across from him just shook his head. 

"Oh jeez, such a German word. No one uses this word anymore, this 'discoteque.'" 

In Granon, the tall, polite German sliced lettuce and tomato, and so did his tall quiet friend. And so did the rest of us — and parsley, squash, onion, boiled egg, peppers and carrots. 

It's part of the tradition, in a hostel where the price to stay and eat there is whatever you are able to give. Everyone makes dinner, goes to mass, fetches the bread, eats together, does the dishes, puts up the tables and chairs. 

Fetching the bread required the lot of us, about 45 people, to gather up and walk down the street en masse to the bakery. The Italian hospitalero quickly trained two guitar players in the prefered song, and we walked and sang, "Esperanza, esperanza, solo sabas barar, cha-cha-cha," until we gathered, dreamy and a little confused, around the bakery door. 

(Shaky translation: Hope, hope, all you need in life is to dance, cha-cha-cha.)

When we arrived, out popped Annalita, the baker who heard us coming. And I have to wonder how many days in a row she has met this procession. 

Annalita demanded a song from each country represented in the group, which was many. When it was the USA's turn I suggested a song no one knew, so we sang a different one. When she was satisfied, she sent us off with armloads of bread for dinner and breakfast. 

I'm having difficulty explaining how different this place was from any other I've stayed in. How special. 

Not the best night's sleep I've had, but the only place I had to make myself leave, regrettfully, dragging my feet and catching my breath.

It's something about the young men and their quiet leadership around the ancient building. 

It's something about the concept of donated funds and shared work over fees and services. 

It's something about the presence of music. 

It's something about a washing machine perched at an angle on the fourth floor, on top of a rubble heap from some long past part of the structure, now just a pile of stones against the north wall. 

And it was something about this final tradition, which cannot really be told but I'll try. 

Just before bed, the hospitaleros invite us to share a moment in the church, which this building is a part of. We are ushered toward a skinny door in the back of the second-floor dormitory, and suddenly we are in the choral balcony, high above the pews in the dark hall. Someone has lit candles between the carved chairs that line the walls, whose armrests reach to the sitter's shoulders, so that the little candles glow on all our cheeks. 

The stone arches of this centuries-old place are strong, graceful lines high above our heads. And before us, across all that open air and all those rows of wooden benches down below, is the golden, three-story altarpiece with its carved figures and tragedies and triumphs. What does it represent? History? Man's struggle for God? A religion's conflicted dominion over humanity? I don't know. The story-work alone is illuminated, and all the way over and up in the choral balcony, we are lit still by only candles, and the dimmest glow reflecting off the round, stained-blue glass behind us. 

The altarpiece (above). Daytime view of the choir loft, from the altar (below.) Not my pictures.

One hospitalero, a thin, kind man with an Eastern European accent, lights a large candle and explains the tradition. He invites us to pass the candle, and to in turn say or sing something in our own language, a prayer of any religion, of no religion, a song of home, silence — all is welcome. 

In such a place, even words spoken quietly rise up and carry out. They are lifted from the lips like a parent lifts a child — a kind, acoustic architecture meant to carry prayers. And so it goes, as each person lifts the candle and speaks, the cadence of their native tongues thrumming through a nearly empty cavern, voices rolling against stone in more languages than I can identify, earnestness unmistakable above all other shades of meaning. 

When it's my turn my heart is a troubled, rumbling thing inside my chest — no one else had sang. But I do anyway. A verse of my favorite sea chanty, Scottish in origin I think, and one that I think reflects the journey we are on. 

When the wind is wild with shouting

And the waves mount ever higher

Anxious eyes turn ever seaward

To see us home boys to Mingalay. 

I do not sing quietly. But I do close my eyes, and I offer up my short song to the stone and the pilgrims and the past. I've always thought it such an unfairness that lovely things so often make me sad. That after singing a beautiful song in a dark church, surrounded by kind people, I can still be sad and lonely. Right alongside the joy and hope. They are old feelings as common as my eyelashes. But I am starting to think that just means I am alive. That at our best we are mostly a kind of hopeful, heart-aching mess. And that's a thing I can be grateful for. A good thing.

Why I'm Moving to Ireland — Azofra, Spain

It's settled. Irishmen are the funniest most drop dead charming people on the planet. I don't care that I've only met two, or that I'm only the five-billionth person to figure this out. I want to move there and loaf about in pubs with loud companions and laugh until my hopelessly happy tears river-up and carry me bobbing into the Nevernever. 

That's how much I enjoyed Bernie and Greg's company this morning as we strolled leisurely from Najera to Azofra. 

"Alaska! Fuck me! Now I've got some questions for ya. Tell me can I bike the Dalton Highway from the top of da world down to the coast? I'm looking for sometin' that'll really kick me ass. It's either Alaska or disappearing into the Himalayas with some sherpas and goats for a few monts. I'll tell ya I don't have much interest in visitin the rest of the states — what'ya call 'em, lower 48 eh? — but Alaska. Now der's a place. Here comes Greg. Greg! Over here! Now Hannah, I'm married, so I won't be tryin' to getcha in a bunk bed or no-tin, no worries der, haha! But Greg here isn't. Tell me are ya married? In a long-term relationship or anything like dat? Greg here'll take forever to ask ye. Greg's a spy for the Irish government, aren't ye Greg?"

I could only shake my head. No, not married. Greg laughed and took a big bite of his cheese sandwich. 

"Not sure we even have spies, Bernie," he said.

Bernie is a force. A machine of Irish idiom that I want to copy-paste into my brain. It's his fifth Camino and he's traveling this one with his Dad. Also named Bernie. When he gets a bit ahead on the trail he leaves notes for his meandering parent. Sometimes spelled out in rocks, or in red La Rioja dirt spread in the shape of an arrow, with something like, "Dad, Ventosa," below it. He said by the time he stops at his destination to wait for his father, the next 10 people coming along have news to share regarding his companion. 

That's the way of it, this shifting, leap-frogging community of thousands of people walking West. After a while we all sort of know similar things, have run across the same curiosities. Many of us had the pleasure of meeting Eric in St. Jean, who told us all to, "Listen to our bodies." We've had the blisters. And the dodgy food. We've heard stories of American Chad, or Crazy Norman, or the Hungarian with the obstinate donkey, or the Irishman walking in the three-piece suit. 

Now this guy, I desperately want to see in the flesh. He's wearing a wool pin-stripe suit, and carrying a large briefcase strapped to his back. A man whose entire travel plan is to be ironic for 500 miles. This is perhaps the most hilarious shit I have ever heard in my life. Of course this information is all straight from Bernie, who knows the reportedly strapping fireman from home, but I've heard confirmation from other pilgrims as well. Again, the IRISH.

"Well ya know after a few times dis is all a tad easy for him now. He wanted a bit of a challenge."

As Bernie is telling me this story, we start up a hill outside of Najera. Without even slowing his words, just dropping the pitch slightly, he says, "Now Hannah we've got a bit of a hill here, but it shears off right up der around the bend so just go ahead and suck it up for now and we'll carry on to the top in no time." And again, without pausing, he's right back into the prior story. His pep talk was seemingly built in, perhaps to not lose his listening audience as we started to climb. 

As we walked and chatted I learned some new slang as well. My favorite being, "In the Bojangles." Maybe my more worldly or musically inclined friends have heard this, but I hadn't. Apparently it means you're a real train wreck. As in, "Last night I drank my weight in Spanish wine, and lord this morning I'm really in the Bojangles."

In exchange I taught them the Americanisms "faded" (to be drunk or high to a foggy degree) and "three sheets to the wind." Which...means the same thing. 

Bernie also told me of the long-faced Canadian he and his father met last night. The man explained to them that he's been in a terrible way since his wife took off and left him.

"So me Da says, 'Oh ya lucky bastard, I can't get mine to leave for no-tin!' Well, right den da poor man starts weeping. Chap cried for an hour. Da felt a bit awkward over de whole ting." 

I imagine Bernie and Bernie hooked around their second bottle of wine, accompanied by the long-suffering, weeping Canadian, all of them journeying to Santiago, and I think, there is no reason for me to ever write fiction. 

A place to hang your clothes, a place to soak your feet, a place to eat your snack, and some sun under which to do it. Not bad for less than $10 a night. (Though most albergues do not have a wading pool...) I feel incredibly wealthy. 

. 

So what are we learning — Ventosa, Spain

They say the Camino is a moving symbol of your life as a whole. Its requirements and gifts a microcosm of human experience, wherein you can find the lessons of a lifetime. My analytical brain was aware of this going in. My intellectual self accepted it as the truth, kind of saying, uh huh uh huh, yes got it. I'm very smart and important, next epiphany please and thank you. 

But that's not really the way this thing works, is it. Understanding the experiential concept and existing within it are two different things. 

Someone recently advised me to try to know things with my spirit, rather than just with my intellect. To understand my place in this life's fabric with my body knowledge as well as the traditional grey-matter sort. 

I'll tell you, it's good advice. So. What are we learning. 

Perseverance. Frugality. Caution. Endurance. Simplicity. Friendliness. Humility. Respect. Silence. Solitude. Suffering. Gratitude. Serenity. 

I think a person can move through these things without terrible grief, at least in this situation. This walking across northern Spain — which is of course delightful alongside any kind of difficulty. Anyone of reasonably able body can do it, absolutely. It's true that most of us aren't used to quite this amount of walking, but our bodies are made to handle such things. So, we adapt. And it's possible to adapt to the necessities of this urban/rural trail without really taking serious or lasting note of them. Or even to kind of train wreck your way through and survive mostly intact. Like the hilarious couple from Manchester that have been "completely leathered" since they left St. Jean. Their drunken stories are a riot, but I am so grateful to not be on their Camino. I wish them well, but it's not for me. 

An alternative possibility is to stop and truly absorb the shifts and adaptations of self that are available to us here, or on any kind of long-distance endeavor. It's possible to slide these experiences, like souvenirs, into your muscle fiber and remember them for later. For always. For when you are lost. Or sad. Or lonely. Or frustrated. Or weary. Or failing. 

The trick is, you have to show up for the experience. Be present and aware enough to see its layers, take what it offers, and move forward. In this sense, sobriety is more than just not partaking in alcohol. It's the showing up. The waking up. That's when, I think, the lessons offered tend to stick a little more. 

And of course, if you forget, the Way is marked with the shells and crosses and arrows and refuges and prayers and rock piles and statues of a thousand years worth of pilgrims, and it will be there to remind you.  

The messages left by other pilgrims and well wishers are many and varied. Metal works, clay sculpture, rock mounds, graffitti, wooden crosses, painted arrows, village signs, official way markers...the list goes on.

Angry Bulls and Mouthy Broads — Viana, Spain

I shrieked the first time they ran by, right as a young man jumped up onto the fence just before they rushed past him. The other young men scattered up the narrow stone street did the same, dominos jumping up the walls. Somewhere up ahead the bulls were turned around, and they rushed back down the same passage, through the chute of old brick buildings with their balconies and popping geraniums and festival flags and flaking paint and people people people. The young men always jumped out of the way. Some of them ran the whole time in front. Some were more daring than others and stayed on the very edge of danger. I didn't see any women jumping in and out of the fray. 

A boy hangs over the rail, watching the older boys of Viana as they wait for the bulls to come racing back down the street.

I have a video but couldn't figure out how to upload it via iPad. Check my Facebook. 

The bulls poured back into the large ring in the middle of the plaza. Men in bright colors swatted the ground with sticks and hollered, and the herd hurled itself back down the street to run the circuit again. Bells clanging and cheers following all the way, a wave of hoof and sound rolling through stone. 

Brown and black and all muscle, with horns cutting figure eights in the air and hooves scratching out a threat in the dust, they were exactly what I though angry bulls might look like. But then I remembered that these are cows, more accustomed to grass and twitching off flies. And I can tell they're thirsty, and everyone knows they're pissed off and scared, because that was the point of it all. 

It's a little hard to reconcile my fascination with this as an iconic cultural tradition, and my discomfort with it from an animal treatment point of view. 

"I think it's rubbish," said Jess, an Australian woman I met in the albergue an hour later. It's not that she's a vegetarian, Jess said. She's not opposed to people eating animals, but terrorizing them for entertainment was another issue altogether. "In England they outlawed sport hunts ages ago, and that was a cultural tradition as well."

I realized I agreed with her. It's the same way I feel about subsistence hunting versus trophy hunting in Alaska. One I support whole-heartedly, the other makes me physically ill. 

Still, it was something to see. Kids lined every fence, gate, dumpster, or any other surface that could get them high enough to see into the arena. The majority of the people crowding the Viana streets wore white with red scarves, and the smell of tobacco and sizzling food filled every nook and alley. 

This long train of tables was set up for locals to celebrate the fiesta together. The bread and pltes stretched farther than I could see. 

Jess is appalled that I haven't gone out to eat once since arriving in Europe. It's a combination of frugality, language shyness and exhaustion that's kept me on a strict (sad) plan of buying simple food at the market or in vending machines. But tonight, the smells coming from the street are so delicious. Of course, with the festival, it's more crowded than ever and my earlier sight seeing trip had to end when the throngs overwhelmed me. 

But Jess has assured me that we'll be dining together, and it's going to be great. Actually her exact words were:

"Spanish food is amaze-balls. We're going out tonight."

Now we're both on our impractical iPads, across from each other on the second tiers of tonight's THREE-tier bunk beds. We're waiting in our sleeping bags for dinner time to come around in three hours. Earlier, after a French dude suggested we, "Get up, go look around, go for a walk," she quietly suggested to the closing door that he, "Fuck off and mind his own business."

I think I made a friend. 

It's actually harder to get in the second bunk.