Monday, September 30, 2013

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. 

Friday, September 27, 2013

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.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

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. 


Friday, September 20, 2013

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.






Wednesday, September 18, 2013

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. 



Tuesday, September 17, 2013

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.

Sunday, September 15, 2013

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.


Saturday, September 14, 2013

How to muddle through and like it — Los Arcos, Spain

Today was a good day. Good, but awkward. 

It was good because I woke up feeling better, so I walked 13 miles down the road into the town of Los Arcos. It was awkward because I got a foot cramp toward the end and limped sort of sadly into town. But really, the getting to the next town was the important part.

It was good because along the way I met this Canadian woman that is kind of a mystic and we said this gratitude prayer and she told me this totally chilling story of meeting an Inuit shaman in the Northwest Territories and it was all goosebumps and awe. And I got to hear someone say this sentence: "And then she asked me to join her by the fire, and then I was like, Jesus, she's a fucking SHAMAN." It was awkward because partway through the conversation I realized she was a crazy person, and likely so was I because I was on board with everything she said. But I think making an interesting new friend was the important part.

It was good because Los Arcos has a gorgeous cathedral that has a pilgrim mass and blessing every night. It was awkward because I was so excited to take part in mass I went really really early, then got bored waiting and left before it started. But I think the quiet time I spent appreciating the cathedral was the important part. 

It was good because I got to town early and went to the store for pasta and tomato and tuna to make a little dinner. It was awkward because I was shoveling it in my mouth while a group of 15 made their dinner, and as these women were setting more and MORE plates out around the huge table to prepare for their shared meal, I kind of shuffled into a corner and continued to shovel pasta, while I pretended to look at something on my iPad, and I felt a little bit like the kid that sits at the wrong lunch table in the cafeteria. But I think the important part is that I actually made dinner tonight instead of just eating bread and apples in bed. 

It was good and awkward that I got to hear a young German man say to a young Korean woman:
"There are always so many Asian people at Octoberfest. Which is so funny because Asians can't drink. At least, they cannot drink very much. So everywhere at Octoberfest there are Asians going....ooooohhhh! Holding their heads." 
Gotta love racial stereotypes at the breakfast table. The important part is everyone got a good laugh. At all of it.

It was good because the vending machine had dark chocolate and that was something that really made sense to my soul at that time. It was awkward because after I put my money in and pressed the appropriate buttons, it got stuck. And I didn't want to shake the machine because there was stuff on top of it. SSOOO, I crossed the room and interrupted the group of young Spanish proprietors from their evening relaxation. Using hand gestures and that weird broken English idiots adopt when speaking to non-English speakers, I communicated my issue. 

"Machine...DARK CHOCOLATE...stuck...my CHOCOLATE...help?"

Two women came over, one shook it gently, to no avail. The other got the key and opened it to retrieve my snack. They were very kind, but in my embarrassment at the time I was sure the Spanish flowing from their beautiful European lips was something like, "Yes yes, get the pale squishy American her chocolate." But I think the important part is that I was able to ask for help, despite my obvious language befuddlement, instead of hiding in the bunk bed and mourning my dangling chocolate like I wanted to do. 

It was good because I got to eat chocolate in bed while I rested my feet. It was awkward because I got chocolate on the pillowcase and I feel badly about that. But I think the important thing is I saved some of the chocolate for tomorrow. Not the best lesson of the day, but it counts.

It wasn't until after I took this awkward away-facing self portrait that I discovered I was facing the same direction as the man in the wood. Like we both thought we heard our names and were like, "What?" 

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Greta — On the Way, Spain

She was a farmer for 25 years, but she sold the farm a few years ago, and now she is looking for a man. 

Not just any man. Not just, some guy. She is looking for a particular man that runs a particular small business in a certain town on the Camino de Santiago. His name is David, and for the one hour she spoke with him, she said, it was like meeting the first person that ever really understood her. 

"It was like this," she said in her loping German accent, pointing to her eyes, then her forehead, and then outward, as if connecting to the eyes of this other person. This person who saw her so well. It was the universal sign for, "we clicked."

But that was two years ago.

"So where is he?" I asked. "Do you know what town?" 

Greta, a lithe woman of not quite 50 years, had struck her pace next to mine during a bridge crossing a ways back. She looked straight ahead when she answered, and she lowered her voice ever so slightly.

"Yes, I know the town." But she didn't say which. She kept her eyes on the road.

"So...what will you do when you get there?"

She wasn't sure. Two years ago, while she walked her first Camino, she'd gotten a feeling about him right away, but was eager to keep going. So she visited with him, got a stamp in her Pilgrim Passport, and moved on down the trail. 

"Ever since, it's like this name in my mind...David David...and this feeling in my chest, this, who is this man?"

She fluttered her fingers over her ribcage, and took a deep breath in. 

"I am not in love, I think. I just need to see." 

She didn't strike me as a flighty woman, prone to romantic larks. Her backpack was as spare as any I'd seen. The long, lean muscles under tanned skin belonged to a woman that worked hard, in the sun. A farmer, she said, doesn't have time for long walks. 

"Because always there's the cows," she said. 

And yet, here she was, on the Camino, for the second time. Looking for the man who put a red heart stamp in her booklet, after a conversation she can't forget. 

"I did not come to the Way looking for a man, or God, but now there is this man. And God, maybe here he is too, and maybe I forgot about him for a long, long time."

Language barrier or not, I could see her eagerness was guarded. Her mission wasn't one she chose for herself, it seemed, nor was she particularly comfortable with it. It just, happened to her. 

"I had long, long hair before," she said, touching the close-cropped brown locks she had now. "But I cut it. If I find him, I don't want it to be about the eye, what it sees. It should be more." 

I think sometimes we get to witness important moments in people's lives. Times where change and awareness and fate and chaos come together for little bit of meaningful something. Whatever Greta finds, or doesn't find, in her little town on the Camino, this was a little bit of meaningful something. This decision she made to find an answer for the tingling in her ribcage. 


An Update in Three Parts — La Casa Magica, Villatuerta, Spain

1: Very Important Point

********BULLETIN**********

In response to concern from friends and family (for which I thank them) — my feet are NOT rotting off the bottom of my legs. I did NOT ignore the problem and continue with the method that gave me the blisters. I have great socks. I have switched to my much more comfortable Keen sandals. No, this is NOT an indication that I am out of money. I have applied appropriate and consistent first aid, and prevention in addition to that which I had already employed. There is marked improvement! At no point have I been unable to walk. I do not need a pedicure, Kristina. 
I just wanted to give a thorough update, in case my recent posts have left my dear friends wondering about my foot-care competency. I stand by my claim that sometimes, people just get blisters. And sometimes, I try to gross everyone out with them. 



*******END OF BULLETIN**********


2: Recipe for a Small Home — One Serving

I have learned to make small homes every night, consisting of exactly the same materials. Which makes each nesting no less of a miracle each time I roll it out. 

First I designate a certain square of space next to my bunk where my backpack will live. This is comforting because it means for a few hours it doesn't live ON me. Then I pull out my sleeping bag and unroll it on the bed. That makes it all very official. Then I pull out my toiletries bag and make a smaller square for IT to live. I take off my shoes and put them under the bed. I pull out exactly what I will need tonight, then exactly what I will need tomorrow. I line them up on the floor or on my backpack or once on a bedside table because there was one and that was perfect. So perfect. 

I will need my knife and cheese and bread tonight. And my shampoo and small towel and clean clothes. Along with my toothbrush and book and glasses. I will need my dirty clothes to wash in the sink. I will need my guide book to plan tomorrow's walk. I will need lotion to rub into my feet for tomorrow's walk. I will need a little meditation about my attitude regarding tomorrow's walk.

Tomorrow I will need fresh bandaids and moleskin and again my toothbrush. And also a small bag of peanuts and dates and figs for breakfast. I made several packets of them a few days ago. They are satisfying in a sticky, caloric kind of way. But different than other things that are sticky and caloric. Like nachos. Or carmel. These are something really good.

So all of my things are laid out. And my sleeping bag is flat on the bed, on top of the papery sheet that makes people stop obsessing on bed bugs, for some reason. And my glasses are on instead of contacts, and the book is in my hand, and when I lay down it is exactly like laying down at home in my bed with all the feathers, which is in a room full of my things, in a house full of my things, all of which are just my own and not shared with 10 strangers. This happens to be exactly the same. Because I've made it so. And someone has let me. 

Except I still miss the dog terribly but there's nothing much to be done about that for now.



3: To Pasta or not to Pasta

I am struggling with something normal. Day before yesterday a young French man asked if I wanted to share in the group pasta meal. You eat some food, you donate some money, everyone sits together. I declined. I'd been thinking about eating bread and apples and cheese while curled in my sleeping bag for the last six hours, and I could not conceive of giving this up in favor of eating pasta with a bunch of 20-somethings. (Yes, I am a 20-something, but I feel my sometimes crotchety demeanor makes me exempt from this group on an at-will basis.)

When I said no, he said, "Really?"

I said, "Yes, really. I have dinner already, thank you."

I smiled, I was polite, I groaned and rubbed a foot, to make it seem like I just couldn't possibly get to the kitchen. 

An hour later I was walking back from the shop with a loaf of bread. The French guy was sitting outside, and he looked up at me when I passed, his checkered scarf waving obnoxiously in the breeze.

"So, do you just not like pasta?" He said pasta with the long a. Like in cat or fast. 

Apparently he'd been wondering about my anti-social behavior while I looked for mustard and bread at the market. I found his question kind of aggressive. Like, how DARE I turn down the community meal in favor of eating by myself in a bunk bed. 

I said I just wasn't sure how the group meals worked and I'd been nervous to join in. But the truth was, I knew exactly how it worked, and I just wasn't interested. And I think he knew that. 

It's not that I have any animosity toward those who want to gather for a meal. I did the first night, and it was nice. But ever since I've been too distracted by my need to hibernate and rest and just be alone. But as I watch all of these other people collaborate gastronomic needs, laughing and having so much fun doing something I still just don't want to do, I have to wonder if I have it all wrong. 

So just in case, last night I made an effort to socialize while I ate my single meal in the group kitchen. The paaaaasta group from the previous night was gathered over a veritable cauldron of rice, and I slyly pretended I did not see their wave and veered hard to the right — in favor of the middle-aged lesbians I had met earlier in the day. They were more my speed than the raucous table of young adventurers. Which made me question, not for the first time in my life, why I am less comfortable around people my own age. Old insecurities? It's hard to say. But after some thought, I've decided that my increasing desire to be left alone is not a bad thing. It's quiet here, with room to breathe, and afterall, people are all around me should I ever get a little lonely. People of all ages, and nationalities, and shapes, and attitudes, and colors, and volumes, and every other thing that makes us. 

Tonight in the spirit of a little community, and more in the spirit of hunger, I DID opt in for the group dinner at the fancy albergue I splurged for. Fancy means a single bed instead of a bunk bed. Spacious common areas. A nice washtub and hanging line for laundry. Wifi. And an average guest age of about 50. Life is great. 


Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Exercise in gratitude — Puente La Riena, Spain

Something amazing happened today. I woke up, and I did not feel like a bag of poo. I stretched my legs out and only had to wince internally, not audibly. I stood up, on the first try. And when I walked to the bathroom, it was with the gait of a very tired 60-year-old, not a peg-legged baby moose suffering from the hebbie-jeebies. 

This was going to be a good day. 

And it was. I covered 15 miles, going up about 900 feet to this incredible row of ridge-top windmills. 



Then down about 1200 feet to the town of Puente La Reina. The first 10 miles were an exercise in gratitude, as I walked on merely sore feet instead of throbbing feet. Tired calves, instead of cramped calves. 

I was even brave enough to take a detour from the main route, which allowed me to pass by the beautiful Eunate cathedral. It's a 12th-century Romanesque structure maintained by a dedicated couple. They kindly stamped my Pilgrim Passport, as per my hand gestures, and wished me well.


The Cathedral is not in a village or town of any kind, and its history is somewhat mysterious, so I thought it might be worth it to include some outside information here:

"Since the late 19th century, there have been several theories about the original function and authorship of Eunate. Due to its octagonal plan, the first theories stated that Eunate was a Templar church, related to other central plan churches like the above mentioned Holy Sepulchre of Torres del Río, and other undoubtedly Templar buildings like the Templar convent of Tomar, the Temple Church of London or the Holy Sepulchre of Pisa; all of them inspired by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre of Jerusalem. This alleged Templar origin and the aura of mystery that surrounds the church have contributed to esoteric interpretations. While the presence of Knights Templar in this zone of Navarre is not documented, the importance of another military order, the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem or Knights Hospitaller, that could have operated a hospital ('hostel') for pilgrims to Santiago, is well known. Archaeological excavations have found many burials and the typical St. James' shells."
— Wikipedia (sorry J-School professors, right now it's a valid source.)

Today is not a day for many more words. I am grateful for the beautiful and large albergue I'm staying in. I'm grateful I arrived at 2 p.m. so I could put my feet up and hang some laundry in the sun and catch up on communications. I'm grateful for the cheese not going bad in my backpack, and for getting a bottom bunk again because, obviously. 

And grateful for sunny mornings — thunder-free.

With many markers along the Way. 

Home for the night.
 

Suffering, thou art of my own doing — Trinidad d'Arre, Spain

Women gathered around me, heads shaking, tongues clicking, and I joined them, holding my foot up and sideways. German women. American women. Brazilian women. Danish women. And all with the same cross of brow. 

"How does zis get so bad?" one asked. 

I'm just not sure. The first day, on all those steep hills, my feet felt great up until the last few kilometers. And there was no way I was stopping in all that rain and lightening anyway. The second day, I did wrap each heel with moleskin and bandaids, but by the time I arrived in Zubiri the skin of my left heel had departed its home of origin, and piggybacked the useless moleskin right to the garbage can. Today, I wrapped gauze and an ace bandage around it and walked in my sandals with better results. But when I unwrapped it, the silver dollar size expanse of it began a yellow weeping, resulting in the bounty of advice delivered kindly and with persistence. While I sat pathetically on my bunk bed.  

"Whatever you do, don't let it dry out."

"Let it dry fully, then put second skin on it."

"I'm going to put some arnica on that for you later."

"Arnica? On an open wound?"

"Oh yes, I put it on absolutely everything."

I have the second skin on it now. Which I put on in the dark after the electricity went out, while I was in the shower. The monk running this 11th century monastery hostel said it is very rare for the power to be out here. But all of the pilgrims agreed we liked the candles in the kitchen and the quiet settling into evening. I will walk again tomorrow. I told myself I cannot take a day off until I've walked at least six days. 

(Two days now since I put the second skin on, and this is the weird bio dome of healing that my body has created around said blister. I am aware that this is completely disgusting. But doesn't "bio dome of healing" make it more palatable? No? Still fucking revolting? Yeah. Sorry.)

AND NOW FOR A CONFESSION

Eric of St. Jean Pied de Port was right. 

I have decided to part with some of my things. I bought a beautiful backpack, one size too big. And then filled it. And now I watch people with much smaller loads pass me on the trail. And that is not nearly so bad as the complaints coming from the soles of my feet. I have everything I need, I just have some other stuff as well. 

So if I was so well prepared, how did I not manage to weed out such excess before I left? I have finally realized and fully accepted the reason. Spite. I brought too much stuff out of spite. 

Here is what happened. I was once in a relationship with a person who was a fan of taking long walks. Toward the end of our somewhat tumultuous pairing, there was a three-month span that was completely dominated by the constant researching and purchasing and cataloguing and weighing of every kind of backpacking item one could want. The living room was like an abandoned REI outlet. Stacks of handy tools and gear, all centered around an off-white scale. Items were weighed and listed to the gram. And each evening was spent studiously scouring the internet for more valuable information. This one is lighter. This one is smaller. This one is more durable. The total pack weight got smaller and smaller, each new reduction a glorious success.

It was a fun and interesting activity for him. It was a respectable undertaking. I understand that now. But I had a different reaction at the time. I was just annoyed. Annoyed with the whole trip. The obsessive planning. Our entire situation. Especially annoyed at myself at the time of this relationship. It wasn't a great moment. I think planning for that trip helped him cope with the bad relationship. While I relied on haughtiness and a general disregard for...everything. 

So, two years later, when I decided to walk the Camino de Santiago, I needed to separate myself from that memory as much as possible. So, out of SPITE, I weighed nothing. I did almost no research. I bought what looked good and spent no more than 15 minutes on any single decision about what to bring. And if I decided I wanted it, I put it in the bag. When people asked me, "How much does your pack weigh?" I answered with unreasonable pride, "I have absolutely no idea." 

I still have no idea. I just know, it's too much. And after all my spite, after digging that great moat of ornery separation between myself and a bygone relationship, the joke is absolutely, one hundred percent, on me. But, I stand by my decision. It seemed right at the time. As does the pile of clothes I'm leaving folded at the foot of my bunk bed when I leave in the morning. This was just the way it had to go down. And now, I know better. 

Spite gives you shit-house aching blisters. And it's just not worth it. 




Monday, September 9, 2013

Macaroni sandwich — Zubiri, Spain

I am eating a sandwich I got from a vending machine, and I have no idea what is on it. No remote idea. It has two layers and is called Tortilla Marinera. I speak pretty much no Spanish, so this means nothing to me. From looking closely, if I had to guess, it is a piece of bread, followed by a layer of macaroni and cheese, followed by a piece of bread, followed by a spread made from fake crab, topped with a piece of bread. But this seems so strange, I am still maintaining that I have no idea what it is. 

This will appall some of my more gourmet friends, but I have eaten my dinners from vending machines the last two nights. Here's the thing. They are cheap, and they are located right beside where I've slept both nights, which means I save money and don't have to walk. Anywhere. This has become important to me in a very short amount of time. 


Tonight the vending machines are located in a school yard. Because myself and a few dozen other pilgrims are sleeping in a gymnasium. Unfortunately since I made poor time today, all of the bunk beds were gone. And so were all the mattresses on the floor. Sooo...it's the concrete for me. Which I am ECSTATIC about. And that should indicate how difficult today was for me. 

I know, it's just walking. At least that's what I thought. And I'm definitely strong enough. It's just, my feet. I tried to pay attention, be aware when the blisters were threatening so I could put some moleskin over them. But by the time my zoned out brain realized my foot was sore, bam. The back of my heel had already ballooned up. Both heels actually. Yesterday's intense uphill climb and accompanying storm were difficult. But today, walking on the resultant blisters, was tear-your-own-eyes-out disheartening. I covered them in moleskin, then put duct tape over the whole thing, but now, at the end of the day, the back of my heels are missing their skin entirely. 

Yesterday, I admitted that I almost cried. Well, today I actually did. It was really pathetic, and actually I had to sort of work at it. After about 10 miles my wimp-ass feet were in so much pain that I was trying to think of anything to distract myself. So I was like, huh, maybe I should try crying. 

It didn't help. I made the crying face, and after a while real tears came out along with some whimpers, but it just wasn't working for me. I kept having to look over my shoulder to make sure no one was coming to witness my contrived little pity party. And the tears made it hard to place my feet on the steep downhill trail. So I stopped. Crying, that is. I kept walking. Only to arrive in town to find all of the albergues full. I sat down on the steps, but there were too many people around for more crying. (I have a feeling this may be a theme of my entire journey. When or when not to cry.)

So I am on the concrete gym floor, eating some sort of macaroni crustacean sandwich, putting tiger balm on my feet and shoulders, and it's ok. It's really really going to be ok. My Mexico City friend found me a sleeping pad. I have water. It stopped raining. And tomorrow I will try to get to Pamplona, 22 kilometers, but if my feet are waving me a no signal, then there are several albergues I could stop in on the way. It's hard because now that I've met a few people that started around when I did, I want to stay with them. To follow the same course and times and share the same evenings. But it can't work that way. I can only go the way I must go.


First Arrival — Roncesvalles, Spain

All around me, the lightening hit rock and meadow. Thunder punching through the air a half second behind. And behind one was always another, and me with still five miles to go. I've always kind of liked inclement weather, there's a thrill in perseverance, and in witnessing a little crazy burst up out of something else. Be it sky or flame or tectonic plates. But the storm had started just as I reached the Pyrenees peak above Roncesvalles, and though I did not mind the drenching rain or stinging hail so much, the sharp veins of electricity loosing themselves on the trail in front of me had my heart dropping fast. And I was cold from the rain sneaking down the neck of my jacket and my hiking boots soaked by the muddy water rushing down the trail through the rocks. And all I could think of was that this was the exact piece of craggy mountain where Emilio Estevez got killed in that fucking Camino movie, and I'd be damned before I went down like that. I'd just hiked 10 uphill crawling miles in seven hours, gaining 3600 feet of elevation, and since the view was covered by fog I would at least like the added bonus of surviving the trip. 



Which of course I did. 

I'd left late, waiting for the post office to open so I could send some extra gear home. Which I didn't. Because I forgot that international shipping rates require turning over one's first born. So, I left at 9:30 instead of 7, with the full weight of what I'd brought with me. (Which actually was fine, I ended up wanted like half the stuff I was going to send back. And 28 pounds isn't really that much.)

I caught up with a lot of the people who'd left earlier than me because I prefer not to take breaks. In the nine hours I walked yesterday, I stopped three times for a total of about 10 minutes. I'm sure conventional wisdom advises a person to rest on a difficult hike, but I find my motivation starts to spill out and seep into the ground the moment I sit down, and each restart produces a burst of bad attitude that I'd rather not confront in myself. And so. I rely on stubbornness and muscle to keep going, and though my pace is slower than some, it often lasts longer. It was the first day and the most difficult climb of the entire 500 miles journey. I just needed to power through to Roncesvalles. 

The way started in the hillside neighborhoods above St. Jean Pied de Port, climbing sharp up through sloping farmland. I wound around green hills and up into the fog, surrounded by the hollow clink of bells. Every once in a while one of the horses or cows the bells were attached to appeared quite suddenly right beside or in front of me. Seeing just the next 20 meters of trail, and the alpine brush immediately surrounding me was at times both peaceful and erie. And I tried hard to lose track of time, to stop counting each individual burning step up each next hillock. And as I rose higher, where brush gave over more to rock, and as the day's hikers spread out, I looked around and realized it was just me and a herd of tired-looking sheep scratching it out here against the mountain. It was nice, until the sky started its complaints. And even then it was nice. But all the nice was overshadowed by my persistent worry. 



I could say so much more. About how halfway I sat down unexpectedly with the sudden and sure intention of crying for exactly 30 seconds before making myself move on. But I didn't need to do that, even, because out of the fog right then appeared a retired couple from Missoula and I hopped up to join them. Though I prefer to walk alone, right at that moment I needed something different. I could also tell you about the man from Mexico City, who I happened upon just as the rain started and we both stopped to cover our bags and selves. He and I walked the last five miles together, and his kind pace and honest conversation was a bigger help than I realized even at the time. He was walking the Camino to try and change his way of thinking, he said. It struck me, then, that in a long day of walking mostly alone, I had come across people only and at exactly the times I needed someone else to talk to. 

And now it's the next morning, nearly 7 am, and the hundred or so people I shared this ancient room with have been stirring for nearly an hour and are strapping on backpacks and mostly dry shoes. Myself, I will wait for the light, and for a little room to move around. And I want a moment to enjoy the medieval-era monastery we slept in, row upon row of bunk beds lining its slate bricked walls, beneath deep chinks of window with  scratched stained glass still dark beneath an early sky. 

Also, it's raining. Shit. 


Roncevalles Monastery

Friday, September 6, 2013

What is in this? — St. Jean Pied de Port, France

Sept 6

Eric runs St. Jean Pied de Port's albergue le chemin vers l'etoile, which was built in 1582 and slopes a little, and he speaks very good english. He does not think my bag is too heavy. He knows my bag is too heavy. He has told me to unpack it. 

(This is Eric's desk. From which he welcomes pilgrims to the beginning of their journey. From this spot I heard him give the same lecture he gave me to several new arrivals. "Now, ze first lesson you will learn is humility. No, you will. And you must pay attention to your body. LISTEN, to your body. Also, this pack is too heavy. What is in this?")


"Go upstairs, and unpack it," he says, "and make three piles. The essential, the necessary, and the wanted. Get rid of the third pile. Combine the other two. Repeat process five times."

He asks to see my shoes. They are ok, he supposes. He reaches into my backpack and pulls out my toiletries bag. He lifts it up and down while he maintains eye contact with me. 

"And this?" He asks. "What is this? You don't need make up." 

"I do not..." I start,

"You do not need a hair dryer."

"I do not have a hair dryer!"

"Your bag needs to be 10 pounds. I am telling you right now, this bag is 22 pounds."
 
I nodded and stayed quiet. Because I knew it was 30. 

"Look at her. See her bag? She will show you." 

And all that's going through my head is - I am a God damn Alaskan commercial fisherman, I am a savvy outdoors person. I live alone in the woods. I've hauled wood and water and shoveled 8 foot snow drifts to find my car and you are labeling me a fool? Before I've started?

But I am a mediocre fisherman. And I have simply been lucky thus far in the woods. And these days my cabin has a washer and dryer. And it's impossible not to love Eric. So I have a bag full of stuff ready for the post office tomorrow. But I'm not going to tell him I brought an iPad. I have a feeling he won't care about my grad school deadlines or my promise to email my mother regularly. 

The hostel entrance is a tiny door beside the chocolate shop. If you look close, there's a little blue sign with a yellow shell indicating it's a Camino friendly hostel. 

Also today I had my first real conversation in three days. With Marie-Claire from Germany. She is 21 and about to be in her last year of Economics in the university. She has a cat and a sheep. But the sheep lives at her uncle's house. She also has an elephant but it is cotton and lives in her sleeping bag. She is a tall, blond woman with tanned muscles, a kind disposition, and a seemingly endless supply of candy. She was also in trouble with Eric, but not because of her bag. Because of her knee. Which a French doctor looked at but not Eric's doctor. Eric pulled her into the kitchen to see the doctor. She said he had but two teeth and was smoking a cigarette. We are doubting now his credentials as both doctor and cook. Though under Eric's roof I doubt we have a choice in either. Doctor-Cook is an experienced Pilgrim, see, and his opinion is paramount. His veal, on the other hand, remains to be tested. 

Oh shit Eric just saw me typing on my iPad.