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.