R and D

I caught my first glimpse in the bathroom mirror.  It was morning, and everyone was leaving,  it was essentially the "men's" restroom where I'd gone to use the toilet because there was still tp available (always in short supply.)  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hat and dark clothing, for some reason making a snap judgment and thinking "Texas.  American."

Viana.  Invites me to dinner.  German women.  Poetry.

In Burgos, lying on a top bunk, agonizing over the pain in my feet (first blisters, and what blisters they were! Beginning of all of my leg issues.)  R walks cheerfully into the room, takes one look at me, and declares, "You look awful!  I'll go get you food for dinner." and tromps back out of the room.

One village further.  We stay the night, he is the last one up, group dinner, dogs, "Good mornin' America."

Hornillos, we split lunch.  Arroyo, I lose him.

In Hontanas, the two Spanish men buy me breakfast in the place with the wine pouring.  It is served on dirty plates, but we don't become ill.  I don't take a picture, the place later closes, though I think I meet him again in 2009, he gives me an apple, I sit out with him on street for hours and watch people wander past.

In Leon. On my third night, he shows up.

In Poblacion.  I make one more village, give D (the American) some stomach medicine, he's says "You can't rid of me that easy." as he books a room for the night, and I think, "Buddy, all I have to do is get on the next bus." Which I do, though not because of him.  Three days in Leon, and still, I never see him again.

My last view of R, I'm on a bus, and out of the window, I see him walking, with an older German woman, tall grasses on every side.  When I've been through here subsequently, I cannot find the place in my mind.  In Virgen del Camino, I see him sitting outside a cafe.  I don't go to talk to him, though I want to, because I am a social idiot.  The next evening in Orbigo, one of the Jewish dudes tells me R left and went back home or something.  Something about a bad tendon.  I never see him again.  I am unexpectedly heartbroken, he's a good 15 years younger than me, it was an impossible thing, or perhaps I made it so, always concerned about age differences, it haunts me for the rest of my trip, always a sadness lingering at the back of everything else.  Haunts me until 2007.  When I find myself back in Arroyo, not to spend the night, but to dine with them, and to rest in the shade for awhile.  J sings the Superman theme song, and salutes me as I heft my (too heavy) pack on and walk away: I really want a toilet.  J has photos from that night, photos of R.  Says he remembers me, I don't believe him, but he knows who I am talking about and shares the photos with me, from our time there.  I don't know why, but that is enough, and it heals something that was broken.

D tells me stories of a New Zealand woman.  In Cacabelos, sitting in an open restaurant, waiting for pizza, a woman walks in, plops herself down at my table and introduces herself, after days and stories, I meet A.  She is good for me, she doesn't give a shit about what people think about her, the American woman who keeps putting me in my place, has no use for her, either, but she dishes it right back.  Her bravery to be herself unapologetically is good for me. Also, when I run into her in Santiago, as I arrive into the city, I tell she and her friends of my "miracle" and her answer is, "Duh."  As in, yes, that was there all along, nice of you to finally see it.  It's not offensive.  It's comforting, I've been overwhelmed, and it was like a slap in the face to bring me back to reality.  Welcome to the neighborhood.

Dinner in Orbigo, the Jewish dudes convince me to stay.  I'm invited to dinner by the younger American girls, the older woman is upset with this, I go to the store she follows and keeps pulling things for me to buy to contribute (and I am the only one that knows enough Spanish.)  I make a composed salad, still during the meal, she alludes to me saying, "Those who didn't help with the meal, can do the dishes." And shit there are a lot of dishes.  While washing, one of the Jewish men (whom I assumed couldn't stand me, but I guess that's just the way he comes across), who she most definitely wasn't referring to, comes over and rinses and dries them for me.  She's just pulling a bitch move.  She likes men alright (except, interestingly, R, whom she thinks is a fraud, though, even if he is, he's not scamming anyone; and D.) But can't stand A, and can't stand me.  She likes younger people, whom she can be a mentor to, I suppose.  I suppose this makes me like A all the more.

The Disorientation of Arrival

Madrid.  Barcelona.  Lisbon.  Porto.  Always, in Pamplona; though I have arrived here many times, I inevitably get lost.

2019 - It's hot and dark when I get off the shuttle in Barcelona.  The directions sounded easy when I read them via email.  Yet when I arrive in the Plaza it's night.  Crowded, and inexplicably to my eyes, really dark.  There are multiple streets veering away, and I'm overdressed for the heat and exertion of carrying the backpack through the crowds.  I stop at each street to look at the name, but don't find the one I am looking for.  Finally, I enter a hotel to ask, thankfully, the woman speaks English, what I need is a bus going in the right direction.  Also, I was considering just staying at the hotel instead of trying to find my way in the dark, but I think it's full.  I make it to the right corner, and catch a bus, and then don't know which stop to get off on.  The driver barks at me, but some other tourists tell me the correct stop.  After I get off the bus, I spend another 45 minutes looking for the hostel.  Walking past the entrance multiple times because 1) it isn't well marked, and 2) by it's odd number, I wrongly assume it should be on the other side of the street.  By the time I get situated, the only place open for food is McDonald's.  All that being said, it was a nice hostel, and walking into the center of the city and back does bring me past two of the Gaudi buildings.

The next night, I inexplicably find my way back, in the dark, after bar hopping across the city in a tapas crawl, where I had way more fun than I imagined I could.  This is due to a large crowd of people that decided to join that evening, and how open everyone was.  Also, it was just stupid fun.

I'll have to go back some day.  I spent my one free day on a long walking tour of the Gothic Quarter, high on information, low on actually seeing anything.  And then buying a sim card, searching for a fountain my dad had taken a picture of back in the 1970's, and then looking for the bus station so I could buy a bus ticket to Pamplona for the next day.  For the record, it's across the street from the train station, a bit deserted and seedy by comparison.

My experiences

Sometime back in the 90's I dreamed of going to Barcelona.  Probably after that point, I read "The Pilgrimage" by Paulo Coelho, and decided I also wanted to walk the Camino de Santiago.  It took until 2005 to make the pilgrimage a reality, and until 2019 to finally make it to both Barcelona and St. Jean Pied-de-Port in France to finally cross over the Pyrenees. I shall share memories from each stage I walked, not chronologically, as I've walked multiple times between 2005-2019, but what I felt and learned along the way, while I still remember.

A memory

 I decided to continue on to Carrion de los Condes, it was late afternoon, and scorching hot out.  I had stopped for a snack in Villacazar de Sirga, and killed as much time as I could, as the Sunday afternoon crowd dwindled down, and had to find a place to sleep or walk on.  I walked.

A long, lonely walk with a hot breeze blowing off the fields.  I arrived into the quiet town and got the last bed in the Santa Maria albergue.  A top bunk.  I barely had time to drop my bag and take off my shoes before the meet and greet.  I sat halfway up the stairwell, surrounded by people from all over the world.  Everyone singing.  Everyone knew the words to this song, "You Raise Me Up," which I'd never heard before.  It was Palm Sunday.  We were all asked to introduce ourselves and say why we were here.  I still didn't know.  I think in retrospect, there was something about when we are stripped of all our outside status and identities, as much as possible, all living the same lives while in motion.  All having the same basic needs: to get up, to walk, to eat, to find somewhere to sleep; and searching for an answer, or answering a promise.  Who are we when there is no status?  How do we relate to one another?  How do we love one another?

Anyway, I cried through most of it, which I've mentioned before.  I was really sick, which I have also mentioned before, and could barely talk, anyway, much less sing much (even though I wanted to), since my throat was swollen.

Anyway, this song reminds me of that.  Of times when we could travel, could leave the house without worry.  Could go to work or school or church or dinner with friends.  The video reminds me of how much I miss performing, all the choir concerts, and other performances.  The waiting before.  The travel.  The sharing in person.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJxrX42WcjQ (Josh Groban's version of "You Raise Me Up.")

Seattle to Frankfurt

I ended up taking the whole day off of work, my flight was at 6 pm, and I'd thought I could work a half day.  Spent the morning running errands and cleaning house.  I'd scheduled what I thought was a shuttle pick-up, so I'd get to the airport on time (having found in the past, the shuttle service is better about calculating how much time I really need than I am).  It seemed a bit more expensive than I remember having paid in the past, but it turns out that I accidently booked a towncar instead of a shuttle.  The other passengers were dressed much nicer than I, I was dressed for backpacking.

At the airport I spent 20 minutes or so trying to get my walking poles jammed into my pack, one of them was missing it's rubber tip, and I was afraid it wouldn't make it through the check-in.  I ended up putting a package of tissue over it to keep it from jabbing anything.  Put my back in a duffle bag, and got in line to check in.

I was carrying cheese and fruit, and sat to eat it before going through security.  My gate was at the end of a different terminal, there were a few eateries and nowhere else to sit, so I ate again while I waited.  I chose a fish place and ordered clam chowder, all the while remembering a story I'd just been told by a friend who'd eaten bad oysters in the airport, and spent their entire flight to New York in the toilet.  This wasn't raw oysters at any rate.

This was a big plane, full flight, going to Frankfurt, I sat on the floor for a little while, but then it got too crowded.  People were backed up past the bathrooms, standing.  The flight didn't board until fifteen minutes before scheduled take-off.  I have no memory of the flight itself, except I think I had the middle seat.

Last time I flew through Frankfurt I lost my bankcards, that sat in my mind, and I hoped history wouldn't repeat itself.  Also, I'd been feeling bad for a couple of weeks, went to the doctor a week prior to make sure it wasn't anything serious.  Off-hand the doctor had mentioned my urine was a bit acidic, but didn't call it or treat it as a bladder infection.  I'd been following her instructions, but I definitely wasn't feeling better.  By the time I arrived in Frankfurt, I was quite miserable.   I had a four-hour layover, I'd land in Barcelona after 7 pm, even if I knew where to go and what to ask, how was I going to find it, and would anything be open?  I had to do something though, I was going to be travelling for 25 days, I didn't want to feel this bad the whole time.

Walking toward my general gate area, and pondering all this, I suddenly saw a pharmacy in front of me.  In the airport.  I passed by, and then turned back and went in.  A friend of mine has bladder infections a lot, and has told me the thing that works is something called D-mannose (a type of sugar, I think).  I haven't had a bladder infection since  was a little kid, but it was worth a shot.  The first person I asked directed me to a pharmacist that spoke English.  I can't remember what exactly I asked for, but they handed me a box of 14 sachets.  (I think it was called "feminose?")  You take 3/day for the first three days, then 2/day.  I bought a bottle of water and a sandwich at a cafe, poured a packet in, and drank it down.  It's pink.  It tastes like stevia.  (And it works, five days later I'm pain free.)

August 20 and 21, 2019.

One month later

Home a month now.  The miraculous fading into the anxiety and responsibilities of everyday that are at times overwhelming.  That month was another world, and my memory of that mostly now resides in the sudden throbbing pain in my foot that grabs my attention in the middle of the night.  Or a blurry picture of a four-leaf clover, or a sign of for an albergue, or an empty room, or a sign for a bus stop: all reminders that those days, those moments and answers happened.

I had only the barest skeleton of a plan at any time, flying by the seat of my pants, perhaps a result of the sudden booking of the plane ticket (a month earlier than I'd meant to go, because that was what was affordable) so not really being ready, i.e., maps would have been helpful when arriving in a major city after dark, etc.  I remember thinking at some point that it seemed very chaotic, and I don't want to say "irresponsible", but even at the time, it felt like a strange, somewhat disorienting  way to live. It was on the very edge between trust and responsibilty.  And I felt the tension.

And the foot pain ending up calling the shots, and changing the plans every single day, walking into Viaña  being the one exception where I pushed past it, thanks to my about to explode bladder.

But living with the tension, and somehow that being a safe place to experience it, was a radical place of trust: in myself, in community of others, and in God.  I'm not at all sure I want to be there (or can, or need to) live in that place all the time, even then I thought it was a somewhat unsettling and crazy way to live, surely there needs to be some plan or you just drift without any bearing.  But then perhaps we are surrounded by the miraculous all the time, and we can't see it, or accept it because we need to always call the shots and be in control.  Maybe we pass by the anwers we need and seek because we have already decided how they need to be, what they look like, when they will arrive, etc., and when an answer appears that doesn't fit the mold, we fail to see it, or brush it aside for something more to our preconceived image?  How does one balance that? I felt full and surrounded by the miraculous, everyday miracles, the things we often take for granted: flowers, and birdsong, and shelter, and food, and a seat on a bus, a four-leafed clover, someone giving me directions when I needed it the most (that happened a lot.)

How does this inform my life, now that I'm home and out of that environment? How does the experience inform my life now that it seems more like a dream than something that actually happened?  It fades into almost nothingness, and the summer heat turns to frost and rain, and daily responsibilities, and new crisis scream for attention.  And my connection is a throbbing foot that wakes me up in the night, and I want it to heal, and when it does, will I forget?

Oh, the foot pain

Well, today I found out that I had fractured a bone in my second toe.  At least that gives me an excuse for why I was having such a hard time walking.  And in truth, I probably should've stopped before I did, though walking had become unbearable the last couple of days.

At least a month in a boot for me.