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.

Melide

A curious thing.  Fourteen years ago my first Camino essentially ended in Melide as I found what I was looking for.  I did walk into Santiago a few days later, but it felt like an afterthought.

And now this time, I also ended my Camino in Melide, physically.  I knew a couple days earlier it would be ending soon, but not there.  Both after dining in Garnacha, too.  Melide seems to be a catalyst for me.  (This trip was also a deepening of what 2007 trip was about, minus the Norovirus, thankfully.)  Love.  Belonging.  Connection.  Shame.  I was having a strong inner battle between self-love and shame on this trip.

I suppose I will know in time if this was some form of completion.  If I will ever return.

I've felt disconnected, disoriented since.  I don't know if it's the result of the five days it took to get home, or the very itinerant life of the past month (but that would've been true to an extent on all my other trips), or because things have actually changed.  I'll figure out that in time, too.

On the plane (the final one home), I felt nervous about returning home.  Had an unsettled feeling I didn't know where that was anymore.  I wake up in the middle of the night not knowing where I am, wondering who's luggage is next to me, if I am allowed to be sleeping there, if anyone else is there. (I had a room to myself in Ponferrada, and in Gatwick, otherwise I was in a dormitory with other people.)  I feel split...it felt right to come back to my job, but in other areas I feel disconnected.

And yet, I wanted change, so I have to let that be, and let things be released from the ties that told me who I was supposed to be without ever asking me who I was.  And who am I anyway?

How it ends

Well, I bit the bullet at lunch in Melide today, and asked the waiter when the bus to Santiago was.  2 pm, across the street.  I have to be in Madrid to catch a flight on Saturday, so I was running out of time.  Having serious foot issue (on the bus here, my foot was painfully swelling in my boot.  I had a woman holding a  sleeping baby next to me, and was trying to not knock into her so wasn't able to loosen the too tight laces to get some relief from the pain.)

I crossed the street and ordered a coffee in the bar adjacent to the bus stop.  He made a big heart in the foam, which made me cry, maybe I'll get around to that.  I've just been feeling emotional the past couple of days.  While putting my pack back on my back to walk out of the bar, I knocked over a chair and ripped my watch off of my wrist, breaking the strap in the process.  I gathered them up, and then I did catch the bus.

This morning I was sure I could make it to Arzua (why, I don´t know), but I was lurching along because my foot was swollen, and then my pack fit funny.  Everyone was blowing past me.  On the bright side, I got to see the inside of a church I had never found open before.  And finally got a picture of the crucifix in Fuerlos with one had reaching down and one reaching up.  Yesterday, I felt ready to be home suddenly.  So, I guess I am.  And I hope I feel I´m done, and don´t itch for completion.  Someone said earlier that I could still get a compostela, maybe I´ll check tomorrow.  Maybe it doesn't matter.

Caught a local bus, then decided I should walk (and it´s bloody hot out again!)  Re-oriented myself to town, and walked up to the big albergue up on the hill, only to be told by a man walking away from it that it was full (there must be a big group there, that place is huge!)  And he told me to just follow him.  He eventually called the place he was looking for, and the woman held two beds.  Ironically, it´s back by the bus station.

I had lunch at Garnacha (famous for pulpo), ended up being joined by a couple of cyclists from Alicante.  We had a good conversation.  I find it curious that I have had more meaningful conversations with people I don´t necessarily speak the same language as (broken spanish and broken english) than I have had in a long time.  I guess you have to really listen, so that connects you, and you may never see each other again.  And yet, somehow I keep randomly running into people I know or recognize, I realize it´s the camino route, but I´ve also skipped a bunch of it because I didn´t have enough time to do the whole thing, which was odd in falling in-and-out of being a peregrino...but maybe that´s all a random judgement anyway.  Who really knows their own heart and motivations much less anyone else´s? (And is it wrong on my sixth Camino to want to pick and choose my experiences?)

Funny that, I was listening to a man talking in the kitchen here, and I took a good look at him, and I said, "I know you!"  We´d met and eaten dinner together a couple of weeks ago in Villamayor de Monjardin.  We all have gotten injured, his friend from Sweden (hurt his knees), Michael from Ireland (tendonitis), and me, (shin splints and a swollen foot.)  The Swedish man was going to go to Barcelona.  Michael is flying home tomorrow, and I am either catching a bus or train tomorrow.

Began walking one week ago.  Today in Villamayor Monjardin, not a super long day, but felt heavy and tired all day.  Stayed here in 2017, it'll made the walk into Los Arcos less tedious (for me.) It's a long haul at the end of the day.

Will add other days later. Had a computer last night as well in Lorca, as well as really good food.  I mentioned to the hospitalero, Jose, that I had really enjoyed the food last time I stayed there, in 2017.  Also, that I'd been really sick when I'd shown up then.  He'd asked if I'd been there before.

Today was cooler, with a breeze to help.  Yesterday, it was 94 or 95 F when I walked up the hill.  Didn't really cool off much until close to dawn.

More later.  Dinner is at 7 pm at the bar, and the fortress doesn't look so far away, might try to get there.

Somewhat unexpectedly

off to Barcelona.

Five days

Sudden travel plans after searching for flights to the Basque Country for September, and coming up empty.  Now I leave in five days.  I have my bouts of fear when I am alone at night, but perhaps that is normal for me.  And concerns about my return flights, as they are on Norwegian Air, who are in the process of cancelling flights, among other concerns...but it will work out.

I'm spending a couple of nights in Barcelona, because my younger self dreamed of going there, and I still haven't managed to make it there.  After that, unclear.  I had wanted to walk part of the Norte Route, but I'm hearing it's currently a bed race around San Sebastian; it's still high vacation season.  Or maybe walk the St Jean Pied de Port to Roncesvalles, because it's the only section of the Camino Frances I haven't managed to walk yet.  At any rate, both Irun to San Sebastian and SJPP to Roncesvalles will be tough first days of walking.  The first will be slightly cooler, and more places to get out of the sun.  Both will be beautiful, and both will be new to me.  Somewhat concerned about the heat.

Did a preliminary packing of my bag last night.  It's less than I've brought in recent trips, but I still need to pare it down.  I have a few days, and so much to do between now and then.

Still, it's a good time to go.