A Rainy Day

"Le dijo el peregrino al maestro:

- ?Que es la libertad?

Maestro:

- La libertad es vuestro alimento.

- Maestro, y ?que es de los suenos?

- Ay... los suenos... los suenos son vuestro sostento.

- Maestro, por ultimo, ?y las fronteras?

- Las fronteras son barreras a saltar.

- Gracias, Maestro.

- !!Animo!!"

             by Juan FraBlazques, aka "Canillas y Royehuesos", a pilgrim, on August 29, 2002, in Vega de 

                     Valcarce

I spent the night there on October 18, 2003. On the very rainy afternoon of that day, I sat on the ground floor of the albergue, in the dining room, with Robin  "del Bosque" from England, and we poured over the cliche' entries left in two books by pilgrims before us.  We had some rather nice but silly idea of leaving our comments on a margin by every entry.  I do not know, why we gave up on that...

Perhaps the reason was that I suddenly was overtaken be a need to call home.  

I found a phone that would accept my calling card at a bar in the next village going back were I came from.  On the way, in the pouring rain, I met the two American girls that have begun their pilgrimage almost with me, in Roncesvalles.  I do not recall their names, only that they both just graduated from Washington State, and one was from there, the other one from New York.  I have not met them for weeks, then saw them in Astorga, and now here again for a fleeting moment, just long enough to exchange few words and smiles.  One last time I will see them at the Cathedral in Compostela.  Somehow all the pilgrims meet there for the last time.    You don't  see people for weeks, and then you meet them at the Cathedral anyway.

The village's name was Ambasmestas, I think.  There was a small hotel there, and not too far from it - a bar.  It was full of men when I came in, all drinking beer (contrary to popular belief, beer seems to be more popular a drink in Spain than wine) or beer with milk.  One of the men was drunk, and kept on ordering more beer with milk. I felt lucky that he left the bar before I ended my 50-minute plus on the phone with Richard and the girls.  

There was not much space, and so I ended up next to him.  I always order something at a bar if I want to use either phone or a bathroom.  So, after the drunkard left, and the remaining balance on my calling card was zero, I ordered my corto, and had with it some citrus soda on the side.  I was very thirsty, and wanted more and more and more of the soda, but it was so expensive!  I should stick with wine.  Or beer.  

A trip is always something else that what we imagined before actually setting out, embarking on it.  Did I say that?  Who said that?  Hmm...  Maybe I did, after all.

All changes, even if anticipated, will be unexpected and surprising.

Meeting the Devil

Muslims will cast seven stones at the devil at the end of Ihram.  I cast seven stones at the devil at the end of the Camino, almost at the end - not at the Cathedral, but at the top of Monjoi, or Mount Gozo: a hill outside of Santiago de Compostela from which pilgrims glimpse Santiago (and they say, Cathedral; this, however, does not agree with what I saw, and I really did try to find that place from which it would be possible to see the Cathedral.  Fruitlessly.), awaiting them.  Mount of (Pilgrims') Joy.
I cast seven stones for seven of us: myself and my closest beloved.  Devil, eat the dust and go to hell.  I made it, even though you tried your best to stop me.  And I carried those stones to cast on you all the way from Foncebadon.

My entries for September 27, 2003:

Left Puente la Reina at about 7:50 a.m.  Hell in Estella.  Hell of a hostel. Really a hell.  Puente la Reina to Estella with all those detours was really 26-28km, not 19!  I hate it here.  Someone put something sticky on my sleeping bag.  I slept next to a husband of a French woman who slept over me in the bunk bed.  Yuck.  The guy kept running, wearing only his skimpy underwear, to the bathroom, and I "slept" next to it.  The door opened onto my face.  God, this thing happening to my feet is NOT normal.  Cannot be.  I am pretty fit, and with the backpack I am faster than most on the Camino, but no one has such problems as I do.  I cannot walk anymore! I walked 5 days, rested 3, I cannot walk! God! Do something!  Please!

That was the day you introduced yourself to me.  My little private personal devil.  You followed me, and on the way to Estella I felt I would meet you face to face.  I resisted.  I was afraid.  I cursed the Way.  I cursed my feet.  I cursed the city I was walking towards on that day.  I did not want to get there at all. And the moment I walked in from the countryside, and inhaled the offending scent of the beer prep, I saw the slum apartments by the river, I cursed that city, that awful city where I was meant to meet you.
Then, by the water fountain set up for pilgrims - like everywhere else along the Way - you came for the first encounter, in a face of a young man.  You were there to see me through his eyes that were your eyes right then for a moment, to see if I see you, and how do I notice you, and how do I react. Oh, you almost stopped me, you almost made me do what you wanted me to do.  But I did notice, and I realized who you were, who you are.  I walked on, and you waited for me.  There, in Estella, you did all you could to stop me, to show, to prove to me you are the master in this relationship.
I dreaded the night, and when it came, you came with it.  You spent the night at my side in me in my soul in my brain in my heart there beside me on my bed nest to the toilets at a hostel in Estella.  It was a night of our battle, and I got to know who you are, and now I am no longer afraid of you, my own little Devil.  Now I know you, and the fear is gone.

Last Days On Camino Frances - Notes

November 8, 2003.  Two more days, and I will be going home.  Two days ago, I arrived by Euskotren from Donostia/San Sebastian to Bilbao, and until then I still felt a woman on a mission, and kept my home- (read: children-)sickness in check.. It begun descending on me yesterday.  Very slowly at the beginning, hardly noticeable, until it was already too late and it hurt.  That little, invisible knife was now cutting deep, and then the anesthesia  was injected into my being in the form of excitement, and impatience, expectation...  Just two more days, then to London: Oh, no! One more day to stop me from being with my beloved! I must make myself busy even though I know now nothing will pull me in.  It will be all the time just the thought of landing in Phoenix, Arizona.

Will I remember all that happened? Possibly not.  Does it matter? Possibly not.  But now, now I do want to remember everything, all the people, landscapes passed, colors, every single moment, because it all mattered.  It did.  An unusually incredible journey.  Physically, and spiritually; really, on all levels of my being. Not to forget, but then I know I will remember all I should. Writing will help remember and re-live and relieve.

A few days earlier:
Santiago de Compostela. I am fed up with being with pilgrims, being surrounded by pilgrims, going out for not-so-good-but-not-so-expensive-either supper with pilgrims.  Tonight, Saturday, I am going to eat where I choose to eat. Good.  Very good.  Very good thinking.  Yes.  Good, very good food.  Not pilgrim fodder.  Good Spanish food.
I would love some Pulpo Gallego con tinto y pan Gallego.  Octopus along with red wine and local bread.  Yumm.
I walked for about one and a half hours around the Old City/Casco Viejo, outside of it in the direction I originally came from from the Camino, back, around the othere side of Casco Viejo.   Nothing.  But I did manage to avoid most of the other pilgrims (except one Japanese couple in search of Manolo's, the pilgrims' feeding grounds; I suppose they were expected by the others already there).
At long last, it is late enough for a Spanish supper in a restaurant I found earlier, but found it closed: El Assesino (!?!).  Yes, it is opened, and I am the first guest tonight.  It is still too early for the locals.  The sign over the entrance to this unusually named restaurant pictures a girls chasing a rooster with a cleaver.  How lovely!
Walls of the restaurant are literally covered with pictures of famous patrons enjoying their good El Assesino meals and company.  And then - another guest, a conversation, a wonderful woman who  does not shy away from a conversation with a stranger at another table.  Instantaneously we become old friends.*

*(Today, in 2010, we are still good old friends.)

O Pino.  Another two days earlier.  No, just one night before.
I walked through that wonderfully and mysteriously green purple brown secretive heathery Galician countryside.  I pushed myself to walk just a little further in the rain, I hoped I would find a nice hotel this time. Just for myself, nice and warm.  Please, no more pilgrims!  Well, if it is meant to be, it will be.  Boletus edulis, otherwise known as porcinis, that I found and picked, I gave to two little, old Galician ladies, who were out collecting last of the chestnut for the winter.  Or for sale.  Ladies, walking arm in arm, offered some of the chetsnuts to me in exchange for the lovely mushrooms.  I thanked, however - I was so fed up with eating raw chestnuts, and felt I did not have good prospects of finding a place to roast or boil them first.  I gave them all those beauties anyway, and wished them a lovely meal.
A little further on the path, I met a wolf from Berlin.  No, no, it was just his name.  Wolf.  A young man from Berlin.  I met him in the mountains a few days earlier.  A very tall, tired Wolf, with his front tooth missing.  Braving the Camino because he decided so or so was decided for him up in the stars.  On passing him, we  exchanged few words ("It is not easy for me to walk", said he), and I went on my way.  Green moss hugging the stones making up the wall dividing the path from the woods on both sides, mud and rocks underfoot roots of the trees and water pouring from heaven on us washing our sins away, our inhibitions, our fears.  I left Wolf there, standing in the rain, supporting himself on his pilgrim's staff, waiting for the mood to change for the rain to stop for the spirit of the forest to move him from his spot or for inspiration.
I left the forest with all its Galician mysteries behind, and entered back into the realm of people, not leprechauns.  And there it was: a lovely hotel.  Inexpensive.  Warm.  Hospitable.  With food,a grand room for me with a huge bed and with wonderful colors, with working heating, and as much hot water as the soul would ever need.  A soul is a wonderful thing that needs care and loving, especially being cared for and loved by itself.
So here I am, the yellows and the reds of the room around me.  It still rains outside, and I can feel so good and secure and warm inside my being every time it rains and I am inside a warm room.  Indescribably good and safe, it feels almost like a certain kind of love that gives you a sure protection from anything and anyone under any circumstances.

After an exceptionally good night's sleep, I got up to my last day on the Camino before reaching the dreamed of Cathedral of Santiago.   I walked over the hill where once a Queen made Santiago's followers plow the black earth with the help of an untamed and very wild and unfriendly ox.  In exchange, they were allowed to bury the body of the Apostle on her land.  So the legend goes.  And now gigantically tall eucalyptus trees cover most of that land almost all the way to Santiago.  But even though it is not an oak nor pine, the undergrowth there is still full of things we love: ferns, moss,  and fungi.  Boletus, slimy caps, saffron milk caps.  Galicia is a paradise for us.  Food falls on one's head - does this not make a paradise?  Walnuts, chestnuts, and underfoot a gourmet's feast of edible mushrooms!  What more is there that is hidden from the eyes of the uninitiated in the art of foraging?  Galicians are poor and hardworking people, but for us their land IS paradise.
A woman met pushing herself, plowing with her feed through mud and rain, carrying a freshly baked loaf of bread to her daughter working at the cowshed of a pigsty, sharing a piece of that still warm wonder with a passing pilgrim.  A girl at a bar bringing crepes and roasted chestnuts at no extra charge to a pilgrim to have with her glass of wine and coffee.   Telling her she should not leave her backpack outside, because there are lots of people who are not honest and steal.  A bottle of young wine, served with chestnuts and figs, opened especially for a passing pilgrim at a bodega amid vineyards, shared with friends old and new.  Golden colors of autumn, green of leprechauns, yellow of sunshine, and blue of rain, gray of rain, white of rain and fog.  A paradise.


Deep in the eucalyptus forest, a middle-aged man passes me saying Buenos Dias.   I turn my head away while answering with my Buenos Dias - the feeling was not good.  I do not want to look into his eyes.  Just a bit further up the path, there is a young girl, seems to be waiting for me.  She seems, without saying anything, to want to walk close to me through the woods, without invading my walking freedom.  And so we walk,until we leave the forest behind for good.  I met her, Chelsea from San Francisco, again at the end of our walk, in Santiago, when at our pilgrims' last supper but not before death, really after a kind of death we all came out of.
It seems all the pilgrims end their first day in Santiago at the same restaurant that thrives on serving them cena de peregrino 365 days a year, year in and year out.  A meeting place: you come there to meet all the people you met on the Way and have not seen for weeks sometimes.  Another such place is of course the cathedral.  A night before - if it is warm enough, I suppose - pilgrims come to keep a vigil until the cathedral opens in the morning.  Time filled with a song and musci and talking talking talking meeting friends one made along the Camino and catchinglittle naps, drinking wine good Spanish wine.

Our table ended up sitting over 20 pilgrims; other tables were taken over by pilgrims, too.  Food was plenty if not outstanding, the company made for all that up.  At our table alone sat Brazilians, Catalonians, Italians, French, Australians, New Zealanders, Germans, Japanese, Americans, Austrians, Argentinians, Norwegians, like twelve apostles twelve different nationalities what a beautiful variety of human beings colorful weather-beaten not caring about our differences but our humanity.  Will we still be like that tomorrow after tomorrow in a week a month a year? In different settings, in the lives we all will go back to? I think we will.  Here will be the true meaning of the maxim"'travels educate", true meaning of what is The Pilgrimage.
Those who begun in St.Jean-Pied-de-Port, or wherever, full of prejudices, will go back to their homes less filled with them.  A case in pint: Robin.   A nice Englishman in his early fifties, an English high-school teacher who quit his job because he hates dealing with arrogant and stupid teenagers.  Lived 10 years in New Jersey with his African American wife and a daughter, divorced, lived 10 years with his French girlfriend in France, now his current, English girlfriend told him off until he loses 20 pounds, quits smoking, and finds himself a job.  So here he came, to walk the Camino as a way to lose weight. Hates French, all Irish are just born liars and actors, born into it, they cannot help it, poor souls, he would love to live in Wales but Welsh will burn his English house down surely his first night there, and Europe will soon have a Union-wide state religion, Islam.  Along the Way, he did begin opening up to other options and opinions, changed his attitude a bit, even stopped being afraid of sharing meals by hand from the same plate, even with Irish.  Did not lose his 20 pounds (oh, heavenly Spanish food!), did not quit smoking entirely, figured finding a job is not all that hard really, and decided that his girlfriend is but his lover, and started rethinking his own opinions on everything he could think of, excluding his repulsion to what he calls a Catholic taste.  And excluding his derogatory opinion of an exceptionally nice hospitalero at a hostel in Vega de Valcarce, based solely on a suspicion of that man's being gay.  Beginning of changes taking hold, though.

From A Far-Away Land and A Far-Away Past

##

#FATHER

Andre Florian.  Hated his second name.  Tried never to use it.  I think his naturalization certificate does not carry that name.  Such a beautiful name.  It was unusual in Poland, where he grew up,  and probably was made fun of because of that name. 

Came into this world in a town of Hajnowka in May of 1934.  My Grandparents have built this town with their own hands, alongside others, then built a chemical plant, where many of the people of the new town worked.  They were very poor, very hardwoking people.  Andre was born as the fifth of the six children to Joseph and Josie.

The little boy Andre grew up mostly in the virgin forest surrounding Hajnowka.  Helping his Father bring wood into town, gathering mushrooms or berries with his Mother, guarding moonshine in winter, then during the war, meeting German or Russian soldiers running away from the front and their units.  In winter, he would use skis to move around the forest, in summer most of the time he would just walk.  Or – if he were with his Father – would get a ride on a horse-drawn wagon.  There were bison, moose, boar, wolf, and wild horses in the forest.   It was easy to get lost never to be found again, but he always found his way home.  Forest was his home.  The little shack was there to be around his beloved Mom, to eat the food she cooked, to go to church with her, to help her with the little Peter.  Then, in 1944, Mom got very very sick.  The Germans had a good hospital in town at that time.  She went in only to be helped by powerful painkillers. To be without pain was the ultimate.  She died of stomach cancer shortly afterwards. 

The forest became the real home now.  For the last year of the War there were more soldiers than ever before running away and hiding in the forest.  There were trainloads of wounded going through the town, either west (Germans) or east (Russians).  Throughout the whole war there was a constant flow of happy, song-singing soldiers going to the front (this time Russians going west,  or Germans going east), or broken, sad, absent, quiet soldiers coming back from the battlefields (Russians going east, Germans going west).  Except for that entertainment, the War was a boring thing for the little boy.  No battles were fought in Hajnowka, there were no Jews, no Communists, no homosexuals, no Gypsies, no Resistance as far as he could tell, so nothing ever happened in Hajnowka.  Moonshine and the defeated soldiers.  Otherwise, things as usual.

Life got harder when Mom died.  The eldest sister married before the War, and moved far away, to Lublin. Lucyna, the next one, was sent near Hamburg into forced labor.  Where was Mietek?  Where was Wanda?  Is there a way to find out?  For now, we know nothing of their whereabouts.

Dad had to work more than before, had to cut more wood, build more ovens, make more booze.  But life in the forest was good.  There were some friendly Trolls there to talk to or to ski with in the winter.  They liked winter.  Summer was more of a witch time.  The forest witches took care of Andre, and made sure he was always safe, \and always found way back to town.  Sometimes, expecially after his Mom died, they would cook for him so he would not go hungry, and so his Dad would never have to worry.  He had enough worries, and enough heartache.  He loved his wife so much, and now missed her so.  His beloved Josie! 

My Stories

  I don’t remember, how did it all begun.  What I do remember, is being pushed out, or down, or something, physically pushed against my want, out here, into this reality.  Frankly, I am pretty sure there was no beginning.  I think it just sort of spirals, like double helices, lots of them, without beginning, and without end. 

So, I was pushed out down , and here I am, although from the beginning of that phase I did realize something was missing.  I tried to go back, then - every time - I remember the fear inside: I am falling, and again I fail to remember that which was is will be the only important information! 

Usually, I tried to go back (or was it just to remember?) when I was in my bed.  That was the only time guaranteed I was alone, only time I was sure no one would try to talk to me, the only time guaranteed no one would notice.  It would be almost dark, and I would almost get there, or even get there, and then I would fall back here, and there was fear, and there I was, again not remembering anything except that I was supposed to remember something from there, from before here, but I could not.  And it seemed that no one no one no one!  Not one single person here remembered.  Or knew.  Or suspected.  Perhaps I came from a different place than everyone else?  Why no one knows?  Perhaps I should keep it a secret?  I think I better…….

Do not take me wrong:  I came to the most wonderful family anyone could ever imagine.  My Mom - what a being!  A fantastic Dad, great Brother, even though a life as a little sister was not always easy.


Look - I was really a happy little person most of the time!  But so fearful and scared.

Recession, or Escape in Time 1 - 2009

How did it all happen?
A man arrived one night at a hotel, and asked a concierge for the best
room.  He would like to see it before actually checking in, and
slipped a hundred-dollar bill for a concierge  onto the counter.  To
be discreet, the concierge moved the bill onto his desk, covered it
with a notepad, and left with the man to show him the room.  Nobody
ever came at this time, so he was not at all worried about the bill
disappearing from his desk.
When both left, a friend of concierge came to visit him on a slow
night at work; looked through things on his desk, and discovered the
hundred-dollar bill. “Oh, cool, I can give back the money I owe on my
tab at the bar!.” He took the bill, and proceeded to the bar, where
bartender was happy to see him finally giving what he owed back.
Now, the bartender owed a hundred to a prostitute for services
rendered.  He paid her back.  The prostitute took the bill, went to
the hotel, and waited for the concierge.
At that precise moment,  a following sequence took place: the
concierge came back downstairs, the prostitute gave him back the
hundred dollars she owed for letting her use one of the rooms
recently, the man came downstairs and said that he will not be taking
the room at this particular hotel after all, and took the
hundred-dollar bill the prostitute just gave the concierge from his
hand, and left. The concierge thought, “well, at least I have the
hundred dollars he gave me to give him a nice room,” but he looked,
and the money was not there.
Two people, even married to each other, should never play the same
instrument (“blow into one same trumpet”).  They should play in the
same orchestra perhaps, execute the same composition, but playing the
same instrument is a deadly mistake.
And now it is 2009, and the things blew over, and the money is gone.

Marc from France, and Other People Met on the Camino

On my first Camino trek in 2003, I was DEAD with blisters, and exhaustion, after the first day from St.Jean-Pied-de-Port to Roncesvalles on Spanish side of Pyrenees. But I did talk about it in an earlier entry.
Next day, I met an Austrian woman, who traveled on foot with her German shepherd, and spent nights with her husband who followed them in their RV.  Then there was a young Spaniard who ran, yes ran, with his little black puppy.  I met him again a month later in Santiago, and it was a grown up puppy that recognized me (the puppy wanted to stay with me in the forest in Navarra).
I was very very slow, all pilgrims were passing me all the time, and I still made it in time to get a place at albergues on the way.
In Zubiri, Maria: a middle-aged woman from Milan, who spends her retirement walking with a backpack all over Europe and Asia.   I met her again in Najera, but only because she sprained her ankle, and therefore was stuck there for a few days more.
By Zubiri a lot of pilgrims begun hanging out together after the day of walking.  Not I, of course.  People like me just want to be like others, want to be social, but are not.  It is an impossibility.  I try, but it does not work. Fear.
Two girls from the University of Washington: one from Washington, the other from New York.  Somewhere along the way I give them all my remaining Zone bars.  I am completely fed up with them, and for them it is a chance to save on food.  I met them next day in Torre de Arre, just a few kilometers outside of Pamplona.  there was no way I could make it to Pamplona with my hurting feet.  We met, and went to a bar to wait there before the albergue would open.  Nice girls had orange juice, at almost 2 Euro each.  I had a glass of tinto.  At 60 cents.  Of course they had to try and save on the food with such prices for orange juice!  I would not even try and blame students' budget for that.
At the albergue there was Marc from France.  Close to 60, I cannot tell on which side of 60 though.  A pilgrim on the Camino since 10 years.  Walks back and forth, and very slowly.  That is his meditation.  His retreat.
He was the only guest at the albergue when I arrived (the American girls and Maria, and another Maria from Mexico City, decided to go on to Pamplona that day;other pilgrims arrived later), and offered me coffee immediately.  We spoke extensively, although he spoke in French - which I do not know - and I in English - which he did not know.  We understood each other splendidly.  I was given a lot of useful tips, mainly on which albergues to avoid.  Very useful.  Extremely.  Apparently, some were really not very nice, or with really not nice or unwelcoming hospitaleros.  I do not think it is so anymore.  The Camino's importance in Spanish economy grew incredibly since then, and the locals, as well as all the Camino associations, make sure to make all acceptable by all pilgrims' standards.
Next morning, after leaving the hostel and starting on my way to Pamplona (4.5km only, but I decided to take a break to heal my feet), I pass a woman standing, waiting for something or someone, with a girl in a wheelchair.  I feel that woman's pain, but she is not sad at all.   Only resigned.
I keep on passing all those people children adults young old, a wonderful humanity.  I feel only love.
Then, in the evening, I feel guilt.  I left my husband, my children, and am going in search of myself.  How selfish! What about my "real" life?  Oh God, what is "real"?
I stayed 3 nights at a hotel in Pamplona.  Rested, tended to my feet, walked around the city, bought myself Tevas, and was without people around me except at the lobby of my hotel, but it was enough to say Buenos Dias Buenas Noches Adios, and I did not have to interact with anyone at all.  Then came time to leave, and my new Tevas were my lifesavers.  I will walk in them until my feet heal.  However, just a few steps from the hotel, on the bridge from casco viejo into the new city, I trip over and would land face first on the cement sidewalk with my heavy backpack pushing me towards it, if it were not for two strangers who caught me just in time.  The were relatively far from me, but both reacted incredibly fast.  And they were so nice, and talked to me for the longest time, and I, I!, begun to talk, too!  A bit of Spanish, a bit of English, and we had a conversation.  Two random people on the way to work.  That must have been a beginning of the change for me.  The sun shone brighter, and my steps became more certain.  Even the wonderful Basque musicians and dancers that kept me awake are forgotten, even the melancholy of my I-will-not-buy-any-of-those-heavenly-roasted-chestnuts-just-because-my-daughters-who-love-them-are-not-with-me-so-I-will-punish-myself-and-not-have-any-either is gone, and I walk on.  And I know I will make it to Santiago.
That day I walked 28km, over Alto de Perdon, where it is really hard to climb, wind blows, and I meet a still another character: a retiree from England, who wants to give something back to the Camino.  So he sold all he owned, and bought an RV. Drove to Spain, and travels along the Camino, takes care of pilgrims' feet, massages them, all for just a donation, and sells some nice cold drinks in isolated places like Alto de Perdon.  One feels definitely forgiven when meeting people like that.

(Notice the note on the garbage collection box: 'Throw here all bottles-painful memories-tins-unrealistic ambitions-plastic cups-paper-discarded ideas-outdated concepts-rejected lovers-unappreciative boss-unfaithful spouse")
These were just a few people I met during the four weeks on the Way.  And it was just the beginning of my change.  The friends I made are forever with me, and the changes that took place in me - wow.  I actually can talk with people now!

Actually, the next day was very decisive for me.  The absolutely worst, and terrifying too, day and night on the Camino.

Top 10 Hotels Under $19 (Seriously!) - StumbleUpon

Top 10 Hotels Under $19 (Seriously!) - StumbleUpon

I Love Shopping?

Even I do need some stuff sometimes. So why not have the most useful, lightest (oh that wonderful heavy backpack that seems to weigh more every day, even when the scales say it weighs less; not a very wonderful magic?). I don't want to say I hate anything, but so far I have not been able to find a different word to describe my relationship with shopping. There are exceptions, however. Bookstores, and backpacking stores. Summit Hut, REI, Montbell, Campmore are the ones I know and love. There was Turecek & Hof in Vienna, Austria. They introduced me to many many great things. And the greatest one of those was a car-top tent. Oh, how I loved our tent! Thanks to it, we traveled far and wide with our children, and I think there are many people until this day who think we spent a fortune on our long road trips around Europe. In fact, we spent very little. We could probably count less than dozen times we actually had to pay for sleeping our family anywhere during all those years (some 8 years).
Backpacking takes a different kind of packing. No car to carry our household needs. So I prefer to pack ultralight. It hardly is ultralight, anyway. I always feel like a turtle that has to carry a disabled turtle on its back anyway. Walking the Camino de Santiago is easy, in a way. You basically need very little supplies, light sleeping bag, you don't have to carry food (some snacks are all you need, and dark chocolate and nuts fill the bill in the best possible way, to me at least), you need water at most for a day, no tent, no cooking utensils, no camping mat. Paradise! A hike in the US is so much more difficult than in Europe: no mountain guesthouses, no food, no drink, if there is water available than at least you must carry a good water filter and some other method of killing living organisms in it, at bare minimum you must have a GOOD sleeping bag even when hiking without a tent. But then at least a ground cloth, if you decide against carrying a sleeping mat. So even on a quite an easy hike, comparatively speaking, like the basic hike down to Grand Canyon, your backpack must contain not a small number of supplies. Oh yes, we do have a bible here that teaches a greenhorn how to's of American backpacking: Colin Fletcher's Complete Walker. Walking on American continent is a completely different experience than in most places on Earth, and particularly in Europe. Just a look at a population map of the world will show you the reason why. We are lucky this country is so sparsely populated. But for the likes of me (read: lazy), it is so tempting to backpack in Europe. Unless I can have some Gurkas to help with my burden. Richard would be ideal, but he is not the biggest fan of backpacking in general. Lamas, donkeys, mules. Hmmmm...

Most, if not all, of our dreams remain in a dreamsphere forever. (How lovely to write words one has never seen before.)
Majority of humans put off fulfillment of their dreams. It is always later, when I have this, when I have done that, when things are less hectic (are they ever?), when I am older, when I have more time, when the kids grow up, when I retire, on and on and on and on. Excuses. Why do we make them? Is the fear of one's dreams greater than any other?
It does happen, quite often too, that our dreams fulfilled disappoint us. We were wrong, that was not what would make us happy. Constant pursuit of happiness is a constant disappointment. All life is liquid like a river, like a mountain stream, and if looking for happiness in the future we will never ever find it. Life is not BAD NOW, and will not be GOOD LATER. Life is always joy and suffering, and therein we must find peace and happiness.
Most certainly it was like that with my dream of walking the Camino: always in the back of my mind since seeing the pilgrims on Camino del Norte, always knowing that "one day I will do it". Except the day came and went away, every day came and went away, and it was always "one day".
A catalyst came unexpectedly:
I came back from living for a year in Rome, had neighbor problems (!), got pregnant (!!), could not, for the longest time, come to terms with my pregnancy, and then, when I finally did, I lost my baby. With a loving husband, family, superb friends, I should have been all right, right? But I was not. Nothing was helping. I was angry, and I was hurt, and I was in a bad place. I sat (like in "meditate") more than ever, and I was still angry and hurt.
During one sitting, it suddenly came over me that it must be now. Now is the time to walk the Camino. Move from the back burner straight into the furnace. It was April 29th, 2003. I told Richard. I bought a ticket to fly to Bilbao in September. I packed my backpack with few bottles of water, and begun training. Adding a half-liter bottle each day, until the pack weighed what I thought it would weigh packed for the Camino.
By September I have lost 24 pounds. I bought new Vasques a month before leaving. They were tight, but Justin from the store insisted they were the way they should be. I went back couple of times, and he still insisted I will walk them in (even though I walked at least an hour every day, and they were still tight). I packed my pack. Richard drove me to Phoenix, and I flew to London. One hour lunch with Leah and Geoff, and off to Stanstead to catch my plane to Bilbo.

I stayed there for a few days, and never figured out Spanish eating times. Good that I took so many Zone bars! I remember only once someone opened the store for me to sell me some jamon (I started eating meat while living in Rome 2001/2002). Otherwise it was just Zone bars. Except for breakfasts of cafe con leche y croissant everyday at Cafe Boulevard. I love Bilbo! If you say Egun On instead of Buenos Dias, you are good.  They will always be nice to you.  I guess otherwise, they might just ignore you.

On the morning of September 19th, 2003, I packed up, checked out of Hostal Gurea, took Eurskaltren to Hendaia/Hendaye via Donostia/San Sebastian, then switched to a French train to Baiona/Bayonne, and then took a lovely train to Donibane Garazi/St.Jean-Pied-de-Port. The beginning of my walk! I found an albergue para peregrinos, then went to an office of Les Amis du Chemin de Saint-Jacques to register and get my credencial. Basically, ready to go! Hurray!
On the main walking street of St.Jean (must be Chemin de Santiago?; that is where the pilgrims walk since time immemorial towards Santiago) I bought myself some delicious handmade macaroons, and a bottle of cidra. Then went up to the ruins of an old castle, and drank it whole, along with lovely chewy macaroons, in order to celebrate the new beginning, and to calm my misgivings about my capabilities. Then off to bed.
I thought I would sleep.
And it was not my nerves that kept me awake.
It was the Incredible Snoring Brazilians.
My apologies to that nation. My tough luck though. The Incredible Snoring Brazilians happened to sleep in my room.
By 3 a.m. I have given up all hope of falling asleep, and so I packed my sleeping bag as quietly as I possibly could, and - I promise, without waking anyone up - sort of sneaked out into the dark.
Down the hill, over the bridge, up, and I found a bench. Until about 6 a.m. I did fall in and out of sleep, then at about 6:30 I put on my pack, and went on my way.

I was so afraid I will not be able to walk up that mountain and down to Roncesvalles on the other side in one day, that I pushed myself too forcibly. Really, beyond not just my comfort, but my abilities. I came to Roncesvalles just past noon, long before the opening of the albergue de peregrinos there. With feet sore, full of blisters, shaking legs, a headache, hunger, and nausea. I have just gotten fed up with my Zone bars. The bar was closed, I think. The restaurant looked full and too expensive. So I did some basic foot care, and some sightseeing. Then went back to wait for the opening of the albergue.
Pilgrims begun pouring in long after. By the time monks opened the ckeck-in, the waiting room was full. Thankful, I got my bed assigned, and did what I would be doing many more times before coming to Santiago; arrange the bed, take a shower, do laundry, rest, write, read, meditate. I also attended a mass for the blessing of the pilgrims. I was exhausted. What kept me going? Fear. What if I don't make it?
The long Way awaits, it does not ask if you can, it calmly just IS. Decision is yours. Every moment is a decision. You decide if you want to live.
By 8:30 p.m. most pilgrims are asleep, or at least quiet in their sleeping bags. By 10 p.m. all is quiet. I must learn to sleep with so many in one room again.
At 8 a.m. it is still dark outside, but I begin my walk. How will I make it?, I don't know. My feet are really, really killing me. I decide I must walk. I must live. Yes, it does sound melodramatic, but the decision to walk became my decision to live. At long last the fighting brought results.