Six

Thursday. Day four. There are no expedient pilgrims in my room this morning so I wake up late. 0701. I told Josef I'd be ready to leave at 0700. I rush to get packed while Josef waits patiently. We set off around 0730. The trek is hard on my body right out the gate. It's time to lose the boots and switch to my trail runners. Slight problem though; I have no room for them. My only option is to tie them to my pack. More weight is the last thing I need. Josef insists on putting them in his pack. I let him. He is very generous and watches over me. I'm quite certain he is with me to see me through and keep me safe, though I am concerned I'm hindering his Camino, his experience. I tell him several times he's welcome to go on without me. He doesn't.

A few kilometers later, we arrive in the hamlet Zariquiegui. We stop for coffee and a few minutes later are joined by out friends Angelo, Greg, Ina, and Aleix. It's great to see them. We chat for a bit and head out again. Throughout the day we all find each other and eventually end up at the same albergue in Puente la Reina. We spend the evening together and take in some of the sites. We go to mass after dinner and though I don't understand a word, I find peace sitting there.

Physically, the day has been challenging; my knee is not happy. But a little ice on and off seems to be helping. As the sun sets, my eyes grow heavy. My mind was still today. I was present in every moment. I suppose pain and suffering does that to a person, right? Ha! But something Angelo said earlier tonight seems profoundly important. "The Camino will change you. It changes your mind." I hope it's true.

Wanderstoecke

Aleix and I agree, the Fench and Germans rise way too early. 0500, donned in headlamps, one by one the French quietly rise, dress, pack out. As careful as they are, the rustling can't be shut out, even with ear plugs in. It doesn't take long before everyone is up, packing out. The French depart way ahead of us. Josef, Angelo and I say our goodbyes and leave as well. Angelo breaks out ahead and Josef and I make our way to breakfast. We find Angelo at the nearest cafe and soon Aleix, Gregor, and Ina join us. We enjoy coffee by the river, snap off a few more photos, and again say our farewells. We will of course see them again. 

Wunderschonen guten morgen. Beautiful morning. The six of us come together again in a small town and trek on to Pamplona together. The path is fairly level, uneventful, and increasingly more urban. Gregor and I have a chance to talk and I ask him about his , wanderstoecke how he likes them, if they are of use. He tells me he read about them and decided to try them. They reduce the amount of foot pounds of pressure by thirty percent. I am the only one in the pack without the benefit of walking sticks. In the days before, I noticed how advantageous they appeared to be. Most using them were able to traverse the diverse terrain much easier than I due to increased stability. Many of them were able to trek much faster as well. I thought about them before the trip but decided against them; it was too late to be testing out something new.
The morning grows warm and soon we begin shedding our gear. Layer by layer is removed and shoved somehow into my already stuffed rucksack. The increased weight starts to take a toll on my body; my left knee begins to ache. As we move through town there is little I can do to ease the pain. It grows worse. The six of us break off from one another and Josef and I make it to Pamplona. The others will be stopping here but we will be staying in the next town, five kilometers away.
My knee is screaming by the time Josef and I get to Pamplona. We wander around the city to find a cafe with wifi. Josef stops at the Perish of Saint Cernin. He wants to go in. I recall something Gregor said last night, "The Camino is about pain and suffering." I think I'm at the crossroads of pain and suffering now so walking into a cathedral seems as appropriate as a hospital at this point. Inside is...Wunderschonen. I am in awe.

I set down my pack and sit quietly after grabbing an English version of The Pilgrim Prayer.

Lord, you who called your servant Abraham out of the town or Ur in Chaldea and who watched over him during all his wandering so; you who guided the jewish people through the desert; we also ask you to watch over us, your servants, who for love of your name, make this pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. 

Be for us, The companion on our journey, the guide at our crossroads, our strength in our fatigue, our fortress in danger, our place of rest on the way, our shelter from the heat, our light in the darkness, our consolation in discouragement and the perseverance of our intention.

So that under your guidance, safely and unhurt, may reach the end of our journey and strengthened with grace and virtue, secure and filled with happiness, may return to our home. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.

Now would be a good time for my come to Jesus moment. I wait. Then, with an open mind and open heart, I break out the baby aspirin and take two. Josef and I depart in search for coffee. We enter The Cookie Shop and order our usual: cappuccino and decaf Americano. Josef asks me via Google Translate how long I've had this issue. "Never," I said. Tears stream uncontrollably from my eyes. This could be the end for me. I gather my thoughts and find some willingness. Now wanderstoecke  is a must, as is unloading whatever I can toss. I let go of a few things and the barista points out the nearest gear shop. My knee appreciates the rest and a little less weight. We walk into the store and ask for walking sticks. The young man shows me a pair; only 11 Euro per stick. I'm shocked at the price. "That's it?" I inquire. Then he shows me the best pair they have. They feel like titanium; unbelievably light. "85 euro," the clerk says hesitantly. "Perfect, I'll take them." I am so grateful Josef is with me; he sets them for me, shows me how to hold them, then how to use them. My wanderstoecke coach!

We make our way to Cizur Menor, five kilometers past Pamplona. The walking sticks provide immediate relief though damage has been done, undoubtedly. We are nearly the first at the albergue to arrive. The ritual begins: shower, laundry, wifi connection, recharge phone, relax. The sun is out and feels spectacular. The albergue slowly fills up. Everyone is basking quietly in the sun, reading, journaling, napping. We are all waiting for pilgrim dinner at 1900. Then off to bed to trek another day to Santiago...

11 For Dinner

It reminded me of boot camp; lights out at 2200, common bathrooms, scrambling to organize yourself before going to sleep. Did I sign up for this again? The short answer, Yes. I slipped in my ear plugs, closed my eyes, and was out.

I woke up at 0445-my usual wake-up time. Rising before dawn called to me but I opted to stay in the rack. No one was stirring and I refused to be the first to make noise. I was quite cosy so I drifted in and out of sleep until 0600. Josef found me around 0700 and said we had to walk two kilometers for breakfast. We departed shortly thereafter for Zubiri. 

"Speed good?" Josef asks.

"Ya." I reply.

Silence.
Josef and I have little exchange while we walk together. He knows more English than I know German. Our attempts to communicate are comical mostly. We point to objects and say them aloud in our native tongues like school children. So far I've learned more German than French and Spanish combined! We keep a good pace together and the lack of conversation allows my mind to wander freely; alone but not alone. Josef catches me daydreaming from time to time and has to get my attention. It's easy to meander from the Camino in the villages where intrigue and mystery lead me astray. "What would I do without You, Josef?" He cannot reply.
We arrived in Zubiri, 25 kilometers from Roncevalles and stopped at the Cafe de Camino for coffee and a snack. We logged 15 miles and I'm ready to be done. I asked Josef where he is going to stay. 

"Here?" I ask.

"Nein."

We attempted another comical conversation. It went virtually nowhere but he gave me a sad face when I told him "Zubiri." Finally, I grabbed my Camino book and looked at the map. He pointed to another town, Larrasoana, the next village, another 5 miles. I looked at my watch; it was only 1300. I considered it. Josef looked at me and said, "Tomorrow rain. Today, no rain." "Let's go!" I said. What's another five miles?

A few others continued past Zubiri as well including a trio of thirty-somethings who speak German...and English...and Spanish. We kept pace on and off with them. I was happy Josef finally had someone to talk to. We arrived together in Larrasoana and selected an albergue to stay in. We checked in and end up in the same room; the last five beds of twelve. We showered, washed clothes, and made our way to the backyard where we basked in the warmth and let our feet rest. 19 miles today.

Gregor, from Berlin, is a cheerful, gregarious bloke who has a great sense of humor. Ina, from Munich, is incredibly sweet, open and friendly.  Aleix from Spain is slightly more reserved, very polite with kind, brown eyes and has a fondness for cats. Angelo, an Italian-Sweed who speaks German, Spanish, French, Italian, and very little English offers to make us all dinner. He loves to cook so how could we say no? Conversation flows easily between all of us, occasional interpreting required. It's an eclectic bunch at dinner; five French, two Germans, one Spaniard, one Italian-Sweed, one Austrian, and one American. Angelo prepared an incredible meal for all of us. It was brilliant!

After dinner we headed to the pub for coffee. Aleix and I talked about our purpose for doing the Camino. Like me, he is searching for some direction; to find the courage to let go of his fears and follow his heart, perhaps as an artist. I know this crossroad. I hope the road to Santiago speaks to us and gives us the courage we need to follow our dreams.

Au Revoir France, Hola Espagne!

It was pouring rain the morning I left St. Jean. The evening before was dinner for four, but we each set out on our own in the morning. Josef departed first and I followed an hour behind. I hung out with Susan and ate a petite French breakfast before facing the mountain. It was a wise decision. Susan decided to start her Camino on Tuesday and Glenn, I'm quite positive, is the wisest among us. Though he expected to hit the trail around 0800, he'd pre-arranged to have his bags shipped to his next stop along the Camino.

I set out into the on again off again rain for a mostly uphill day. Nothing could have prepared me completely for the day ahead, but I was more prepared than not. Great gear, content on my own. The 1,429 meter climb was, in a word, grueling. The better part of the first twenty kilometers to Roncevalles, Spain was a steep incline; the last five meters, a steep, rocky, muddy decline. It was humbling. The rain, fog, and wind were relentless every step of the way; it was cathartic, exhilarating, intense.

Many Pilgrims started their treks Monday, mostly Americans and French. I was very pleased to see how many women were embarking on the Camino solo. From what I could tell it seemed to be as many women as men, more solo travelers than pairs or trios. As I was slowly walking through the Pyrenees, I was increasingly more grateful to be alone. I had the luxury of going completely at my own pace; no one pulling or pushing me along. I felt so free. The Camino is a well marked path, so I was not worried about getting lost. Every now and then I spied another Pilgrim which brought further comfort that I was on the right path.

Eight hours and nineteen miles later I arrived in Roncevalles. I checked into the municipal albergue along with just about every other Pilgrim. I paid twenty Euro for bed number 164 and a Pilgrim dinner. I left my boots in the boot room and made my way to the barracks-style room. Men and women were intermixed with four persons per open cube. I, along with everyone else was soaked. Where the rain didn't get me, sweat did. The only thing dry were my feet! The albergue provided laundry service for two Euro seventy and I took them up on it. I headed down to the wifi zone after depositing my laundry and ran into Josef, my Austrian friend. We embraced and celebrated our successful trek over a hot cup of coffee; just the three of us...Josef, me, and Google Translate. We decided to meet in the morning for breakfast and the next leg of our Camino.

St. Jean Pied-de-Port

I arrived at the trail head in St. Jean Pied-de-Port with my new found friends this afternoon. Susan, Glenn and I walked through the Citadel before joining Josef for dinner. I thoroughly enjoy their company; there is an abundance of laughter to go around with our wholehearted attempts to speak Francais and Espagnol and German...and English in Josef's case. It's been a riot. Susan and I have really connected and we both agree, there are no coincidences! There is a tremendous sense of camaraderie here at the starting point of the Camino, though we are all here for our own reasons, spiritual or otherwise. It's an experience of a lifetime and we're all in it together...

Bonjour!

I am at Les Aubrais train station near Orleans, France. It's after nine in the evening and it's still light out. It's about fifteen Celcius and I'm sitting outside, alone. Birds are singing. Traffic is buzzing in the distance. It's peaceful here, quiet, humble. Abandoned trains line hundreds of meters of track. I wonder how old they are. They look vintage. Like World War II vintage. My train to Bayonne doesn't arrive until nearly eleven. I have nothing to do, no where to be; I am still. I haven't had wifi since Dublin. No phone, no connectivity, no place to charge my iPad. I sit and wait for my train.

The hours pass easily. The train arrives and I climb aboard slightly less confused than last time; the "voiture" numbering system isn't at all intuitive to me. I am in a sleeper car. I've never been in one nor seen one except on television. I hesitate. I'm not sure I'm in the right place. I am. The attendant has been awaiting my arrival. Number six of six. He quietly opens the door into an abyss and points to my bunk. Top right, two feet from the ceiling. Holy crap! Not for the less adventurous. They kindly left the bunk light on for me; a different kind of Motel 6. I ease my gear down, slip back out the sardine can. Thank goodness I'm not claustrophobic. I find the toilette, pee, wash my hands, brush my teeth. I've been traveling for nearly twenty hours. Last night I slept on a plane, tonight a train. I've barely eaten and am exhausted. I slink back into my rack, settle in, turn out the light. It feels amazing to be horizontal even with my boots still on. What's even better is no one is snoring. The train's rhythm and hum reminds me of being at sea; meditative, entrancing. It won't be long before I'm asleep. I take off my boots, put in my earplugs, close my eyes.

I'm freezing. My legs are on the verge of cramping. I crawl under the provided blanket though I have no idea what I'm touching; it's been pitch black in this compartment since I arrived. I trust it's clean. Warmer now. 

It's nearly 0600. The train is stopped. It's still dark. A gentle female voice comes over the speaker en francais. I have no idea what she's saying but it sounds beautiful, even at this hour. I drift back to sleep. 

I arrive in Bayonne, it's raining.  I meet three other Pilgrims, two Americans, Susan from Michigan and Glenn from Arizona, and an Austrian named Josef. We are at breakfast, trying to communicate with Josef using google translate. It's slow going but at least we have "weefee" in the only open cafe on a Sunday in Bayonne.  We'll be spending the day together waiting for the only bus to St. Jean at three o'clock.

Post From Dublin

And so the journey begins... Yesterday was evocative, powerful, tear filled. It's incredible the way one small room can be filled with so much love. If I ever have any doubts that I am loved, that I am not alone, that I have an entire cheering section rooting me on, all I need do is reflect on last night. Thank you to everyone who was there both in body and in spirit. It was the best send off ever.

I'm hanging out in a pub in Dublin airport waiting for my flight to Paris, fully leaded Americano in hand. Ironic. I met a nice guy from Seattle on the plane who travels to Dublin quite often. We commiserated about the differences between east coast and west coast living and the living-to-work versus working-to-live mentalities. Seems it's not always a guarantee, at least in his case. You can still work a 60-hour week in Seattle. But Seattle still sounds like a pretty cool place: busy, forward-leaning, walkable. Definitely not Northern Virginia where the concept of walkable is as foreign as driving sans road rage. The guy seated to my left nearly swiped my passport when he sat down- my fault entirely. Luckily I caught him in the act of putting it in his carry-on. That would have sucked. I would have been in a panic and he would have been none the wiser. Although I heeded the advice of some to carry a copy of my passport with me, I would not have wanted to see how well that would have worked out on day one.

As I deplaned it occured to me I've never been to Dublin. It's 50 degrees, foggy, rainy, damp. Perfect. It's exactly what I've packed for so I hope Spain looks just like this. I went through customs on accident and was ejected into baggage claim. I could not hide my cluelessness; my face gives me away every time. An airport agent rescued me. I had to go out to come back in, kind of like Jersey's universal policy of "You can't get there from here." I went back through security and was grateful that for once I was anal enough to look up TSA requirements before packing. Travel tip: in Dublin, you have to pull out all your liquids and have them in clear ziplock bags. I avoided looking like a stupid American because I was prepared for this. I sifted through security without taking any more time than anyone else. I hope this is not my only reprieve from the SAS, Stupid American Syndrome.

Blue Sky Falling

I'm free falling. Breathless. Terrified. I'm skydiving over San Francisco Bay.  The Golden Gate Bridge pops through the fog at regular intervals. It's peaceful, serene, magnificent. The clouds look soft, safe. I'm too high to pull the rip cord. It's my first time skydiving and it's exhilarating. I wonder, Why am I sky diving over water? I pull the chute. It's a bit small. It looks more like a napkin than a parachute which seems odd but intriguing. My fear dissipates. 

It's zero dark thirty. My alarm steals me away. I smile. I want to go back to sleep, back to my dream. Skydiving seems like a good bucket list item. I stretch, crawl out of bed with sleepy eyes, and move forward with my day. 

Later it occurs to me that this dream is a manifestation of my current reality.  I'm free falling, a bit lost, trying to find my way, hoping to find some peace and serenity in the process. The veil of distraction has been whittled down to less than 20 pounds. There is nowhere left to run, nothing more to do, nowhere else to hide. It's just me left staring me in the face. 

I've tried not to place expectations on my Camino. In fact, I've purposely avoided looking at pictures or doing much research beyond the weather. I have little idea of what it will be like once I arrive. Purposefully planned ignorance. Buying plane tickets and packing gear is enough planning. I've got 40 days to make it from Paris to Santiago de Compostela, that’s all I need to know. Everything that happens in between will happen just as it's meant to. I will get exactly what I need, I will meet who I need to meet. It will be perfect just as it is. 

My Littlest, Little Sister, Kay

She’s an old soul. She’s only eighteen. She’s overcome obstacles most people will never face in a lifetime. She’s determined, smart, resilient. She’s one of the most incredible people I’ve ever known. I look up to her. My littlest, little sister, Kay.

Born into poverty, drugs, and violence in the inner city of Detroit, Kay’s life was unmanageable before she even had a voice. Her mother could never stay clean, nor could our drunkard father. Before she was three, she had been turned over to her first foster home; it would be the first of many.

In 2003, her mother regained custody of her after a period of sobriety. It lasted a year. Kay was entrusted to me in May 2004. She was seven, I was thirty-two. It was the beginning of a journey that changed us forever.

Raising foster children is like patching holes in drywall blindfolded with one hand tied behind your back; you never know how many holes there are or where they are until you run across one and have to figure out how to fill it. I remember thinking to myself, Shouldn't she know this? Oh yeah, maybe she missed that...

We managed to scrape by on food stamps, welfare, reserve pay and the GI Bill while I attended school full time at Michigan State University. Kay attended school in East Lansing; second grade with a kindergarten education, if that. My favorite memories of Kay are from our life in Michigan; watching the "Nug Luts" (Kay's accidental nickname for the Lansing Lugnuts Class A baseball team), Halloween birthday parties, and hanging out in Grand Haven.

We made our way to Washington, D.C., in 2006, by way of the job market with a short stopover in Cleveland. Kay jumped into school with both feet and thanks to Fairfax County Public Schools caught up educationally. She used to drive me crazy with her attentiveness to her school work. Not once did I have to ask her to do homework; I had to pry her away and force her to go outside to play. That was the measure of her resolve.



Kay moved back to Ohio to be with her newly sober mother in 2008. It was short-lived. Within a few months, Kay was in foster care home number four, then five. The great miracle is that every family Kay was entrusted to was wonderful, loving, heart-centered and far safer than her own parents. Then, in 2011, just before her freshman year of high school, the courts ordered Kay to live with our less-than-sober father whom we refer to as “SD” aka “the sperm donor.”

This was yet another new beginning for Kay. Against all odds, against every statistical likelihood that she too would follow in the footsteps of her parents, Kay refused to give into what seemed to be her destiny. In spite of every card being stacked against her, she continued to excel in school, started playing tennis, and joined yearbook staff. She got her driver’s license when she turned sixteen and immediately secured a job at Subway, something she had wanted to do since she was eight years old. She learned to manage her money, her life, and her parents. Before the end of her junior year of high school, she was accepted to Bowling Green University in Toledo, Ohio and announced that she would become a social worker to help other kids like her who have grown up in foster care.

Kay turned eighteen at the beginning of her senior year. She moved from SD’s apartment into her friend Caitlin’s place, bought a car with money she had saved, and started building her own life. She re-established a relationship with her mother. They spent a few months getting to know each other again before her mother died as a consequence of a lifetime of drug abuse. She was fifty-one. Kay is still grieving the loss of her mother and the relationship she dreamed of having with her.

On June 4th, the day after I return from my Camino, I will be at Kay’s high school graduation where she will speak as salutatorian of her high school class. I’ve never known anyone with a heart as big, who has so much compassion and empathy for others, who has fought so desperately to succeed; she is resilient beyond what seems humanly possible. She has taught me how to live and has shown me the kind of person I want to be. She is the strongest woman I know and I am proud and honored to be her sister.