Explosions, among many, many other things.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Landen Michael Parks
I am now a very proud and happy new Auntie! Congratulations to Justin and Jamie on their new little one, born October 28, 2009 at 3:11 PM, and Welcome to the sweet, beautiful, and healthy 7 lb. baby boy, Landen Michael Parks.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Boom!
I am currently working as a production assistant for the special effects department on a Sony film. I am office help, essentially, purchasing all the necessary materials for explosions, breaking glass, burning cars, smoke, dust hits, bullet hits, car wrecks, and so on and so forth. Then, I get to watch it all come together. Boom! I am learning a lot about the creation of a film and am mostly enjoying the position despite the long hours and strange lifestyle.
Monday, October 26, 2009
A Brief Update
On August 17, I wrote in my journal:
We had a whirlwind last phase in Alcala, dinner with Abbie and the crew, dinner with Nat and Alvy, packing, packing, souvenir shopping, cleaning, packing, sorting, packing, squeezing into Patri's car and heading to the airport. Our goodbyes mostly done and painless, I had so much more to worry over: luggage weight limits, customs, flight delays, and so on and so forth. When we joined the check-in line, an attendant with a characteristic North American accent asked us for our passports--weird! My bags were 23 and 22.5--right at the 23k limit (though only after days of agonizingly weighing, giving things away, weighing...). Craig's were at 24.5 and 25, but he had so thoroughly charmed the woman that she passed them through without a word.
When we got through security, through passport control, into the internationals terminal, and to our Air Canada gate, we were in a different world. We were surrounded by an English-Spanish mix, listening to English slang and Canadian/American accents. Children were sitting quietly (unheard of in Spain). The weirdness just continued. Kids were disciplined on the plane. People murmured quietly. Only the rare Spanish person occasionally shouted. When we landed in Canada and fought our way through baggage claim and into customs, I was overstimulated and tired, struggling to make English conversation with strangers and still using "gracias" and "hola" while speaking to anyone. Pretty strange thing to do in Canada, and a tough habit to break.
By the time we landed in Atlanta I was completely freaked out. People were saying "excuse me" and smiling instead of just shoving me out of the way. They were quiet on the train. Mom was there waiting for me, and I couldn't focus on what she was saying because suddenly I could understand EVERYTHING around me. I was hearing English conversation and snippets from every direction bombarded me, making it impossible to concentrate on just phrase. After a year of understanding nothing, my brain was honing in on a thousand different words that I KNEW. There were exclamations and televisions and signs and greetings and I just wanted a bathroom and some quiet.
We had a long drive ahead of us and I didn't know whether to talk or not, and when I did talk I was paranoid. Ordering a sandwich in English at Arbys and holding American money felt strange and unnatural. I tried to sleep in the car but being in a car after a year of train travel felt wrong. And then I was in Gulf Shores and talking to Mom until 3:30 AM (10:30 AM in Spain...26 hours without sleep) and then in bed jumpy and restless.
Jordan woke me up in the morning and another tornado of a day began. Jordo and baby sissy, American TV, the beach, the dogs, conversations, a million questions, a terrifying trip to Wal Mart, cooking, eating with my family, awkward with all social skills forgotten and exhaustion and over stimulation eating me up.
It's been a headachy transition. I'm relearning how to be friendly with strangers, how to concentrate on one conversation with other talk, radio, and television in the background. I'm relearning manners. I'm still better at talking to JackJack than to humans. I drove yesterday, scared all the while. I'm trying to adjust to humidity and hurricanes. I've delved into good fresh food--shrimp, asparagus, tomato, basil, cheese, chives, salmon, jalapenos, poached eggs, pita and hummus, pesto, orange juice, Mom's pancakes, fried potatoes, pecan tarts, and hot wings. I've taken bath after bath after bath. I'm trying to care again about how I look. I'm still over stimulated. I'm still tired. Awkward. Wired and lazy at once. But maybe everything will change quickly. I will begin forgetting it all. Now, I am home.
____________________________________________________________
No sooner than I got all this recorded in my notebook, I was called to Shreveport, Louisiana, to work as a special effects assistant. I left almost immediately, still suffering extreme culture shock, and started the job. Since then I have been moved to Baton Rouge where I am working and awaiting the birth of my tardy nephew (now 4 days past his due date).
I feel I still haven't had time to adjust to being back in the states. I have been jolted; torn from Spain and thrust into a new and different world. Perhaps it is better that way (mental processing is overrated, right?). Driving still feels a little strange and I often find myself well below the speed limit, witty banter is lost on me, and I still find it a little difficult to focus on one conversation if there is a lot going on around me. I find it frustrating when servers bring my food to me immediately, ask me again and again if I am doing okay, and drop the check on the table if I don't want an immediate refill, the complete opposite of what bothered me about restaurants in leisurely Spain. I am still flabbergasted by the portion size in restaurants and the idea of free refills of giant sodas. I take a long time to grocery shop; our selection of quick fix meals and fruit snacks and juices and even bottled water is incredible and overwhelming. I analyze what I say too much, and still have to actively resist correcting grammatical errors in conversation. Mostly I am very overwhelmed by the emphasis on fashion, brand names, manicures, jewelry, high price shoes, expensive hair cuts, and the incessant need for the most modern mobile phone (perhaps I'm especially exposed to this by working in the movie industry); I simply cannot afford the energy to spend so much time and effort on my appearance, and I simply cannot and will not pay $60 for t-shirts imported from impoverished foreign countries. I find much of our technology unnecessary after sufficiently living for a year with a computer and a pay-as-you-go cell phone.
I miss Spain. I MISS MY FRIENDS! I miss the Camino de Santiago and every single day I think about those steps, the land, the weather, the changes, the amazing people, the challenge, the routine.
I miss Alcala de Henares, with its festivals and pushy people and cold weather and majestic storks and very Spanish restaurants. I miss walking everywhere, I miss the train, I miss cafe con leche and champinones a la plancha. I miss the terraces and the dance clubs (yes, especially Gabanna). I miss taking and planning weekend trips, I miss the lazy "aluegos" and the lazy meals and the lazing in the park. I miss trying to speak Spanish and I am sickened that I have already forgotten all the language I had absorbed. I miss a few of my students and think of them often. I miss exploring. I miss the instant friendships formed when discovering someone else who speaks your language. I miss futbol.
I miss the scent of things. The feel of things. I miss the sensation of the foreign. I will carry Spain, the imprint it left on and in me, forever.
We had a whirlwind last phase in Alcala, dinner with Abbie and the crew, dinner with Nat and Alvy, packing, packing, souvenir shopping, cleaning, packing, sorting, packing, squeezing into Patri's car and heading to the airport. Our goodbyes mostly done and painless, I had so much more to worry over: luggage weight limits, customs, flight delays, and so on and so forth. When we joined the check-in line, an attendant with a characteristic North American accent asked us for our passports--weird! My bags were 23 and 22.5--right at the 23k limit (though only after days of agonizingly weighing, giving things away, weighing...). Craig's were at 24.5 and 25, but he had so thoroughly charmed the woman that she passed them through without a word.
When we got through security, through passport control, into the internationals terminal, and to our Air Canada gate, we were in a different world. We were surrounded by an English-Spanish mix, listening to English slang and Canadian/American accents. Children were sitting quietly (unheard of in Spain). The weirdness just continued. Kids were disciplined on the plane. People murmured quietly. Only the rare Spanish person occasionally shouted. When we landed in Canada and fought our way through baggage claim and into customs, I was overstimulated and tired, struggling to make English conversation with strangers and still using "gracias" and "hola" while speaking to anyone. Pretty strange thing to do in Canada, and a tough habit to break.
By the time we landed in Atlanta I was completely freaked out. People were saying "excuse me" and smiling instead of just shoving me out of the way. They were quiet on the train. Mom was there waiting for me, and I couldn't focus on what she was saying because suddenly I could understand EVERYTHING around me. I was hearing English conversation and snippets from every direction bombarded me, making it impossible to concentrate on just phrase. After a year of understanding nothing, my brain was honing in on a thousand different words that I KNEW. There were exclamations and televisions and signs and greetings and I just wanted a bathroom and some quiet.
We had a long drive ahead of us and I didn't know whether to talk or not, and when I did talk I was paranoid. Ordering a sandwich in English at Arbys and holding American money felt strange and unnatural. I tried to sleep in the car but being in a car after a year of train travel felt wrong. And then I was in Gulf Shores and talking to Mom until 3:30 AM (10:30 AM in Spain...26 hours without sleep) and then in bed jumpy and restless.
Jordan woke me up in the morning and another tornado of a day began. Jordo and baby sissy, American TV, the beach, the dogs, conversations, a million questions, a terrifying trip to Wal Mart, cooking, eating with my family, awkward with all social skills forgotten and exhaustion and over stimulation eating me up.
It's been a headachy transition. I'm relearning how to be friendly with strangers, how to concentrate on one conversation with other talk, radio, and television in the background. I'm relearning manners. I'm still better at talking to JackJack than to humans. I drove yesterday, scared all the while. I'm trying to adjust to humidity and hurricanes. I've delved into good fresh food--shrimp, asparagus, tomato, basil, cheese, chives, salmon, jalapenos, poached eggs, pita and hummus, pesto, orange juice, Mom's pancakes, fried potatoes, pecan tarts, and hot wings. I've taken bath after bath after bath. I'm trying to care again about how I look. I'm still over stimulated. I'm still tired. Awkward. Wired and lazy at once. But maybe everything will change quickly. I will begin forgetting it all. Now, I am home.
____________________________________________________________
No sooner than I got all this recorded in my notebook, I was called to Shreveport, Louisiana, to work as a special effects assistant. I left almost immediately, still suffering extreme culture shock, and started the job. Since then I have been moved to Baton Rouge where I am working and awaiting the birth of my tardy nephew (now 4 days past his due date).
I feel I still haven't had time to adjust to being back in the states. I have been jolted; torn from Spain and thrust into a new and different world. Perhaps it is better that way (mental processing is overrated, right?). Driving still feels a little strange and I often find myself well below the speed limit, witty banter is lost on me, and I still find it a little difficult to focus on one conversation if there is a lot going on around me. I find it frustrating when servers bring my food to me immediately, ask me again and again if I am doing okay, and drop the check on the table if I don't want an immediate refill, the complete opposite of what bothered me about restaurants in leisurely Spain. I am still flabbergasted by the portion size in restaurants and the idea of free refills of giant sodas. I take a long time to grocery shop; our selection of quick fix meals and fruit snacks and juices and even bottled water is incredible and overwhelming. I analyze what I say too much, and still have to actively resist correcting grammatical errors in conversation. Mostly I am very overwhelmed by the emphasis on fashion, brand names, manicures, jewelry, high price shoes, expensive hair cuts, and the incessant need for the most modern mobile phone (perhaps I'm especially exposed to this by working in the movie industry); I simply cannot afford the energy to spend so much time and effort on my appearance, and I simply cannot and will not pay $60 for t-shirts imported from impoverished foreign countries. I find much of our technology unnecessary after sufficiently living for a year with a computer and a pay-as-you-go cell phone.
I miss Spain. I MISS MY FRIENDS! I miss the Camino de Santiago and every single day I think about those steps, the land, the weather, the changes, the amazing people, the challenge, the routine.
I miss Alcala de Henares, with its festivals and pushy people and cold weather and majestic storks and very Spanish restaurants. I miss walking everywhere, I miss the train, I miss cafe con leche and champinones a la plancha. I miss the terraces and the dance clubs (yes, especially Gabanna). I miss taking and planning weekend trips, I miss the lazy "aluegos" and the lazy meals and the lazing in the park. I miss trying to speak Spanish and I am sickened that I have already forgotten all the language I had absorbed. I miss a few of my students and think of them often. I miss exploring. I miss the instant friendships formed when discovering someone else who speaks your language. I miss futbol.
I miss the scent of things. The feel of things. I miss the sensation of the foreign. I will carry Spain, the imprint it left on and in me, forever.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Photo Highlights from the Camino de Santiago
For the complete album, please visit http://picasaweb.google.com/PhotosFromTheUniverse
Camino de Santiago: Daily Distances
(In Kilometers)
St. Jean Pied du Port-Roncesvalles: 27
Roncesvalles-Larrasona: 26.9
Larrasona-Cizur Menor: 20.6
Cizur Menor-Puente la Reina: 18.8 (Absolute MOST difficult day)
Puente la Reina-Estella: 22
Estella-Los Arcos: 21.8
Los Arcos-Viana: 18.6
Viana-Najera: 38.4
Najera-Santo Domingo de Calzada: 21
Santo Domingo-Belorado: 22.9
Belorado-Atapuerca: 30.2
Atapuerca-Burgos: 21.4
Burgos-Hontanas: 30.6
Hontanas-Fromista: 34.4
Fromista-Carrion de los Condes: 19.3
Carrion-Terradillos de los Templarios: 26.2
Terradillos-El Burgo Ranero: 31.3
El Burgo Ranero-Leon: 39
Leon-San Martin del Camino: 26.1
San Martin-Astorga: 22.8
Astorga-Foncebadon: 26.3
Foncebadon-Ponferrada: 27.4
Ponferrada-Villafranca del Bierzo: 22.7
Villafranca-O Cebreiro: 30.5
O Cebreiro- Triacastela: 20.5
Triacastela-Sarria: 21.4
Sarria-Gonzar: 29.3
Gonzar-Melide: 31.9
Melide-Arca O Pino: 29.2
Arca O Pino-Santiago de Compostela: 20.3
Total: 778.8 KM
Santiago de Compostela-Negreira: 22
Negreira-Muxia (bus)
Muxia-Finisterre (1/2 1/2): 15
St. Jean Pied du Port-Roncesvalles: 27
Roncesvalles-Larrasona: 26.9
Larrasona-Cizur Menor: 20.6
Cizur Menor-Puente la Reina: 18.8 (Absolute MOST difficult day)
Puente la Reina-Estella: 22
Estella-Los Arcos: 21.8
Los Arcos-Viana: 18.6
Viana-Najera: 38.4
Najera-Santo Domingo de Calzada: 21
Santo Domingo-Belorado: 22.9
Belorado-Atapuerca: 30.2
Atapuerca-Burgos: 21.4
Burgos-Hontanas: 30.6
Hontanas-Fromista: 34.4
Fromista-Carrion de los Condes: 19.3
Carrion-Terradillos de los Templarios: 26.2
Terradillos-El Burgo Ranero: 31.3
El Burgo Ranero-Leon: 39
Leon-San Martin del Camino: 26.1
San Martin-Astorga: 22.8
Astorga-Foncebadon: 26.3
Foncebadon-Ponferrada: 27.4
Ponferrada-Villafranca del Bierzo: 22.7
Villafranca-O Cebreiro: 30.5
O Cebreiro- Triacastela: 20.5
Triacastela-Sarria: 21.4
Sarria-Gonzar: 29.3
Gonzar-Melide: 31.9
Melide-Arca O Pino: 29.2
Arca O Pino-Santiago de Compostela: 20.3
Total: 778.8 KM
Santiago de Compostela-Negreira: 22
Negreira-Muxia (bus)
Muxia-Finisterre (1/2 1/2): 15
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
El Camino de Santiago de Compostela
The Camino de Santiago, or the Way of Saint James, is an important traditional pilgrimage dating back to pre-Christian times. Throughout the Middle Ages it rose in popularity as one of the three pilgrimages leading to complete absolution of sin in Catholic tradition, along with routes to Rome and Jerusalem. (See my Article).
Nowadays people continue to make the trek from various locations across Europe to the cathedral of Santiago, which holds the supposed remains of Apostle James. People travel by foot, bicycle, horse, car, or even scooter, and stay in municipal albergues in common rooms generally crowded with bunk beds, or camp along the way.
The most common and perhaps most traditional route in the Camino Frances, beginning in St. Jean Pied du Port, France, and extending 780 kilometers to Santiago de Compostela. Many people choose to continue an additional three walking days to Finisterre, literally meaning “the end of the world,” on the Gallegan coast.
After four buses and a taxi, Craig and I arrived in St. Jean, a very small village where all the beds in all the hostels were full. They kindly allowed us to sleep on the floor of the community gymnasium. The next day we began our Camino, starting with what is known as the Most Challenging Day: a 3,500 meter climb up a 27 kilometer mountain path. They say this day is most difficult because it is, technically, the most physically trying. It is, however, in retrospect, one of the most exhilarating and fun days of the camino. Our muscles were fresh and our spirits were high as we climbed through the clouds, unable to see over 10 feet ahead of us, listening to the cowbells of the sheep hidden in the shroud of mist, marveling at the fog and fern filled gorges. The beauty and mystery distracted us from our burning muscles and exhaustion.
In my journal at the end of the first night, I wrote: We could see clearly only ten feet in front of us, and everything up to thirty feet appeared giant, mythical, daunting; several times we each had to check with the other to find out if we really were seeing a majestic profile of horse with colt, a looming tree, a sheer drop-off, or even a trail marker. Oftentimes we could hear the bells of a herd of sheep or cows, but never saw one. Then we turned a misty corner and found ourselves in the midst of a blurry herd of longhaired sheep, baaing and balancing on the edge of the cliff and spilling onto the trail.
It was a beautiful and unforgettable start to an incredible journey. We finished more tired than we had ever been, but proud! We were excited to have finished the Most Challenging Day and assumed it would be all downhill from there (literally).
No, the true difficulty begins later, when your joints and feet rebel against 30 K days, when your back begins aching from your rucksack, when the blisters set in, when the sunburn catches up to you, when the dorm-room snorers leave you sleepless, when your legs, exhausted, simply give out from beneath you.
They say the Camino de Santiago can be loosely split into three major stages: the physically challenging French-Spanish Pyrenees Mountains; the mentally challenging, unforgiving, flat, and seemingly endless meseta; and the jubilant last stretch through the Gallegan mountains.
The first stage, every step becomes so painful that you want to quit. No amount of rest breaks relieve your pounding, pounded feet and you can feel your bones spreading apart, your toe joints swelling, your tendons plucking and stretching as your tortured feet struggle to keep trudging. You feel every pebble on the dirt or asphalt paths. You pop your blisters every night but at the end of the next day they are quarter-sized again, tinted yellow from your iodine treatment. You throw away your laundry soap and extra pen, anything to pare down the weight in your pack.
You try everything: you buy a walking stick. You buy another. You try new insoles. Ace bandages, new anti-inflammatories, ibuprofen. Sanitary pads in your shoes! Threads through your blisters. Icing. Elevated feet. Vicks VapoRub massages. Foot soaks in cold rivers, knee braces, rosemary alcohol, Vaseline in your socks. Beer. Rest days. Stretching and more stretching.
And then one day you suddenly realize that at 25 K you’re still going strong, still feeling good. Your feet are fine, your blisters are tolerable, you ache a bit but can’t imagine it was ever enough to hinder you. You feel the muscles strong in your legs and, feel capable. You’ve passed through your first set of mountains and know that nothing can stop you now!
You set off into Burgos, one of the few major cities on the Camino Frances. You excitedly enter into the industrial center and you discover that following your quiet suffering in the peace of a natural rural setting, you are afraid of cars. Your senses and your brain are assaulted by construction, traffic, huge buildings, crowds of tourists, pollution, music, screaming kids, the smells of restaurants, barking dogs. You long for the woods.
Here you begin the next stage. You feel good, you feel healthy and prepared for the mentally challenging phase, happy and determined. Soon though, you realize that this is the most difficult task you’ve ever attempted. For days on end you watch the trail before you, extending forever through the tractor-dappled wheat fields during a dusty harvest. The scenery stays the same, as though you are simply on a treadmill. Everything is dust and brown, dry or paved, sun-baked and unfriendly. You watch the horizon, losing focus. You grow bored and grumpy. You try, but you cannot remember why you ever thought it was a good idea to WALK ACROSS SPAIN.
Talking (and complaining) with other pilgrims becomes vital to retain your sanity. You might even begin a makeshift book club with a small group of friends you met back on that first night, devoting your extra time to reading found, lost, stolen, bought, brought, traded, and shared random novels and discussing them just so you have something to talk about besides the frustration of the unchanging trail and the toll it's taking on your body and mind.
One day you find yourself brushing your teeth in your undies in the communal restroom and realize you have lost your modesty. You notice that no one has the energy to ogle you anyway. You become ravaged by insects and have allergic reactions to their bites, on your body, on your face. You realize you have established a simple yet satisfying routine: wake, walk, stop for coffee, walk, walk, stop when you reach your destination, shower, wash your clothes in the sink with a bar of soap, hang them to dry, read a chapter of your book, write in your journal, go to dinner, go to bed. You have made friends and it’s always a happy surprise to see them in the same village, though in this strange existence there's always a chance you are never going to see them again after THIS moment.
At this stage you lose your way. The flat, dusty trail leads you back to your own pains and aches and negativity every day. This phase will never end, and you know you will never reach Santiago. You HATE the walk, you HATE the food, you HATE looking at this same road AGAIN. You feel dirty, exhausted, lost, and angry.
Just as you finally admit defeat, you find yourself in Leon, where you rest a day, visit the cathedral, avoid the albergue for once so you can have one night’s real rest. You celebrate! You have finally reached the end of the second stage. You are so proud, and so relieved, so ready to move on.
In Galicia you are joined by and often sickened by the people walking only the last 1-200 K. They’re fresh and energetic, staying up and rising early (earlier even, than your own 5 AM wake up call). They don’t know how to pack in the dark or respect exhausted sleeping pilgrims. You stay restless and by now you are sick and tired of cold, communal showers shared with hacking and hairy men. You work to tune out singing Spaniards and the blasting mobile phones in the dorms and enroute.You’re offended by the loss of peace on the trail and the sudden competitive feel of *your* camino. Also by just too many men clad in nothing more than their undies.
Yet you have recovered your exhilaration. You are thrilled to be climbing and CONQUERING mountains and trekking through the green green green green forest! You’re excited by the scent of the decomposing undergrowth and healthy soil and moss, excited by the spongy ground beneath your now undeniably invincible feet. Your endorphins are on fire and you are surrounded by breathtaking scenery as you climb unforgiving hills and walk with cows and listen to the roosters crow and the plentiful springs run down the rock cliff faces. You love what you are doing. You love the country you’re in. You love and appreciate your body and realize how powerful it really is. How powerful YOU are.
One day you happen to catch your reflection in the rare free bathroom mirror in your sport bra and you are shocked at how you have changed. Your weight has redistributed itself across your frame so that your shape has been altered. Your face has thinned and your skin is dull beneath its thick layer of insect repellent and sunscreen and dust. You have a sock tan, a shorts tan, a t-shirt tan. Your shoulders are rubbed red from your rucksack straps. Your legs are covered in angry blackberry bramble scratches and mystery bruises, your knees are scabbed from slip-ups on rock faces. Your lips are chapped, your hair is ragged, you are speckled with bug bites and scars of bug bites and bug bites on top of bug bites. You discover heat rash and chafing you hadn’t felt earlier. You look permanently dirty. You look both strong and feeble at once.
You press forward. The signs that once mocked you by saying “Santiago: 790 K” now boast numbers in the 100s. In double digits. In the 20s. And then you’re there, and you push your way through the crowds of tourists and lie down in the plaza before the cathedral and stare up at the moldy-beautiful building you’ve been working toward for nearly 800 kilometers and you watch everyone snap their photos and you wait for your revelation.You are joyful. You are depressed. You are so happy to be finished. You are so disappointed to be done.
You hear someone say, “Now I understand what they say about it being all about the journey, not the destination.” You feel that. You feel everything.
You receive your compostela. You find a room and bathe without flip flops. 3 times. You see pilgrims you haven’t seen in a long while, and keep watch for those you hope to see but never run into again. You don’t tell anyone goodbye. You try Gallegan food and share stories over pimientos de padron and pulpo and Atlantic oysters and white wine.
You travel to the coast, to Finisterre, where people once believed the flat world ended. You stare out from the peninsula and find it hard to convince yourself the world is, indeed, round. You finally say goodbye to the people who have become friends, the friends who have shared something this sacred with you. You try not to cry although you’re exhausted and emotional and unsure of this life without the routine and conquest and power of the camino.
You head home after 35-some-odd days. You leave a part of yourself behind, there, in the Pyrenees, on the meseta, in the mist in the trees, and you take more with you.
Nowadays people continue to make the trek from various locations across Europe to the cathedral of Santiago, which holds the supposed remains of Apostle James. People travel by foot, bicycle, horse, car, or even scooter, and stay in municipal albergues in common rooms generally crowded with bunk beds, or camp along the way.
The most common and perhaps most traditional route in the Camino Frances, beginning in St. Jean Pied du Port, France, and extending 780 kilometers to Santiago de Compostela. Many people choose to continue an additional three walking days to Finisterre, literally meaning “the end of the world,” on the Gallegan coast.
After four buses and a taxi, Craig and I arrived in St. Jean, a very small village where all the beds in all the hostels were full. They kindly allowed us to sleep on the floor of the community gymnasium. The next day we began our Camino, starting with what is known as the Most Challenging Day: a 3,500 meter climb up a 27 kilometer mountain path. They say this day is most difficult because it is, technically, the most physically trying. It is, however, in retrospect, one of the most exhilarating and fun days of the camino. Our muscles were fresh and our spirits were high as we climbed through the clouds, unable to see over 10 feet ahead of us, listening to the cowbells of the sheep hidden in the shroud of mist, marveling at the fog and fern filled gorges. The beauty and mystery distracted us from our burning muscles and exhaustion.
In my journal at the end of the first night, I wrote: We could see clearly only ten feet in front of us, and everything up to thirty feet appeared giant, mythical, daunting; several times we each had to check with the other to find out if we really were seeing a majestic profile of horse with colt, a looming tree, a sheer drop-off, or even a trail marker. Oftentimes we could hear the bells of a herd of sheep or cows, but never saw one. Then we turned a misty corner and found ourselves in the midst of a blurry herd of longhaired sheep, baaing and balancing on the edge of the cliff and spilling onto the trail.
It was a beautiful and unforgettable start to an incredible journey. We finished more tired than we had ever been, but proud! We were excited to have finished the Most Challenging Day and assumed it would be all downhill from there (literally).
No, the true difficulty begins later, when your joints and feet rebel against 30 K days, when your back begins aching from your rucksack, when the blisters set in, when the sunburn catches up to you, when the dorm-room snorers leave you sleepless, when your legs, exhausted, simply give out from beneath you.
They say the Camino de Santiago can be loosely split into three major stages: the physically challenging French-Spanish Pyrenees Mountains; the mentally challenging, unforgiving, flat, and seemingly endless meseta; and the jubilant last stretch through the Gallegan mountains.
The first stage, every step becomes so painful that you want to quit. No amount of rest breaks relieve your pounding, pounded feet and you can feel your bones spreading apart, your toe joints swelling, your tendons plucking and stretching as your tortured feet struggle to keep trudging. You feel every pebble on the dirt or asphalt paths. You pop your blisters every night but at the end of the next day they are quarter-sized again, tinted yellow from your iodine treatment. You throw away your laundry soap and extra pen, anything to pare down the weight in your pack.
You try everything: you buy a walking stick. You buy another. You try new insoles. Ace bandages, new anti-inflammatories, ibuprofen. Sanitary pads in your shoes! Threads through your blisters. Icing. Elevated feet. Vicks VapoRub massages. Foot soaks in cold rivers, knee braces, rosemary alcohol, Vaseline in your socks. Beer. Rest days. Stretching and more stretching.
And then one day you suddenly realize that at 25 K you’re still going strong, still feeling good. Your feet are fine, your blisters are tolerable, you ache a bit but can’t imagine it was ever enough to hinder you. You feel the muscles strong in your legs and, feel capable. You’ve passed through your first set of mountains and know that nothing can stop you now!
You set off into Burgos, one of the few major cities on the Camino Frances. You excitedly enter into the industrial center and you discover that following your quiet suffering in the peace of a natural rural setting, you are afraid of cars. Your senses and your brain are assaulted by construction, traffic, huge buildings, crowds of tourists, pollution, music, screaming kids, the smells of restaurants, barking dogs. You long for the woods.
Here you begin the next stage. You feel good, you feel healthy and prepared for the mentally challenging phase, happy and determined. Soon though, you realize that this is the most difficult task you’ve ever attempted. For days on end you watch the trail before you, extending forever through the tractor-dappled wheat fields during a dusty harvest. The scenery stays the same, as though you are simply on a treadmill. Everything is dust and brown, dry or paved, sun-baked and unfriendly. You watch the horizon, losing focus. You grow bored and grumpy. You try, but you cannot remember why you ever thought it was a good idea to WALK ACROSS SPAIN.
Talking (and complaining) with other pilgrims becomes vital to retain your sanity. You might even begin a makeshift book club with a small group of friends you met back on that first night, devoting your extra time to reading found, lost, stolen, bought, brought, traded, and shared random novels and discussing them just so you have something to talk about besides the frustration of the unchanging trail and the toll it's taking on your body and mind.
One day you find yourself brushing your teeth in your undies in the communal restroom and realize you have lost your modesty. You notice that no one has the energy to ogle you anyway. You become ravaged by insects and have allergic reactions to their bites, on your body, on your face. You realize you have established a simple yet satisfying routine: wake, walk, stop for coffee, walk, walk, stop when you reach your destination, shower, wash your clothes in the sink with a bar of soap, hang them to dry, read a chapter of your book, write in your journal, go to dinner, go to bed. You have made friends and it’s always a happy surprise to see them in the same village, though in this strange existence there's always a chance you are never going to see them again after THIS moment.
At this stage you lose your way. The flat, dusty trail leads you back to your own pains and aches and negativity every day. This phase will never end, and you know you will never reach Santiago. You HATE the walk, you HATE the food, you HATE looking at this same road AGAIN. You feel dirty, exhausted, lost, and angry.
Just as you finally admit defeat, you find yourself in Leon, where you rest a day, visit the cathedral, avoid the albergue for once so you can have one night’s real rest. You celebrate! You have finally reached the end of the second stage. You are so proud, and so relieved, so ready to move on.
In Galicia you are joined by and often sickened by the people walking only the last 1-200 K. They’re fresh and energetic, staying up and rising early (earlier even, than your own 5 AM wake up call). They don’t know how to pack in the dark or respect exhausted sleeping pilgrims. You stay restless and by now you are sick and tired of cold, communal showers shared with hacking and hairy men. You work to tune out singing Spaniards and the blasting mobile phones in the dorms and enroute.You’re offended by the loss of peace on the trail and the sudden competitive feel of *your* camino. Also by just too many men clad in nothing more than their undies.
Yet you have recovered your exhilaration. You are thrilled to be climbing and CONQUERING mountains and trekking through the green green green green forest! You’re excited by the scent of the decomposing undergrowth and healthy soil and moss, excited by the spongy ground beneath your now undeniably invincible feet. Your endorphins are on fire and you are surrounded by breathtaking scenery as you climb unforgiving hills and walk with cows and listen to the roosters crow and the plentiful springs run down the rock cliff faces. You love what you are doing. You love the country you’re in. You love and appreciate your body and realize how powerful it really is. How powerful YOU are.
One day you happen to catch your reflection in the rare free bathroom mirror in your sport bra and you are shocked at how you have changed. Your weight has redistributed itself across your frame so that your shape has been altered. Your face has thinned and your skin is dull beneath its thick layer of insect repellent and sunscreen and dust. You have a sock tan, a shorts tan, a t-shirt tan. Your shoulders are rubbed red from your rucksack straps. Your legs are covered in angry blackberry bramble scratches and mystery bruises, your knees are scabbed from slip-ups on rock faces. Your lips are chapped, your hair is ragged, you are speckled with bug bites and scars of bug bites and bug bites on top of bug bites. You discover heat rash and chafing you hadn’t felt earlier. You look permanently dirty. You look both strong and feeble at once.
You press forward. The signs that once mocked you by saying “Santiago: 790 K” now boast numbers in the 100s. In double digits. In the 20s. And then you’re there, and you push your way through the crowds of tourists and lie down in the plaza before the cathedral and stare up at the moldy-beautiful building you’ve been working toward for nearly 800 kilometers and you watch everyone snap their photos and you wait for your revelation.You are joyful. You are depressed. You are so happy to be finished. You are so disappointed to be done.
You hear someone say, “Now I understand what they say about it being all about the journey, not the destination.” You feel that. You feel everything.
You receive your compostela. You find a room and bathe without flip flops. 3 times. You see pilgrims you haven’t seen in a long while, and keep watch for those you hope to see but never run into again. You don’t tell anyone goodbye. You try Gallegan food and share stories over pimientos de padron and pulpo and Atlantic oysters and white wine.
You travel to the coast, to Finisterre, where people once believed the flat world ended. You stare out from the peninsula and find it hard to convince yourself the world is, indeed, round. You finally say goodbye to the people who have become friends, the friends who have shared something this sacred with you. You try not to cry although you’re exhausted and emotional and unsure of this life without the routine and conquest and power of the camino.
You head home after 35-some-odd days. You leave a part of yourself behind, there, in the Pyrenees, on the meseta, in the mist in the trees, and you take more with you.
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