Just one step at a time

     

  It is ten o clock at night and bright as day outside in the town is Najéra where we've stopped for the evening, in a private albergue right beside the river, and because it's Saturday and some saint's day, the locals have put together a very enthusiastic brass band that is parading around in the streets below. Just when I think it can't get any louder it, a boisterous trumpet booms below me. 

The last few days have been  shockingly difficult, exhausting, boring, hilarious, wonderful, transcendant, and a dozen shades in between. Boiling between patches of shade, poles thudding into rocky, yellowed ground, glasses of wine and bread of every conceivable type, new friends and great conversations, toasts and laughing and histerical tiredness, rolling vineyards and piled stones and sunrises. Learning to live a strange, transient life that feels as though it's already been going on forever and will go on forever still. 

       Right now we're traveling through the Rioja region, known for wine-making. Thought lacking the dramatic mountains (thank goodness for our feet) the landscape is rolling and green at turns and flat and desert-like at others. After walking to Estella from Puenta de la Reina, Lauren and I took the walk up the hill to visit the pilgrim's fountain that--instead of water--pours wine! A modern day pilgrimage miracle! I drank some from my Santiago shell, with the promise of good luck on our journey :). 

Then we went back down the hill and bussed with our friends Susan and Natalie to Logroño, a sweeping, urban network that felt European and vibrant without Pomplona's same old world charm. On the bright side they had an Apple Store where Nick Pitera look alike fixed my phone before we went to buy Lauren some new boots--a lightweight, more comfortable pair of Solomons to combat her tendinitis. Since then, we've been taking half days (only 13 to 18 kms) to give her time to heal and adjust to the new boots, which have helped the tendons and brought on a new problem of blisters. Praise God for compeed!

We really could not be more blessed by the friends we've made on this crazy journey so far. Though Henning is far ahead and Bilbo somewhere behind, the familiar faces of our camino family keep popping up, so we get to do things like celebrate Charles birthday together in Navarette and listen to Cathy play the dulcimer. Susan and Natalie especially have been dear companions, full of encouragement, laughter and help. Traveling with them has made the last few days such a joy even in physically difficult moments!

Me adding a second pair of socks in the Tomerryum (plum cherry tomato things on trees) orchard we found today. 

Like all moms Susan is always behind the camera haha.

I was not ready for this picture....

Ultreia!! (Onwards!)

Onwards from Pamplona

We rose very early the day after our rest, eager to move on and anticipating a hot day. After a nice little breakfast in a nearby cafe (tea or coffee, juice, croissant) with Mare, we began our long walk out to Pamplona with a very ambitious goal of reaching Puenta de la Reine, a 24 km hike over a mountain. 

I started off very slow, with a pain behind my right knee, and Lauren got a ways ahead since a faster pace suited her sore heel. I felt a little discouraged as we left the city behind and entered a largely treeless, sparse landscape winding up to the looming mountain speckled with wind turbines. Lauren, however, was very patient with me, and I eventually warmed enough to walk more comfortably. I did have to change out of my chacos and into boots, because my sandals were rubbing places on my feet :(

We passed a number of familiar faces and stopped for an ice cream break in Zigbeiguti (was that it? No... Something like that) as well as a stop in at a church there. 

On the way up the mountain I got to have a full conversation in French with a very patient man who'd begun his camino in Switzerland (this was his 8th week) 

The Virginian dad gave me the Blessing of Elbereth in elvish (!!!) at the top of the peak, which I sorely wish I had on video. The view and sound of the turbines was spectacular, as was the jamon y queso sandwich we'd picked up on the way. 

To keep ourselves moving on the painfully steep descent into the arid meseta, Lauren and I sang Disney songs, which seemed to amuse passing pilgrim (we get passed a lot). We are gaining a reputation as the singing pilgrims!

The sun was brutal in the afternoon, and through willpower alone we lurched into Puenta de la Reina around 3:30, taking two of the last beds, doing laundry, nursing our aching feet and muscles, and finding some dinner. It is a charming town, very picturesque despite its basically desert setting. It has two beautiful churches with aging towers complete with huge stork nests. The church of Santiago here has a gorgeous Romanesque portal. Exhausted but encouraged by our grit in making it such a long way, Lauren and I prepared for the next (hopefully easier) hike to Estella, which would require another early morning.

Pintxos

The night of our rest day in Pamplona, Lauren and I went for pintxos (aka the Navarre version of tapas) with Maréa. We split three and had glasses of wine in a bar full of locals and pilgrims. It was so delicious and fun!! Our three pintxos were eel on toast (recommended by Anthony Bourdain, very mild flavor), chopped octopus with potatoe and toast, and tomato, goat cheese, walnut and bacon on toast. Delicious and very reasonably priced!

Pamplona Cathedral

It's a cautious cathedral. That what I think first as I sit down at the back of the nave and look around. It's tall, yes, I it's graceful, linear pointed arches processing down the nave to the gated apse. But the windows set in the upper half are small, hesitant. Colorful, but only half as big as they should be in a High Gothic cathedral. The rose window too. Then I read and discover that a church as stood here since 76 when Pompey founded the city, and four or five have already fallen. The builders, starting in 1393, wanted their church to last. It gave their design an element of caution. 

The rulers of Navarre are Buried near the altar, unique marble statues from the 15th c, surrounded by French pleureurs. I'm most drawn to the one who reads and hides her face. 

I've never been totally alone in a cathedral before. It gives it an element of privacy and amazing silence. My cathedral. 

The cloister is silent and sunny, gothic in design, really commendable in its symmetry. Above the door to the refectory is a gothic relief of the passion cycle. Truly splendid refectory, with figures at the base of the springing vaults, all still painted. Beside it a kitchen with four chimneys and light from an oculus atop a tall triangular roof. And beneath? Roman ruins and a long history pilgrimage. Strange exhibits with shadow puppets on the walls and wifi. Funny how the modern and the ancient can mix.

The Trouble with Rest Days

You can thank all the blog posts to the extra time I have today, hanging around in Pamplona waiting to heal. Lauren and I tore up our bodies on the Roncevalles and Zubiri days, jumping into a lifestyle that no one can really prepare for. So here we are in Pamplona, with our friends walking ahead and so tired its a little hard to really sightsee (though we've nearly worn ourselves ragged again trying.)

Pamplona is a beautiful city, with close, colorful buildings, an absurdly blue sky, fountains, tapas, statues and cobblestones and lots of pilgrim's. 

We began our rest day in the Cafe Iruña, an Art Deco cafe on the plaza that was a favorite of Hemingway's. My hot chocolate was like lava it was so hot and thick, and we had wonderful time hydrating and chatting.

After breakfast we sat in the plaza and relaxed, watching worker raise the tents for the festival of San Fermin (what we call the running of the Bulls) which will happen in just a few weeks. I used some of my precious cell phone data to google shin exercises and heel protecting lacing techniques while Lauren catnapped on the sun. 

We wandered around town and stumbled upon a lovely mass happening in the beautiful mishmash that is the church of Saint Saturnin, a Frankenstein church that is half gothic-half neoclassical. Literally it is a gothic church with a neoclassical Nave and apse stuck on. It made for interesting architecture, making one bot quite sure where the focal point was... And yet it was completely wonderful in its odd uniqueness. To see two such different sensibilities crashed together seemed very special and somehow Spanish, too. Lauren and I mumbled our way through mass and then took our time exploring the strange church, filled with gold and stained glass, Roman arches and gothic vaults and beneath it numbered graves from when the parishioners were buried beneath its floors. 

We wore ourselves put walking the city when we needed to rest, though the day was beautiful and we found lots of charming nooks and crannies and even the citadel gardens. Our lunch was super weird--a meat sandwich we got in a butcher's shop (what possessed us to step so rashly into this meat brick of a bad decision is beyond me)

 then returned to the albergue to rest. Only our friend Maréa remains of the group we've been with from the beginning, and it is a little disheartening to stay in one place as they walk on towards our shared goal, no matter how lovely Pamplona may be. 

And yet! We will go for tapas tonight and enjoy ourselves, and tomorrow we'll get back on the trail and see how far we can go (I don't mean to over exaggerate our fatigue--nothing a day of rest won't fix) Ultreia! 

Zubiri --> Pamplona

We woke up late and feeling rough in Zubiri after two days of very difficult hiking. Half falling out of the top bunk and skirting carefully around the terrifying bulge of crazy Angie in her sleep liner, I staggered out into the chilly courtyard to pack my pack and compeed my damaged feet. 

Lauren and I crunched apples as we hiked down from Zubiri through lovely forest paths along the Ebro River, and eventually accidentally kidnapped 14 year old Natalie who ran ahead of her mother to walk with us. A beautiful, decrepit abbey offered a stamp and short rest.

After an exhausting and useless walk through the empty (Sunday in Spain, go figure) town of Larrasoaña, Lauren began to have stabbing pain in her heel and my shins ached with each step. A switch from boots of chacos helped, but by the time we reunited with Natalie's mother Susan 10 km from start (at the adorable cafe at La Parada de Zuriain complete with River and kittens), Lauren and I were both a mess of pain and Fatigue. Since Natalie had been suffering for cracking in her heel and much of the rest of the day's path lay on the roadside, Susan decided to take us all in taxi the last 11 km to Pamplona. What a relief! 

The afternoon then was spent on the lovely, peaceful municipal albergue at San Maria Reales, right by the Pamplona cathedral. We showered, napped and rested while Susan (the true pilgrimage saint) did laundry for us. We reunited with many of our friends including Charles and Kathy and Henning for dinner and met new Swedish friends, 16 year old Alexander (who looked like Harry styles? And his mother. After dinner in the plaza and ice cream, we retired, looking forward to a rest day in Pamplona. The only downside was having to say farewell to our walking friends going on, knowing it was very unlikely we would catch up. And bilbo say somewhere behind. Goodbyes are the nature of pilgrimage!

Pilgrim's Spotlight: Crazy Angie

Ode to Angie 

Oh Angie of the ratty blond braids

I hope to never again hear your tirades 

You pretend to talk on the phone

When really you are just on your own 

The charity you walk for is not real 

You beg and yell and often steal

Everyone whose met you has a story

And your cockney accent is a crowning glory 

In a single gulp you drink red wine

A glimpse of you is a very bad sign

You run round naked in knickers and "brawr"

Seeing you hop around in your sleep sack is a mental scar (I look like a caterpillar--cah-uh-pill-uh--you know wha' a caterpillah is? It's a little worm)

You fight with Bilbo about what's Irish and what's not (idget vs idiot and feck vs fuck)

I'm only lucky you were in a faraway cot 

Walking to Pamplona I heard you carried a chair 

For you in Conpostela I will say a prayer 

To Zubiri

The morning after our exhausting trek across the mountains rose cool and clear, only to turn into a radiant, sizzling afternoon during another long walk (22 km) to Zubiri. Lauren and I picnicked with sandwich things we bought passing through a town, and reveled in the beautiful weather and charming basque villages. 

Bilbo walked ahead and then behind, and met a new Costa Rican friend named Providence, an equally small, equally old traveling companion. 

During the second half of the day, the terrain grew more difficult with lots of painful downhills. Here we met Berliner Henning who kept us going and let me practice my German and turned out to be a real friend in the coming days. I ran out of water, and we were very relieved to come upon Zubiri around 3:30. 

      After checking into the sparse municipal albergue (great wifi though) and doing laundry, we were happy to run into many of our Orisson friends at the cafe for dinner. I was more exhausted than id ever been that night, and fell into a dead sleep despite the presence of the insane cockney woman (who will get her own post) . 

Roncevalles

      After our night in Orisson, it was time to do our first arduous day: the hike across the Pyranees into Spain, to the small town of Roncevalles, a pilgrimage center since medieval times with a monastic albergue and 25 inhabitants. After a disappointing breakfast of literally toast and jam, we embarked on what turned out to be a chilly, rainy, exhausting 18 km day. 8 hours of walking through buffeting cold mist and rain, with no views except of the blank whiteness of the cloud around us. 

Some upsides to this misery:

-seeing Basque Shepards standing with their dogs and flocks beside the road, appearing like ghosts out of the mist

-horses high in the mountains with babies at the top of rocky, clay roads

-encountering an emergency pilgrim's shelter just when our hands had nearly frozen to our poles only to discover a merry little party going on inside with a well-tended wood fire in the grate and coffee and tea provided by a mysterious wild man who lived in the woods behind the shelter. He's been there caring for travelers since May "waiting for his girlfriend." He only spoke French and had bright blue, slightly crazy eyes. 

Roncevalles is a charming if shockingly small place, though the albergue is massive. We settled in to our alcove with Stephan the German who ended up being a snorer (grrrr) and then Bilbo ands I left Lauren to rest and went on a tour of the town.

 The church was a magical gothic structure designed to be Notre Dame in miniature, and on the tour we got to go upstairs and see the way it was put together. The original flying buttresses weren't able to withstand the violent winter weather and a new brick facade had to be constructed.

The oldest building in the town was the supposed burial site of Roland's men and is still used as the town's cemetery. Everyone there lives a very long time. Beneath was an ancient Romanesque crypt where you could look down and see skulls. 

After dinner we went to the special pilgrim's mass in the church performed by the priest of Roncevalles, who--due to the town's significance to the pilgrim's route--has equal authority as the bishop of Pamplona. At the end of the service we were given the 11th c pilgrim's blessing and the priests sang for our journey. The priest have the blessing in 7 or 8 languages including Korean. It was very powerful. At the end he raised his white head to look at us and said "please pray for us at Santiago de Compostela." There was not a dry eye. 

St Jean --> Orisson (8 km)

In the morning at 6:15, we were woken by Enya-style chant singing and a French, very bread-centric breakfast. In no time--after drinking water and repeatedly packing and repacking our heavy possessions--it was time to leave Beilari and begin our first day on The Way. 

After visiting the church, Lauren and I met up with Valerie (later referred to asBilbo) a chipper Irish pilgrim-hippy writing a book on the Camino. She is a small, 62 year old ball of spirit. Bossy, sassy and always ready to go, she calls people "dote-y-dotes" and her knees "dicky" and told us about how all molecules are alive even in Inanimate objects and that she was going to name her daughter Robyn except it was too English so she named her Finiverre instead. 

      With excessive skill, we were able to turn the 3 hour hike into 5 by eating lunch in Hunto (a little crest in the road overlooking the French valley) and stopping to admire vista after amazing vista.

We saw one very attractive Italian man and another Australian one. Since the three of us clear thought we embodied the entire United Nations, as the Australian created the hill where Lauren, Bilbo and I were taking our 50th break amongst the sheep, we each greeted him with the first language that came to mind, which turned out to be "hola!" "Bonjour!" "Bonjourno!"

      The Australjan grinned and said, "you speak English, don't you? I heard you down the hill." 

       There was a lovely little yellow bird sitting in the rocks singing as we rose higher as well as sheep and horses grazing by the roadside. We may have also seen a golden eagle soaring on the cool winds over the mountains. 

        An enormous chestnut housed a tiny virgin, and the views only grew more dramatic as we turned at the ridge and clouds started coming in. Absolutely gorgeous rises and valleys spotted with sheep and Basque red roofs (pics and videos coming?)

       Orisson is a single Albergue just off the road with a grand porch and ample bar/restaurant catering to passing pilgrims not lucky enough to get to spend the night there. We checked in and hot our carnet stamped by the petite, black-haired fairy lady who runs it, and briefly reunited with our Australian--oh! You made it!--before all the pilgrims who'd been waiting were shown to the luxurious dorms around back (the party don't start till I walk in). 

      Like at Beilari, we were asked to leave our boots outside, but the rooms here were very nice with huge windows looking out over the mountains and sturdy wooden bunks. The hospitalera gave each of us a coin to use for a 5 minute shower. And in that 5 minutes I managed to forget my soap :(

       Lauren soon discovered her soap had spilled and contaminated her entire bag (what to wash with??) and I took a 3 hour nap as the clouds turned dark and the air became chillier and chillier. When i woke up I had to shower and put on all my clothes so I wouldn't freeze while I journaled and waited for dinner on the terrace. 

        Dinner was even better in Orisson. This lentil soup followed by chicken, macaroni, potatoes al gratin, huge bottles of wine and gateau de Basque. Lots of calories for hungry pilgrims! 

        The end of the day was a wash of preparations. I saved the say translating French over a situation with the dryer! An easy first day in preparation for our arduous trek over the rest of the Pyrenees the next day!

St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

"Vous voulez une boule ou une corne?" Asked the gray-haired French woman at the ice cream shop. Who knew they had waffle cones in small town Basque France? 

      Lauren and I chose the cones out of desperation for calories, and I ate chocolate  ice cream so dark I could only be in Europe. 

We watched two beggars by the church, a cramped little brick building with some charming pilgrim gargoyles in the tympanum and inside an astonishingly airy gothic apse that was probably added later. 

The stained glass was very bright but modern. Lauren and I would light a candle there and say a prayer the next morning as we set off on our grand adventure.

Having refreshed ourselves and bantered a little in my sometimes-passing-sonetimes-nonsense French with the ice cream woman, we stamped up the stony pilgrim's road, past our lovely and completely batty hostel Beilari to the pilgrim's office to get our carnet ( here my French failed me and Lauren had to come to the rescue with her casual, speedy Spanish) 

        At the top of St Jean sits a 19th c citadel amidst medieval ruins of the city walls. I positioned Lauren on a bench and then bounded up and down the hill to admire the hill and the stunning view of the valley. 

"C'est trop dûr?" A basque Frenchman in their classic cap coming down the steep, uneven stairs. 

       "Un peu," I admitted, panting and already dreading the high mountain roads of the next day. The French here are very friendly. 

       Dinner was quite the affair at Beilari. The hospitalero Joxelu is a Basque, cosmic hippy and began the festivities with an apéritif and a game of invisible paleta where we mimed throwing a ball and introduced ourselves. Lots of Americans but also Connor, a Dublinrr walking for a charity for cancer and people whose skin "doesn't work right," Albert and Kirsten, a duo of German friends who began in Frankfurt as well as a French woman, an Austrian, etc. many of these we would encounter again and again in the days to come. Only one person in our group could speak only English. 

        Dinner was expansive with potato and leek soup, carrot and tuna salad, veggie lasagna, and a Basque dessert a little like cream and yoghurt with sprigs of mint. I got to practice my German mit Albert, who was sassy. 

        After this very long dinner we had only s short time until the doors closed, and we were so desperately exhausted we went right to sleep. 

Pilgrimage is about Waiting-June 18

     

Lauren and I sat in the airport in Memphis for something like 6 hours. This was after our original flight was cancelled. When the second, less ideal flight into flash-flood warning Dallas was delayed, the helpful but sassy (and with a false sense of French geography) American Airlines guy Dwight snapped his fingers and arranged for us to go Charlotte, NC to Madrid with a little extra plus of a free flight on to Pamplona.

       The morning of that flight into Spain, as the stewardesses came around with fake muffins (coffee-tea-orange juice-water? Tea please) I glanced at the little gps on my screen. The plane icon, which was enormous in proportion to the cities below, hung just over the little bullet labeled St Jacques de Compostelle. Immediately I jerked up the window cover, blinding everyone around me, to see the Spanish coast and then the checkerboard of scorched yellow land interspersed with rocky, jutting mountains  struck me in a very real way. We were here! The trip that's more than a trip had really arrived at last. 

        Lauren and I breezed through customs--the Madrid airport was deserted at 11 am. No sign of a city, though the airport's undulating roof, slatted with wicked evoked Gaudi. In gate 72, waiting for our tiny, loud, terrifying plane with an adorable Spanish flight attendant who mumbled incomprehensible English that did not add up to drinks, we met Portuegues Susanna, a little solo peregrina who shared our taxi to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, where we arrived some 16 (18? 19?) after we said farewell to Lauren's mom and she gave us a very brave smile MEM int'l.