How I Won The Bet But Lost My Appetite

If you've been reading any of my last few posts (and if you haven't been, well nuts to you!), you've likely gathered that the Camino de Santiago has a lot of life lessons in store for a pilgrim. Life lessons like: sometimes it pays to know stuff...and sometimes it doesn't. What do I mean? Well, an example of when it does pay to know stuff would be when you make a bet out who's got the right answer with someone and the wager is a helicopter ride over New York City or a date with George Clooney or a ride across the Sahara in the Batmobile or something fabulous like that. An example of the latter, however, when knowing stuff definitely does not pay, would be when you make a bet out of it and the wager is a nice, big, steaming plate of boiled octopus. And it's your lunch. And you have to eat it. Why? Because you won, you lucky dog! You smarty-pants know-it-all, you! Now dig in.



A plate of pulpo--boiled octopus, a Galician delicacy.

Daring a bite of my scrumptious winnings in Melide. Doesn't the look on my face wanna make you run out and eat some? Or does it just wanna make you run?

Here's what's baffling me though. In my previous post I wrote about being open to and aware of what the Camino brings to you, because what the Camino brings to a pilgrim is bound to be something she needs. Going from that idea, apparently the Camino figured out that one of the things I needed was to eat one of the ugliest and most awkward animals on the planet.

OK, so maybe that's not what I needed. Maybe the Camino figured out that what I really needed was the companionship of Jeremy, an Englishman from Ibiza and the guy I "outwitted" in the bet for the plate of boiled octopus, and his Galician friend Manolo, a 65-year-old native of La Coruña who was completing the Camino after his first stab at it was interrupted by a cancer diagnosis a couple years ago.

Manolo and Jeremy in Palas de Rei.

I first met Jeremy and Manolo about a week away from reaching Santiago de Compostela on a windy day that ended up becoming my first day of walking in rain on the Camino. It was in a small bar by the roadside in a tiny, run-down, blink-and-you'll-miss-it village somewhere in between Triacastela and Sarria. Even if I hadn't have met Jeremy and Manolo there, the little bar would've been memorable. The owner got my bocadillo order wrong, everyone sat at a long table beside a fireplace (rather than at small, separate tables like in most Spanish bars) that gave the place a medieval tavern kind of ambiance, and the bar had at least two resident pups that kept begging bites from my friend Belinda's chorizo. Plus, the bar's toilets had a picture of George Clooney hanging on the men's door and a picture of Julia Roberts on the women's. (Side note: George Clooney has been popping up a lot in my blog posts lately, hasn't he? So I have a little crush. So sue me.) Why didn't they hang up pictures of Spanish actors, I wondered as I ducked into the men's stall to steal toilet paper for the women's.

Back inside the bar, two men came in and sat beside me at the long table--a tall, fair Englishman and an old Spanish man with thick, gray hair and thick, black brows. They spoke Spanish to each other, and I overheard the Englishman telling the old man about the bathroom movie star pictures. He incorrectly identified Julia Roberts as Demi Moore though, and being an American I thought I should set this straight. "No, it's Julia Roberts in the women's toilet, not Demi Moore," I leaned over and said. Right from the start, I had to be a know-it-all.

The Englishman and the old Spanish man left, and eventually I walked on by myself, under a gray and cloudy sky, until reaching Sarria, where it began to drizzle. From Sarria I walked on a few more kilometers in increasingly heavy rain until I called it quits in Barbadelo, where there were about 3 or 4 albergues and I happened to choose the worst one--a dreary place stuck onto the back of someone's house that felt like a cross between a bomb shelter and the waiting room of a dentist's office. It wouldn't have been a very nice place to be staying in on a sunny and dry day, much less a dark and rainy one.

But as is usually the case on the Camino, some brightness came out of the situation, out of the gloominess of the dreary day and drab albergue. There was a family from Texas staying at the albergue--a father and daughter who had already walked the Via de la Plata (a 1,000-km route of the Camino that begins in Sevilla) and the mother joining them for her first Camino on the Frances route. And there was the Englishman and the old Spanish guy too--Jeremy and Manolo, the two dudes from the roadside bar with the celebrity bathroom. The Texas family had some food to share with Jeremy, Manolo, and I, none of whom wanted to go back out in the pouring rain and dark to find a place to eat dinner and who between us only had some walnuts and lemon cough drops. But then Manolo saved the day by talking the albergue owner into making a pot of caldo for us, a Galician soup with cabbage, potatoes, and white beans. And Jeremy? Jeremy bought a couple bottles of wine. Heroes.

Jeremy dishes out caldo for the Texas family, watched over by our albergue warden, I mean hospitalero.

Caldo--Galician soup. I think I'm in love.

I fell in love with caldo. I ended up eating a lot of it while walking through Galicia. A lot. The only one who loved caldo more than me was Manolo, whose dark eyes lit up at the very word. After Barbadelo, I spent the next few days walking with Jeremy and Manolo, and they ended up introducing me to all kinds of local specialties. Galicia is Manolo's home after all, while Jeremy has been living in Spain some 20 years and is fluent in Spanish (Manolo speaks no English). So many memories of my time with Jeremy and Manolo seem to revolve around what I ate and what I drank. And I'm sure if they knew this, they'd feel very moved. OK, maybe just a little moved...and a little weirded out.

One of the many meals I enjoyed with Manolo

My first orujo, a Galician liqueur that makes whiskey taste like weak tea

A typical table setting after lunch with Jeremy and Manolo--vino (blanco and tinto), orujo, espresso, and cafe con leche

Oh no, it's that octopus stuff again. Pulpo with potatoes.

Looking back, if I liked the caldo so much, I don't know why I didn't wager that for the bet that winded up with me eating octopus. Come to think of it, looking back, I think I did initially.

The bet came out of a disagreement that began in the Barbadelo albergue over whether 2010 had been an Año Santo Jacobeo, or a holy year, on the Camino. I said it was, and gave that as my reason for deciding not to walk the Camino in 2010, because I didn't want to deal with the much-larger holy year crowds. "2010 wasn't a Jacobean year," said Jeremy. "That was in 2009." He said he knew because he'd been walking the Camino in stages over the last couple years.

"No, it was last year, not 2009," I said. "No, it was a couple years ago, not last year," Jeremy said. "Yes it was." "No it wasn't."

I tried to compromise. "Well maybe both 2009 and 2010 were holy years. Cuz I know 2010 was. I know." Jeremy didn't say anything. "Ask him," I finally said, gesturing to Manolo. "He would know." Jeremy asked him, and Manolo agreed with Jeremy. "Don't ask him if 2009 was a holy year," I said to Jeremy. "Ask him if 2010 was." Jeremy asked again. And Manolo shook his head and grumbled and gave a look that suggested anyone who'd think 2010 could be holy, in any way whatsoever, has to be crazy.

Conversations with Manolo and Jeremy were often like this. Once while walking I brought up the celebrity photos in the bathroom back where we'd first met and said you'd think they'd put up Spanish actors' photos instead of American. "Aren't we in Spain? They could've put up some famous Spanish stars equally glamorous as George Clooney and Julia Roberts. Like Antonio Banderas and Penelope Cruz." Jeremy had a good laugh at this and passed on my thoughts to Manolo, who gave his "you crazy" look again and muttered something in Spanish. Jeremy translated. Antonio Banderas is a crap actor, was what Manolo essentially said. A pretty boy. "Well, how 'bout Penelope then?" I asked. "She's pretty good." Manolo didn't answer.

So Manolo was our built-in authority on Spanish culture and the Spanish point of view. And when we suddenly passed a sign one day that clearly said 2010--I repeat, 2010--was an Año Santo Jacobeo, we called upon Manolo again to judge. There were still signs here and there on the Camino left over from the year before, when the fact of the holy year brought out all kinds of celebrations and decorations. But Jeremy only said, "That must mean something else. Not a holy year," when I pointed out a giant sign with the words Año Xacobeo 2010 on it to him. "No, Año Jacobeo means holy year. Holy. Year," I insisted. "I'll bet you anything it was 2010, not 2009." "Well, what do you want to bet? How about a plate of pulpo when we get to Melide? Whoever's wrong has to buy the other pulpo in Melide."

Ever since Portomarin, Jeremy and Manolo had been going on about pulpo and Melide. They'd ordered pulpo in Portomarin and got me to try a bite, but said Melide was the place to get the real good pulpo. Melide was famous for the stuff. In Portomarin, Melide was still a good 30-40 km ahead of us, maybe another day or so away. I could certainly wait that long for boiled octopus.

While making the bet with Jeremy now, I think I offered up caldo as a substitute. But no, caldo wasn't good enough. It had to be pulpo. And I was so blinded by wanting to be right, I didn't really think about what I was betting for. All I could think about was getting proof. "How are we going to prove who's right? How do I know to trust you that it was 2010?" Jeremy said. "The Internet. We'll look it up at the next bar where there's Internet." But apparently Jeremy felt the same way about the Internet that Manolo did about Antonio Banderas. "We'll ask someone," said Jeremy. "We don't need the Internet."

Manolo had been lagging behind during this whole gambling escapade. He came up to us now, and Jeremy turned to him to point out the sign and ask when the last holy year was. Manolo said 2010. Jeremy got a look on his face like he'd been slapped, then recovered to remind Manolo that only a couple days before he had sworn it was in 2009. Manolo gave Jeremy his "you crazy" look, as if to say: 'No, Jeremy, it was 2010. And I don't remember saying anything about 2009 in Barbadelo. You are delusional.'

I reveled in my rightness. I must have been delusional myself with hunger. Because this is what I was in for in Melide:

Steaming pot of octopus, at the pulpoteria in Melide

That looks yummy! Let's get a closer look, shall we?

Looks finger-lickin' good

In actuality, the pulpo in Melide wasn't so bad-tasting. I got to share it with Jeremy and eat it in the presence of a mysterious father-son duo from Seville who drank their wine out a little bowls instead of glasses like ancient priests. Manolo didn't get to see me enjoying my winnings of pulpo in Melide, as Jeremy and I said goodbye to him in Palas de Rei for awhile.

Saying goodbye to Manolo in Palas de Rei

Jeremy and I walked on from Palas de Rei, had our pulpo in Melide, and then I beat him into Santiago. He made up for nearly gagging me alive with octopus by buying me an Irish coffee in Santiago, and then we were reunited with Manolo in front of the cathedral, before he and Jeremy left to walk on to Finisterre the next morning. Buen camino, buen pulpo, buen caldo, buen George Clooney and buen Antonio Banderas fellas!

Manolo 'n' Jeremy 'n' me in Santiago

Tosantos

The Franciscan albergue in Tosantos, refuge for pilgrims

One of the most memorable quotes I heard on the Camino de Santiago was also the most humbling. It was in the village of Tosantos, in the chapel of a small, rather spartan albergue devoted to St. Francis of Assisi. We pilgrims had all just finished a communal dinner and were now gathered with the albergue's two hospitaleros--José Luis and Jesús--for a multi-lingual prayer service. José Luis, the main hospitalero at Tosantos for years now and once a pilgrim on the Camino himself, had the floor for a few minutes while a French pilgrim translated into English what he had to say.

"We bring nothing to the Camino," José Luis said. "We give nothing to the Camino. The Camino gives to us. Pay attention to what the Camino brings you. The Camino does not bring you what you want. The Camino brings you what you need."

Village of Tosantos

Maybe you need to be American to find this kind of statement truly revelatory and humbling. Because America is a place that teaches its citizens to believe that the whole world wants what America has, and if the whole world can't come to America to get it, then the duty of Americans is to to bring it to the world...whether the world wants it or not. The difference between this philosophy of the USA and the message offered by José Luis in the albergue in Tosantos comes down to the difference between power and vulnerability. Not that those two concepts are necessarily diametrically opposite to each other. But they are in the mindset of American culture.

In America, power comes from having things--preferably lots of things. And even more power comes from convincing other people that they want lots of things--preferably from you or the source you endorse. The average American's sense of self-esteem is deeply rooted in this particular definition of power--the power to have what others want and the power to make others want what you have. (I admit, I can get caught up in it myself.) In America, if you can't acquire lots of things and can't convince others of the importance of things, then you've failed. And if you're among that crowd that can't be convinced, the ones who refuse what they're being told to want, then you're a riddle at best, a fool at worst. Such scenarios essentially put the hand up to power after all, and make way for powerlessness, for weakness, for vulnerability. And who but a failure or a fool would do or allow that?

Sun setting beyond Tosantos

A pilgrim is who. The kind of person who makes the choice to willingly live on their own two feet and out of a 15/20-lb rucksack for a month in pursuit of a bunch of stamps on a credencial or passport (one that's not even recognized by any government or nation on earth) and a rolled-up piece of paper with some message in a long-dead language on it from the Catholic Church essentially saying "Nice job." In the old days, the rolled-up piece of paper, known as a compostela, was supposed to grant and give proof of a plenary indulgence by the Church. "A plenary what?" says today's even most devout Catholic-raised pilgrims. (For sure. What is a plenary indulgence and what am I supposed to do with it now that I've got one?)

When José Luis said we pilgrims bring nothing to the Camino but in fact the Camino brings us what we need (and not what we want), he was right on a number of levels. Pilgrims carry the basics with them while walking the Camino. Their most prized (meaning necessary) possessions are a good pair of walking shoes, good trekking socks, some bandages, maybe a needle and thread to drain blisters, fresh water, a hopefully bed-bug-free sleeping bag, maybe a poncho if it rains, their credencial, and not much else. These things aren't "nothing" but they certainly don't amount to much of value in the "real" world, in life off the Camino.

Me and all my possessions for the Camino, on my mattress in the Tosantos albergue

Meanwhile, if the Camino was meant to bring pilgrims what they really wanted, it would bring them much more than a certificate from the Catholic Church at the end of the long walk. As the Way goes on, most pilgrims find that what they're wanting most sorely are things like a hot shower, a comfortable place to sit down for a few minutes, a spot in the shade or out of the rain and wind, a sheltered toilet...preferably with toilet paper, a night of snore-free sleep, maybe a foot massage or back rub, a pair of socks that don't smell. While you can argue whether these desires serve spiritual needs more than physical or material, you can't help but notice how basic these desires are, how unlikely you are to find them for sale in anyone's luxury-item Christmas catalog.

On another level, the "nothingness" José Luis spoke of refers to the ego check that the Camino becomes for most pilgrims. It is generally a good idea not to bring your ego to the Camino. That includes the ego that thinks it has the answers to all the world's--and certainly your fellow pilgrims'--problems and the ego that has expectations of getting answers to your own problems. Offering advice and answers and seeking advice and answers on the Camino is a surefire guarantee for disappointment and frustration all-around. This is an especially hard thing for an American pilgrim to accept. Because advice and answers have become as much a commodity, something considered worth working, striving, paying, living, and dying for, in American culture as much as any material object. Advice and answers are another means to feeling powerful and important for Americans, and giving up the pursuit and trade of them (of anything really) leaves the average American soul open to feeling lost and vulnerable.

Pilgrim shadow on the mountainside near Tosantos

But that's kind of the point of the Camino. While everyone has their own reasons for wanting to walk the Camino, and everyone discovers their own pace and experiences their own daily triumphs and limitations and let-downs and joys, I'd say many pilgrims learn similar lessons of faith, acceptance, and openness while walking the Camino. Understand that at times you will lose or not know the way to go on the Camino, just like you will not always know the answers. Understand also that you will likely find the way soon enough, either on your own or through the help of others--and understand that even once you find the way again, the answers still might prove elusive. Accept that this is just fine, good enough for now and maybe for always. Figuring out the right way is probably more satisfying than figuring out the right answers. Accept that you might need other pilgrims' or locals' help at times. Accept that other pilgrims may not want your help when you have it to give. Accept that sometimes another pilgrim friend wants to walk alone awhile. Accept that sometimes another pilgrim friend needs someone to walk with and talk to awhile. Accept that some days you won't walk as far as you wanted--some days you'll be too tired and other days you'll find you just won't want to. Accept that you'll change your mind and change your plans some days. Be open and aware to what the Camino puts in front of you--it might be just the thing you need, if not what you were explicitly wanting. Be aware of what the Camino has put behind you as well--it might be just the thing you needed to let go of or leave behind or lose.

The Tosantos albergue. Jean-Louis, a French pilgrim, is tossing walnuts out the window to the children of a German family walking the Camino together 2 weeks at a time over the next few years.

Now all this might seem a lot to absorb from a few minutes' talk from a hospitalero in a very basic albergue in a tiny village on the Way. But that's Tosantos--one of the most welcoming and warmest albergues on the Camino. Materially speaking, the Tosantos albergue won't give you much. Pilgrims sleep on mattresses on the floor in somewhat drafty rooms with squeaky floorboards, and the only washing basin for cleaning your clothes is a sink inside the men's toilet and shower room. The dryer, meanwhile, is a few clotheslines in a large but scraggly-looking lawn garden across from the albergue. On the plus side, there's a kitchen and dining room--and a communal dinner and breakfast where everyone pitches in by setting the table, peeling and chopping vegetables, ladeling out soup, slicing bread, heating up milk and water, washing dishes, etc. And whatever you "get" from your stay at Tosantos, you pay for through donativo, by donation in a private box, not through a set price of 7 (reasonable) to 15 (rather outrageous, for the Camino) euros as in most albergues.


Jesús in the kitchen with one of the pilgrims, getting the dinner ready

There's also an unexpected and lovely little field trip thrown into the bargain. In the late afternoon all of us pilgrims who were already checked in and interested were invited to walk up to a hermitage built into a white-cliff cave in the mountain beside the village. The hermitage, known as Our Lady of the Rock, contains a beautiful, ornate altar and an image of the Christ Child from the 12th century that no one ever gets to see, because the church there is locked up at all times. Except for Tosantos pilgrims that is--as recently a local woman has begun to take up pilgrims from Tosantos and allow them to see the inside of the church (with the agreement they take no pictures) while she explains about its history.

Walking up to the hermitage, Ermita de la Virgen de la Chiesa

Exterior of the hermitage

Built into the cliffside

The hermitage of Tosantos seen from a distance, aways from the village

This was a special enough opportunity as it is. It was made even more so on the day I was there though by a mass service in the hermitage, performed by another pilgrim, a priest from the Philippines, Father Manuel, whom I had met right after checking in at the albergue. I'd had no idea until the mass began that Manuel was a priest. And apparently he had no idea, no expectation, that he'd be serving mass in this unusual little cliffside hermitage when he arrived at Tosantos. At most, he thought he might get a chance to lead some prayers or a service in the chapel inside the albergue after dinner--but then he was told he could perform mass at Our Lady of the Rock if he wished.

After the mass I learned that this was Father Manuel's second time on the Camino. His first Camino had been a couple years before and began in St. Jean Pied-de-Port--this time he had started from farther afield (I believe from La Puy in central France) and was walking the Camino in honor of his mother, who had passed away.

Meeting Father Manuel was one of the highlights of my Camino. Not because of anything he said or did in particular. Though one of my reasons for deciding to walk the Camino de Santiago was some struggles I've had in recent years with issues of faith and forgiveness, Father Manuel didn't offer any wise, priestly wisdom or judgements for me on these issues. In other words, he didn't have any answers for me--and didn't pretend to either. I admit, answers and resolution to my struggles and doubts were what I was wanting from the Camino. Instead all I got was the comfort of the friendly and familiar face of a Filipino priest who kept popping up on my Camino after our initial meeting in Tosantos. Essentially I got what I needed.

Karen on the Camino, crossing the Meseta

I got some other much-needed Camino friends in Tosantos too. Tosantos was where I met Karen, my friend from Austin who was my most frequent walking partner during the most difficult part of the Camino for me, the Meseta and whom I met sitting next to me at the communal dinner in Tosantos. Along with companionship, Karen brought music to my Camino. A musician herself, Karen and I had some good long conversations about music and the music scene in Austin, and she let me listen in to some good rare songs on her iPod a couple times. When she wasn't walking with me, I had the funny memory of some lyrics she had made up on the spot one day to keep me going and break the sometimes overwhelming silence and loneliness of the road. (Her lyrics: Oh I wish I were a motor scooter/ Oh I wish I were a car/ Cuz if I were a motor scooter/ I wouldn't have to walk so far./ Oh I wish I were a bicycle/ Oh I wish I were a motor cy/ Cuz if I were a bicycle/ I wouldn't have to swat this fly.)

Tosantos also brought me the smiling face and big-hearted spirit of Andreas, the children's clown and juggler from Milan. I first ran into Andreas a few days before Tosantos, in Lorca. But I didn't actually meet him or speak to him until Tosantos, where he showed up at the albergue a little late in the day, too late for the mass in the hermitage. I remember after mass coming back to the albergue and seeing Andreas sitting out front, making balloon animals for the 5 young children of an amazing German couple who were all walking the Camino together for 2 weeks every year until they reached Santiago. Like Father Manuel, Andreas kept popping up on my Camino from then on, until the village of Rabanal el Camino, where he remembered it was my birthday and shouted birthday greetings to me from up the street (the only birthday greetings I got that day)--and then I didn't see him again until Santiago.

Andreas on the Camino, with his juggling pins. He eventually gave them away to some children in Los Arcos to lessen the weight of his backpack. Picture by peregrina Marie-Belle

As for Father Manuel? Father Manuel was the first fellow pilgrim I ran into in Santiago after having walked 40km in one day to get there. I was exhausted to say the least, and it was getting dark in the old city and everything was still seeming too overwhelming and unfamiliar for me to feel relieved or joyous from having finally arrived. But then there was Father Manuel with a few other pilgrims. A friendly and unfamiliar face in an unfamiliar place, just when I needed it. He gave me a hug, congratulated me, and told me to make sure I get to the pilgrim mass the next day. "It's the feast day of St. Simon and St. Jude tomorrow. The botafumeiro will be there" (meaning the giant swinging incenser that's only brought out for special masses). And indeed it was there, and so was Father Manuel, serving mass with several other priests from around the world.

Me with Father Manuel from the Philippines in Santiago de Compostela

Catalans and Canadians

Camino buddies in Lorca. Aileen from Ireland, Nancy from San Fran, and Marie-Belle from Canada.

There's a sentiment you hear over and over again while walking the Camino de Santiago. "It's the people that make the Camino." Meaning that after all the walking is done, it's the friends you've made that you'll remember and cherish the most. And it's true. The Camino will take you through some amazing landscapes and into some beautiful churches and castles, and physically speaking it will test your fitness and probably prove you are much stronger than you thought you were. But what stays with you and makes the Camino special is the people you meet. In the spirit of that sentiment this post and the next few to come are dedicated to some of the people I met on the way, the people who "made my Camino."

More Camino buddies. The Catalans in Orisson (with a Basque and Santo Domingoan too).

I'll start with some folks I met my first day, at the albergue in Orisson in the French Pyrenees--specifically a group of Catalan men and a group of Canadian women.

The Catalans arrived on the scene at Orisson in matching pink T-shirts that made the claim they were all gay. Over dinner we got the real scoop from the group's George-Clooney-lookalike leader, Eduard, the only one of them who spoke English. Turned out none of them were gay--just married with children and trying to ease the worries of their wives back home. All friends since boyhood, the men came from a town near Barcelona and had originally planned on going up to Germany together and hitting the beer halls in Munich for Oktoberfest. Their wives had (wisely) nixed the idea, however, so they went with their second choice: the Camino de Santiago. Quite the other end of the spectrum. Or maybe not. As Eduard said, "In Munich we'd drink beer, on the Camino we'll drink wine." A fair exchange for sure.

They were hoping to get as far as Nájera this time around (and they did) and go on to finish the Camino a couple weeks at a time over the next few years. Only one of their group--Jaime, the sole bachelor--was planning to do the whole walk to Santiago now.

The Catalans in Burguete, after Roncesvalles, aiming for Zubiri.

The Catalan guys were a blast. I kept up with them only the first 3 or 4 days of the Camino and missed them sorely afterwards. And no, it wasn't just because several of them took turns getting their picture taken hugging and kissing me at the dinner in Orisson.

Eduard and me in Orisson. He wanted to help make my friends back home jealous when I posted my Camino pics.

And David. David really wanted to help make my friends jealous.

They brought an energy to those first days of the Camino that made me feel like a kid on a school outing or a girl allowed in the boys' treehouse. Among their hijinks were playing dead on the Camino road and videotaping other pilgrims' reactions, drinking wine out of their bota bags at 10 AM and squirting vino into the mouths of anyone brave enough to open wide, staying up and joking around past curfew in the albergues and getting shushed by the more serious peregrinos, telling me the roadside elderberries I'd just eaten and passed around to other pilgrims were poisonous, buying shots of pacharán (at 9 PM one day, at 9 AM the next) for me and other pilgrims, and posting videos of themselves on YouTube walking pantless through a vineyard.

The Catalans keeping me up at the Roncesvalles albergue.

Jaime enjoying his 10 AM squirt of wine.

Setting up a prank?

That's not to say the Catalans approached the Camino with total irreverence. Because in fact the fellas went to pilgrim masses and blessings along the Way. And after I reached Santiago, Eduard sent me an email of congratulations and told me Jaime had made it there too and "cried like a child." Eduard himself proved to be--in the words of another pilgrim--a dote, serving as a translator for us English speakers, loaning out Compeed and bandages for those of us with blisters, explaining aspects of Spanish culture to us foreign pilgrims, and graciously asking questions and listening to others speak about their own cultures back home.

And speaking of foreign cultures (sort of), since I've come home I've gotten quite a lot of people asking me if I met many other Americans on the Camino. And I answer no, there aren't a lot of Americans who do the Camino--instead there are Canadians. I don't think a day passed on the Camino when I didn't run into some. It got to be such that whenever I heard someone on the Camino with an accent like mine, instead of assuming them to be American (like I did on my first day of walking), I assumed they were...well, not. After a few days I was able to detect the tell-tale signs of Canadian-ness--signs like saying "eh?" at the end of every other sentence (and here I thought that was a myth!), wearing Canadian flags on their backpacks and caps, and passing out miniature Canadian flag pins to everyone they meet along the Way. The presence of so many Canadians (and so few Americans) on the Camino was a bit of a humbling experience for me, a reminder that my fellow countrymen and I do share the North American continent with others. Americans often forget that (sometimes I think willfully).

In Santiago with Matt from Germany and Bruce and Patty from Canada. I met Bruce and Patty in Orisson and again in Calzadilla. Seeing them again in Calzadilla (when my blisters were at their worst) buoyed my spirits and encouraged me to go on with the Camino.



The Canadian Snail Club. Marsha, Marie-Belle, Linda, and Jane in Trinidade de Arre, enjoying a morning cafe con leche, taking their time.

In Orisson, along with meeting the Catalan gang, I met a group of great Canadian ladies who dubbed themselves "The Snail Club"--because they took their time walking the Camino and didn't gobble up the kilometers with their feet like some much-less-wiser walkers do. Two of the Canadian snail ladies proved to be especially good company on the road: Marie-Belle and Marsha. One of the first memories I have of Marie-Belle and Marsha is that they liked to sing as they walked, everything from Simon & Garfunkel tunes to old-timey classics like "The Red River Valley." I think they may have been the calmest and most easygoing walkers I met on the Camino--maybe because they had so much walking and hiking experience and so many skills to help them along the Way. Marsha especially could identify nearly every plant, flower, fruit, nut, and tree we passed--a crucial skill for us pilgrims who liked to rob, er, I mean forage from the fields around us during the particularly long stretches of the road. She could also expertly wield a needle and thread to drain blisters and helped a young Israeli pilgrim named Noam organize and officiate Shabbat and other Jewish celebrations on the Camino (which the rest of all us were all invited to celebrate too).

Marsha lights the candles for Shabbat, in Roncesvalles.

I had to say goodbye to Marsha in Estella, as she and Marie-Belle were going off the Camino and traveling on to visit some friends elsewhere in Spain before returning to Canada. But Marie-Belle walked on with me a few more kilometers from Estella to Irache, village of the most amazing and glorious miracle of them all on the Camino--that's right, the free wine fountain. Marie-Belle and my friend Aileen from Ireland had sense--they brought a thermos or empty bottle with them to fill with wine from the vino spout (the water spout beside it went woefully ignored by us). Me? I had to resort to getting my free wine the hard way.

Marie-Belle at the wine fountain in Irache, doing it the easy way.

Me at the wine fountain in Irache, doing it the hard way.

After filling up our thermoses, bottles, and, um, mouths with wine (and fending off a cranky German tour director and non-peregrino who apparently didn't like to see 3 women having so much fun at the fountain), Marie-Belle, Aileen, and I retired under a beautiful tree to munch on chocolate and crack open some foraged almonds and walnuts. Then I had to say goodbye to the both of them and go on with my journey alone for awhile. I left them sad but peacefully so, feeling grateful that my first leg of the Camino had been shared with a couple groups of such fun people, from Catalonia, Canada, Cork, and beyond.

Catalans...



...and Canadians. Buen Camino, friends!

Little Updates

This is just a little post to thank everyone for the lovely and encouraging comments on my last few posts while I was walking the Camino. My apologies for not leaving my own comments thanking everyone sooner. Sometimes it was hard to keep up with the blog and answering emails and such while on the Camino. But the well wishes and encouragement from everyone meant a lot to me and definitely helped to keep me going. Thanks also to anyone who’s even just checked out my blog. That keeps me going too.

Walking tall on the Camino.

In the next few posts I’ll be sharing pictures and memories of my favorite places and people from the Camino--with emphasis on the people, since I think the friends you meet and make on the Camino are largely what make the Camino an extraordinary experience for most pilgrims. But in the meantime I’ve gone back and added a few pictures to the last few posts I wrote while on the Camino. So if you're the picture-happy kind, check out the old posts again if you like!

Go back for pictures! (And forward too...)

Camino Sunrises

Good morning, America, how are ya?

Sunrise on the Camino de Santiago

As I write this it's very early morning in the United States. How early? So early you probably aren't awake yet. (Or you have yet to go to bed from the night before--you party animal, you.) The only reason I'm up is because I just arrived back home yesterday afternoon, and I haven't yet adapted to the time difference between the U.S. and Europe. So I'm wide awake, up and at this long-neglected blog, letting everyone know my Camino is officially over--physically speaking at least.

Since my last post announcing my reaching Santiago de Compostela, I spent a week hanging around Santiago while waiting for a walking friend to arrive from Ireland, walked on to Finisterre (the "ends of the earth," the westernmost point on the European continent) with my walking friend, finally left Santiago and Spain, and made a brief visit to Ireland before arriving home, in Chicago, on a windy but unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon.

Now I'm here waiting for my first American sunrise since leaving home more than 2 months ago. I thought I'd welcome the awakening of the sun here, in Illinois, with some memories of all the sunrises I saw on the Camino. With 39 walking days on the Camino, that means I saw a great many sunrises. Seeing the sun rise is something you can't avoid on the Camino, since early awakenings, head starts, and walking in the light of the coming dawn (and maybe even the waning moon) are among the quintessential Camino pilgrim experiences. Here are some of the loveliest among 39 very lovely sunrises:

My first Camino sunrise--shortly after leaving St. Jean Pied-de-Port in France.

First day, after St. Jean Pied-de-Port

Second Camino sunrise, in the Pyrenees after Orisson, on way to Roncesvalles. Morning clouds making islands of the mountain tops.

Sunrise over Eunate, a little ways off the official Camino.

Me, morning after staying at Eunate church.

My friend Aileen walking in the morning light, away from Eunate, back to the Camino. Following the yellow Camino arrow and the golden sun rays.

My friend Belinda greets the dawn,

Me and Belinda walking in the dawn light, fun haystacks ahead.

Sunrise aways from Torres del Rio

Sun rising over a plaza in Santo Domingo de la Calzada

Early morning just outside Tosantos, chapel in mountainside visible

Sunrise outside of Tosantos

There was no visible sun the day I walked into Burgos, but there was this hardy sunflower. Just as good.

Sunrise...or moonset? The hospitalero at Villalcazar de Sirga made us leave the albergue so early I walked in waning moonlight rather than rising sunlight.

Sunrise after Rabanal del Camino, approaching El Acebo

Sunrise in El Acebo

Sunrise on way to Villafranca del Bierzo

Little house and trees welcoming the sun.

Where do you find the sun on a rainy morning in Galicia? In a puddle is where.

Sunrise over Cee, on the way to Finisterre.

Swinging in the dawn in Cee

Sun trying to wake up in Finisterre. Perhaps he runs out of energy at the "ends of the earth."

More posts to come on the Camino--something like "My Top 10 Camino Memories." OK, maybe a little less cheesy than that. More pics too and I'll be adding some photos to my past posts. Until then, hello sunshine and happy day!!