Academic Statement

Academic Statement –

 

I am a true Greener. When I started Evergreen I was not. Checking off boxes and fulfilling prerequisites in the pursuit of a stable income, career, and other aspects deemed normal on societal life. Here I come, environmental law school, to save the world or at least be a relevant and contributing member of society.

 

Then I heard about the Walking to Santiago program. I have always thought that travelling holds unique educational value and, with this in mind, I rationalized a spontaneous decision to study walking in a class where students hike across Spain. Study walking?

Yes, walking. A few months and 1200 kilometers later, I leave with a different view on a full and successful life. This new view doesn’t include memorization for the sole reason of advancing to the next set of required courses required for the next best job. I leave with a goal of obtaining life experiences by meeting people, cultures, languages, and perspectives. I

From walking, I have learned how to study life. I have shared experiences with others of grief, joy, excitement, and philosophy all through human connection. With this Greener mindset I look to walk away as a lifelong learner and contributing member to society.

Self Evaluation

You never expect a bug-eyed threatening psycho to be a daily worry on a spiritual journey. But after the first week of interactions with such a person, who was one of the first people I met on the Camino, and after hearing of his various assaults on people in this class, it became a valid concern.

 

I expected to have ample time to myself. Time to sift through my thoughts and life goals which are changing from ambitions for competitive graduate schools and desk jobs to the endless search for people and experiences and perhaps a more simple life. It’s a metamorphosis I thought needed to be done alone and independently.

But when a group of people from our class were understandably worried about walking alone, I ended up spending almost my entire Camino with them. We walked through rain and sun and over hills and coastlines. All with people I only vaguely new, some of whom I have little in common with.

This is not to say that they needed me and whatever sense of protection I may have provided, only that company was appreciated. The appreciation was mutual. In walking together we formed a friendship encompassing the mindset of no one left behind. We got to know each other and learned how to support each other.

 

In addition, and often in the company of my group of classmate friends, I have been immersed in a multicultural community of pilgrims. I walked with and befriended people from all over Europe and the world. Some who walk to form a sense of unification with other European members, some to overcome seemingly insurmountable grief, while others simply try and find themselves or a sense of adventure.

 

From all of these people and experiences, I have learned the importance and strength of community support and friendship.  It has taught me how to learn from people who are vastly different than, and has sparked my interest in lifelong learning, personal growth and change, most of which can be done with the help of others.

Independent Project – Poetry of the Camino

Independent Project – Poetry of the Camino

A Pilgrim Blessing

Set your path to Santiago

May your feet carry you there

May you endure trying hardships

But have friends to show you through

 

Young pilgrim, old pilgrim

May your path stay true

True to yourself

And everyone else

And in everything you do

 

May you be blessed with mindfulness

And think of where you are

Have been

And where you need to go

 

Walk slow and steady

For this is no race

But if your heart requires

You may pick up the pace

This pilgrimage has no rules

Just asks for respect and grace

 

May you respect yourself

As you respect others

May you make the trail a friendly place

Forget all borders

And focus on only the face

 

Paris Park Bench

Sitting in a square

Two heads connect across from me.

Blonde hair,

Short, long,

Frizzled strings

Falling from the heads

Resting on faces.

 

Pigeons scurry beneath feet.

Hopping,

Strutting stuff.

Heads bobbing

In snooty French manor

Demeanor unfitting for

Filthy city scavengers.

 

Smoke billows

Around mops of hair now intertwined

From the people passing by

Passing along cigarettes smiles and smells.

 

But the heads only smell love

Blonde curls unlock

Faces tell a story

Deep lines of wetherment and age

 

But through their head unlocks

Their eyes do not

Their gaze stays

Strong and true

Their love is clear

Sitting in the square.

 

Hotel Window

What a city I see

From this perch

As I view.

 

So many people

So much to do.

 

This morning I woke

From a song in the street

Unified voices

Off to church to meet.

 

I walked down

To the square over there

Where people drank

And smoke filled the air.

 

I sat on a bench

My fist clenched

Holding a pen I wrote until ten

And then I walked out of the square.

 

Fine Art

A room congested

A small painting on the wall

But few understand.

 

Their backs turned away

From beauty of all other

Blind of awareness.

 

I snap a picture

Not of what they’ve come to see

But of fools that lay in front of me.

 

This is not to dis

I simply wish to learn

What many fail to see.

 

Trucking

I step and I fly

The sky looks so high

But I feel the beat

And I go.

 

I’m going now

I’m really moving now

Yes I feel the beat as I flow.

 

And my legs are pumping

My arms are bumping

And I feel the beat

The huffing and puffing of air.

 

Now I look up from my feet

Until my eyes meet

The crest of the hill above.

 

And soon I’m there

Standing beneath the glare

If the risen and beaming sun.

 

And as I stand there

The mountains under my glare

I feel the beat

And it’s roar.

 

Yes this is the feeling

That I really am living

My heart is beating

And I’m alive.

 

Walking to Logrono

The rain is pelting

And the wind is whipping

I walk though

I don’t want to go

 

The hills are screaming

The feelings demeaning

And my feet trudge through the snow.

 

Now I hear my calf screaming

I think my ankles bleeding

So I guess

And I pray as I walk.

 

I’m almost there now

Though I don’t know how

I fucking

Better be close.

 

Now beyond the curling

I see a big building

And I quicken

The limp in my gimp.

 

And now here I am

Happy as a clam

And I take a shower

I’m good.

 

Ween

It comes and goes

Rushing through my veins

I share my feelings with friends

Blissfully walking beside

 

Tired now

I lag behind

A yellow rainjacket

Dashes ahead.

 

I plug in and

The odd sounds bounce

Throughout my eardrums

 

I zone.

 

The Art of Camino Autobussing

Walk.

Feel the exhilaration of kinesthetic

Endorphins

Pumping through your veins.

 

Notice the feeling.

Now walk faster.

 

Flex your bulging calves

And power up massive mountains.

Sweat through pain

And power past misery

To watch pain pass to pleasure.

 

Sleep.

Your body hurts now.

It screams pleas of help

But you don’t listen.

 

Shut its mouth and keep on pushing.

Faster.

Harder.

Ow.

 

Now as you walk

There’s a limp and a gimp

And soon

You’re not walking at all.

 

And as crowds

Pass you by

You’ll probably ask why

And curse at the

Laughing sky.

 

And no one can hear it

It crushes your spirit

Now you feel like

You’d rather die.

 

The you ask the Lord why

And you begin to cry

An autobus passes you by.

 

Now it’s your only option

Besides absolute abortion

So you raise your hand

And stand.

 

So the driver pulls over

And you hobble on over

And take a seat

On the bus.

 

And you look out the window

At a weeping willow

And the wind

That billows on by.

 

Now you hear an exclaim

A friend calls out

Your name

They too are on this bus.

 

Now in am embrace

Of words and arms

You realize

This is no race

 

And as you sit there

In the comfort of a chair

You find a peaceful

Grace.

 

This is

The Art of Camino Autobussing

As no there is

No shame.

 

Santiago de Compostela

The sun is shining

And friends are here

We made it to Santiago

It’s time to cheer

 

So uncork the wine

And crack open the beer

Let’s have a fiesta

Everyone is here

 

We’ve walked this far

Through wind and through rain

But through it all

We’ve rarely complained

 

So we gather in Santiago

Where the church meets the sky

And we think of the way

And how we made it by

 

So let’s gather here now

And enjoy the celebration

Soak of the sun

And feel gratification.

 

Sandals

Flip flop.

Against the pads of my heels

Flip flop.

The leather straps dig into my raw skin

Pink with wear.

Tendons form mountains

Between my toes Inflamed

Flip flop.

Now it rains and my

Feet get wet

They slip and slide

Toes trying to escape

The firm grasp of leather straps

Flip flop.

Water is squished in every step

It squirms and squeaks

Flip flop.

My toes mash against mesh

Pressing

Pushing

Pulsing

They curve and they flex

Flip flop.

 

My knee is bum

My tendons are shot

My skin is

Peeling off.

 

But my spirits are high

With all of these friends

Those who stay

And those who do pass by.

 

Thankful

How lucky am I

To sit right here

My leg

High up in the air.

 

I cannot forget

Throughout this entire trip

How lucky

And happy am I.

 

Rocks

I sit on a rock bed of trail mix

The various shaped pebbles

Poke against my butt while

Melodious sounds

Play in tune

With the continuous roar of

The ocean

Crashing in peaceful chaos.

 

Beach

Sitting on a beach

A dim glow illuminates white paper

White sand

Formed into valleys

Of dark ridges.

The roar.

The rumble and the tumble

The crash and the bang

Merge into sweet serenity.

Scarlet orange light fades

From distant hiltops

Soon to be explored.

Salt fills the cool night air

And grass escapes

From sandy dunes.

 

Dark clouds accompany the calm skies

While stars shine light,

Some fresh some stale

Fading and gleaming.

Sand sticks to my skin

A rough paste

It slips through my toes

Polishing it’s surface

As it’s done to so many

And the waves roar.

 

The roar.

 

The rumble and the tumble

The crash and the bang

Merge into sweet serenity.

 

In Search of Suffering

The skies are grey

And the air is cold

Walking through here

Is for only the bold

 

So pelt me with rain

And whip me with winds

Chase me with thunder

For all of my sins.

 

I plead for this pain

As I stand In the rain

I do not refrain

There’s so much to gain.

For when the winds subside

And we lay down inside

The pleasures we feel

Will be oh so very real

 

Such appreciation exists

With only true suffering

So mother nature I beg you

Go on with the bludgeoning.

 

Walking to Santiago In Foam Sandals

Valleys, hills, and mountains, sand, mud and stone, my sandals have seen it all. Laying in the bed of my albergue, one day out of Santiago, I’ve trekked over 600 kilometers in my trusty foam sandals.

The sandal journey began in Bilbao. Walking off a bus from Burgos where I left the Frances route to join with the Norte, I hadn’t walked in 3 days, resting an achilles injury. My $130 REI boots that had carried me through France, over the Pyrenees, and into Spain had torn into my tendon, leaving it inflamed and exceptionally sore.

After three days rest, I was ready to get back at it. I made it give kilometers. Pain shot up my achilles, tugging at every step.

“I don’t think I can make it guys,” I said to my companions for the day, Collin and Dominguez.

“Try out my new kicks, man,” Colin said jokingly, tossing his brand new 8 Euro purple plastic Reebok sandals at my feet.

“Oh yeah man! I’ll be the most stylin peregrino on the Camino!” I laughed, taking a few sauntering steps along an imaginary runway. But as I strutted my stuff and my heel lifted from the back of the strapless slides, I felt little pain. My screaming achilles was now only voicing a gentle moan. “Woah, these might actually work,” I remarked in amazement.  

Dumbfounded by the odd occurrence of 8 Euro purple slides being the panacea for foot pain, I walked on. My whole Norte Camino would be done in strapless sandals.

The Church On A Hill: Part 2

Directly inside rested a coffin. It’s contents were explained by the churchman but the answer remained lost between languages. It was old, that’s all I know. The Spanish couple and I were then gestured up a steep slanted staircase many wise people would deem rickety and unsafe. Nonetheless, the Spanish couple led the way up two narrow stories to the top of the tower. Upstairs, three open arches exposed the stone walls to the elements, a bell hung from the middle. Off to the right a window faced the coast where fog had cleared, exposing grey choppy waves to complement the rugged and rural coastal view.

The Spanish couple asked for a picture of the three of us by the bell, but before the churchman took our picture he reached his hand through a small crevice of the aged stacked stone wall and pulled something out. I couldn’t see it clearly, it was small, wrapped in his palm, but thought it might be some sort of ancient stone. He spoke in Spanish explaining the significance of what he held, but once again his explanation was lost on me.

As we posed for the picture, the churchman asked me to lay out my hand to place the unknown object in my hand. As he handed it to me, I could see it was not some old stone ruin but more of an ancient corpse, and he laid the crusted remains of a palm-sized lizard in my hand.

Once again, the significance of this bizzare mummified reptile was lost on me, but the excitement from the three Spaniards was enough for the four of us to laugh and smile.

Back on solid earth we said our goodbyes. Apparently I served as a tourist attraction just as interesting as the church as they shot photos of me posing with my pilgrim credential and it’s many stamps, as well as my sockless sandalled feet which are constantly exposed to the elements.

As they got back in their car they were kind enough to offer this cold pilgrim a ride to the next stage, but I just smiled, shook my head, and kept on walking.

The Church On a Hill: Part 1

I walk up a hill in the rain once again. Streams of runoff flowed past my feet, carrying sand and gravel of the dirt road. Rain has become a familiar accomplice of the Norte, and as in Olympia, I’ve learned to accept it.

It had been an inland hike all day, walking over hills wrapped in fog and back down to soggy valleys, past the occasional village or cow. But now as I walked up another steep road I could make out a lone building on the top of the hill. A church.

As I approached I heard a voice. A woman’s voice, singing through the rain, a beautiful mystic sounding melody. Curious, I followed the sound to the stone church on the hill. I passed through a black steel gate to the covered front door of the church. But before I could enter, I was greeted by a smiling man sitting behind a hard plastic table next to the church door.

“Buenos dias!” He jumped from his chair to offer me a plate of honey sandwiches and sliced chorizo as he poured me a cup of hot chocolate. I happily accepted, as I shivered in my damp rain jacket and drenched shorts (I have no pants for the camino).

As I sat talking to the churchman, a car pulled into the church driveway. A middle-aged Spanish couple stepped into the rain, and ran to the sheltered area by the church door. The churchman didn’t miss a step, quickly offering more honey sandwiches and sliced meats.

Apparently, this church on a hill was some sort of tourist attraction. The churchman beckoned the three of us inside for a tour. Despite our tour guide’s kind attempt of speaking slow enough for an English speaker, I couldn’t pick up on most of the words that the Spanish couple oohed and awed at, but striking characteristics of the church spoke for itself.

It was rather modest, with tall arches of grainy rough stone supported the building. A metal chandelier hung from the ceiling holding unlit sunken stubs of white wax. Front and center was a large window, symmetrical curves painting the glass, the cloud smothered sun cast a dull grey light that seeped past the head of Jesus who hung from yet another cross.

The churchman said something I couldn’t understand in Spanish which prompted the Spanish couple headed for the door. Assuming the tour was over, I thanked the churchman and picked up my stick to leave.

“No no no! Don’t you want to go to the tower!?” I was eager to keep moving, but I couldn’t refuse his enthuthiasm. So, along with the Spanish couple, I followed him through another gate, through the back cemetery of the church, and into a door underneath the large stone church tower.

Who Needs a Bed When You Have a Beach? Part 2

I sit on a rock bed of trail mix

The various shaped pebbles

Poke against my butt while

Melodious sounds

Play in tune

With the continuous roar of

The ocean

Crashing in peaceful chaos.

 

A lull passed through our conversation. I looked at my clock, it was already 4PM. I alerted the others before deciding to pack up our things and check in to the albergue.

We walked off the beach and back up the cobblestone hill. The small albergue rested on a quiet street looking over the surrounding rolling green hills. Pilgrims sat on the porch, an older woman in the doorway.

“There’s only room for one more,” the woman said. Maddie, Aiden, and I shot each other disappointed glances. We’d indulged in too much beach fun. Julie and Elena had already checked in, so it was up to us to decide split or stick together. But then, our hippy friend made a kind offer.

“It’s a beautiful night, you can use my tent and sleeping bag if you’d like,” Julie offered.

I looked at the others. Sleeping on the beach? I was sold. Then another offer.

“You’re welcome to join us for dinner as well,” said the hospitalare. We gladly accepted, and enjoyed and huddled around a large round wooden table. We went around introducing ourselves and saying where we were from, France, Luxembourg, Spain, Germany, Russia, Slovenia. The hospitalare was from Switzerland, and sat across from her assistant, Elena from Spain. She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t think of why.

We enjoyed a healthy dinner. First, homemade hummus and bread along with a fresh cabbage and lettuce salad tossed with a vinaigrette dressing. Fresh handpicked edible flowers topped the salad and hummus, their bright supple petals bursting with orange and purple color. A rhubarb zucchini casserole followed, finished with a dessert of arroz con leche, rice with milk, cinnamon and lemon. All was homemade by Elena from Spain in this small donativo albergue.

“You look familiar,” Aiden said, addressing the hospitalare.

“Well of course,” the old lady with a lump on her forehead responded, “we saw you in Ribadesalla, and earlier in town today,” she replied nonchalantly, smiling. The Camino is full of familiar faces.

Sufficiently full, shocked and grateful for our numerous encounters with such a generous woman, and generally thankful for good healthy food, Aiden and I offered to clean up and wash dishes. I scrubbed and Aiden dried. Outside the kitchen window, we could see the amber yellow light of the sun begin to dip closer to the horizon. The old woman with the lump on her forehead approached.

“You’re finished now. Please go and watch the sunset. Elena will show you where you can setup the tent,” she said.

Aiden and I followed Elena down the cobblestone hill, back to the sandy dunes of the coastline. The sun was kissing the hills now, soaking their dark green limbs in a warm orange bath. Elena smoked another hand rolled cigarette as we watched.

 

Sitting on a beach

A dim glow illuminates white paper

White sand

Formed into valleys

Of dark ridges.

The roar.

The rumble and the tumble

The crash and the bang

Merge into sweet serenity.

Scarlet orange light fades

From distant hiltops

Soon to be explored.

Salt fills the cool night air

And grass escapes

From sandy dunes.

 

Dark clouds accompany the calm skies

While stars shine light,

Some fresh some stale

Fading and gleaming.

Sand sticks to my skin

A rough paste

It slips through my toes

Polishing it’s surface

As it’s done to so many

And the waves roar.

 

The roar.

 

The rumble and the tumble

The crash and the bang

Merge into sweet serenity.

 

Darkness. I pulled out my headlamp to illuminate a path as Elena navigated through the grass dunes, leading us to a grassy knoll elevated just above the sand and looking over the sprawling sea.

We thanked her for her guidance and company before she walked back up the cobblestone hill. I set up a friends tent, rolled out another friends sleeping bag, and crawled in beside another friend. Laying on the bumpy ground of the grassy dune, I listened to the crash of the waves. I felt perfectly comfortable and at home.

Who Needs a Bed When You Have a Beach? Part 1

I sat in a cool metal chair of a sunlit cafe table in Ribadesella. I was eating lunch with the Annies, Aiden, and Maddie. Once again, I made the decision to walk ahead, reluctantly leaving the Annies behind, but this time with the company of Aiden and Maddie. After we cleared our coffee dishes and packed up our assortment of oranges and trail mix we, said our goodbyes before turning back  towards the Camino.

 

As we walked away, we heard a pair of women beckoning for attention. They sat in similar sunlit chairs puffing on hand rolled cigarettes. One young, the other old with greying hair and a large lump on her forehead. The older woman had an aura of an old hippie.

“The Camino is that way” she said, pointing in the opposite direction, “but you can just follow the beach, it connects with the Camino.” We thanked them and took the suggestion, walking along the long sandy white beach bordered by jagged black rocks along the coastal hillsides.

 

After enjoying a hike filled with rugged rocky coastlines, we rolled into yet another small Spanish town. It was pretty. Small buildings with bright colored paints of reds, blues, and yellows laid scattered across cobblestone streets leading to the coast, all nestled within rolling green hills. The occasional palm tree added a tropical feel, only accentuated by the heat and sunlight.

Walking down the cobblestone hill, we approached a group of 6 women, some middle aged some older, standing in the street. Their dog, a golden retriever, loped up to us and proceeded to absorb all of my attention. Without asking for help, the women went on to direct us to the supermarket, the beach, and a nice albergue right up the road. I pulled my attention away from the dog as we thanked them and headed off for a break on the beach.

 

We sat on soft rounded rocks that laid above the wet sand. Sunny but windy, we watched blue waves capped with white rushing water support the weights of surfers crashing into the surf. We ran into a couple of Camino friends, Julie from Berlin and Elena from St. Petersburg, sprawled out along the rocks. They were wrapped in leggings and windbreakers to fight the whipping sea breeze. The five of us enjoyed ourselves, eating ham and cheese sandwiches we shared vegetables, cream cheese, hummus and drinks.

Levels of Friendship

On the Camino, many new friendships are developed, and, as in normal life, there are many different levels of friendship. These levels vary from walking together, to snagging a bite of a friend’s croissant without asking, to sharing a room and so on. To many, fostering friendships may be one of the best parts of the Camino.
At this point I had spent a good chunk of time with my class and Camino friend Anne Dominguez. Sure, we’d had some fun throughout the Camino, but as we hurdled through the windy roads of rural Spain on a warm sunny morning, led by our ever so speedy bus driver, I would have never expected calm-cool-even-keeled-Anne’s next question.
She tapped my arm. I pulled out my headphones and looked at her.
“Do you have any alcohol?” She looked tired. Her body slumped forward in her chair, her eyes drooping. Considering her apparent state and the time of day, I was a little concerned with her question.
“Alcohol wipes,” she clarafied, “I think I’m going to pass out.” Ah, she only wanted to sniff them to wake her brain up.
So, of course, I started to dig down to the depths of my pack where my alcohol wipes laid at the bottom.
She tapped my arm a second time. Once again I looked at her, but now her tired glossy eyes seemed to look right through me.
“Do you have an empty plastic bag?” She asked. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
So of course, I rummaged through my pack in search of an appropriate puke bag. I found no such thing, only a tattered bag lined with precarious tears. I looked over to her and saw a plastic grocery bag by her feet, stuffed with food she had bought just that morning.
I grabbed the bag. An open chocolate bar laid on top of the groceries inside. The heat of the day had melted it, and it’s liquefied remains could be seen dripping throughout the bag. Anne’s neasea clock was ticking. I hurriedly shuffled through the groceries, pulling out chocolate covered cheese packets and chocolate covered oranges to provide my friend with an appropriate gag bag to yack in, while also saving her fresh food. But as I did so, putting each chocolate covered item into my own tattered grocery bag, Anne’s neasea clock was winding down to zero, and as she looked over once more in desperate search for an empty bag, she looked at my hands in a tired state of horror.
“Aidan, just give me the bag.”
“Okay, let me just get this last-”
“Aidan, I’ve already puked in it.”
I looked down at my busy hands. Melted chocolate clumped between my fingers, a sticky pool rested in my palm. As I stared down at the brown goo I realized; the chocolate had been melted by nothing more than Anne’s gut and stomach acids.
I stopped my work and handed her the bag as the bus driver slammed the gas pedal around yet another sharp corner.
“It’s okay, Anne,” I said, trying to keep my composure. “You know what they say. You’re not truly friends with someone until you’ve held their puke in your hands.”
I couldn’t see Anne’s face behind the screen of the chocolate covered bag, but I like to think that I would have caught a smile if I could.

It All Works Out

Standing at a crossroads, I talk with the Annies. They’re tired. I’m tired. I lean on my stick and stare into the grass that protrudes from the cracks in the sidewalk. A small blue sedan pulls up beside us. The driver, a middle aged lady, sticks her head out the car window and tells us in Spanish that there is an albergue in Mar, a town 6 kilometers further. We thank the stranger before she speeds off. We must have looked confused but the suggestion was helpful.

The Annies decide they want to stay in the town where we stood and rest their aching shins, but I know I should carry on. My heel is feeling useable for the first time in what has felt like weeks. I continue on.

As I walk along the side of the road, alone, I find myself drifting into the thoughts in my head. Finding a place of meditation, I rhythmically strike my stick  against concrete. I couldn’t help but miss dirt roads and rugged coastal trails as I was hiking inland today.

As my mind bounced through the thoughts in my mind my eyes zoned in on the cadence of my feet and the road below as I walked up a hilly and windy road. Realizing I haven’t been paying attention to trail markers, I pull my head up. The gray guardrail winds along the right side of the road and there’s nothing but dry shrubbery on the left. Convinced that I would have noticed a turn signal I continue to walk up the winding road. Cars whizz past me.

As I climb and climb and wind and wind the speed of the cars seems to multiply in multitudes while the frequency of yellow arrows are multiplied by nothing more than zero.

The annoyances and worries of getting lost had now crept into my mind and I quicken the pace of my feet and stick, now making loud clattering sounds as it’s blunt edge is smothered against the endless winding road.

Eventually, I summit the endless road. For the first time of my Camino, I was not excited to look over the landscapes of these rolling hills and farmland. I was tired. I had been tired for the hours, and now didn’t know where I was. From where I stood, ignoring the view, I could make out a small town, just west of me. I figured it must be Mar, the town of the stranger’s directions. Refusing to backtrack down the car packed hill I had already climbed I decide to continue towards the little town.

 

The cars are whizzing

My hair is frizzing

And I don’t even know

Where I am

 

I see a small city

At least it’s pretty

Cradled in

Farmland

 

So I head that direction

Walking with little affection

I’m becoming

Tired and slow

 

And despite my complaining

I’m glad it’s not raining

The Camino is truly

A blast.

 

At the bottom of the endless road I look back at the giant hill I had unnecessarily climbed. In front of me, a large overpass rests quite restlessly, supporting the weight of semi trucks and Citroens. I walk underneath the damp dark overpass, which oddly has a pedestrian walkway painted on the side of the road. I wondered who on earth would pick this as a refreshing morning walk.

As I stepped back into the sunlight I could see buildings, houses.. a town!

Standing outside a quaint two story brick building was a small old lady. I walked up to her smiling, excited to see someone who could help direct me.

Hoping I was in the right town, I asked politely, “Donde esta la albergue Mar?” The old woman raised her eyebrows and waved her hand forward in a shooing gesture. Assuming she was ushering me away, sick of foreigners with poor Spanish skills, I thanked her and turned to seek help elsewhere. But as I turned my back she yelled, “no, no, albergue aqui!”

This was the albergue! This frail old lady, the first person I’d encountered in this small town, was precisely the person I needed to meet. I laughed at the miscommunication before she showed me inside where she charged me 5 euros for a bed.

A lesson from the Camino: with a little effort everything seems to work itself out.