Category: Friends – Spirit

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 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.

Cream Puff Dream

Anne (Dominguez) and I arrived in the small town of Najera in the early afternoon. Siesta. In need of a bathroom, we searched the streets, walking past the typical sight of closed shutters and empty bars. Finally, we came across a small bakery, still open.
A variety of pastries laid beneath a glass counter. Butter-soaked croissants, jelly-filled cookies, and pastries I’d never seen before. One caught my eye. A tall pile of cream spiraled up from a bed of marange cookie. I wondered what it tasted like and expressed my admiration to Anne. In an attempt to resist my ever-existing sweet tooth, I left my wallet in my pocket.
Out of pure kindness, and maybe in the hopes of a snacking partner, Anne ignored my refusal and bought me the pastry and its mountain of cream. The woman behind the counter took our pastries from the display case to place them on a decorative paper, wrap them, and set them in a white box tied with a ribbon on top.
Now, in search of an albergue, we decided to call around to find a couple of beds. We approached two park benches that looked across a small cobblestone square. One bench stood in the shade of a building where I set down the pastry box. We beside sat in the sunny bench. An short, plump older woman sat beside us. Her all-black outfit matched her dark hair and her olive skin soaked up the afternoon sun.
After calling all albergues, the two of us headed to the grassy banks of the river where we laid down for a nap (I was beginning to enjoy the daily siesta). Enjoying the calming sound of the flowing river, we gazed up at the white puffy clouds. I closed my eyes.
Anne turned to me to dreamily ask, “what happened to the desserts?”
“What?” I asked, sleepily dazed.
“The pastries!” Anne responded, more urgency in her voice now. Hunger crept into my mind as I realized what I had done…
“The park bench! I left them on the shady bench. I’ll run over.” I held a brisk walk, powering through my gimp, walking along the river back towards the park bench. As I rounded the corner of the cobblestone square, I could make out the short figure of the Spanish woman in the distance, but now pastry box.
As I walked closer, I could now see the Spanish woman was holding something in her hand. Looking around, she began to lift her hand to her mouth and now I could see. A tall swirl of cream and spongy cake rose from her hand and into her mouth. My cream puff! It was her first bite. I couldn’t help but burst into laughter. What timing!
I couldn’t face her alone, so I ran back to Anne to tell her of our loss. Back at the river, I somberly chuckled the story back to Anne. We decided to walk back to tell her about our mistake and laugh with her, but by the time we walked back she was gone, along with our pastries. I wondered what that creampuff pastry would have tasted like.

Looking back on my walk to Saint Jean Pied de Port

Yesterday afternoon, I arrived in Saint Jean Pied de Port. The sun was shining bright and my back was sweaty. After nine days of walking, I had picked up a useful trick of wrapping my bandanna around my chin, bonnet-style, and wearing my baseball hat over it to protect my pale, and recently crisped skin, from the wrath of the sun. I envisioned myself as an old French lady (though I’m not sure where that image came from).

Walking through the streets of the small pilgrim packed town, I reflected on my days walking through southwestern France. A few things stuck out. As a PNW mountain snob I had greatly underestimated  the legitimacy of the Pyrenees. Their purple brown masses rise from the Basque country to form a picturesque range, capped with white peaks. A daunting but exhilirating sight for a walker. I was excited to take them on the next day.

It’s also the people who live by the foothills of the mountains that have provided my walk with spirit. While walking the Camino  in France, a fully prepared pilgrim is expected to call each accommodation in advance to reserve a bed. Without a phone and with a great lack of Wi-Fi, I was able to do without by leaning on the help of fellow pilgrims and their phones, town citizens and their directions and patience with my foreign language, and the owners of the auberges who accepted my friends and I with open doors and even a few jokes. Not to mention the fantastic bakers who make some of the best variety of baguettes, bread and pastries I’ve tasted.

I found a place to stay in Saint Jean and enjoyed the last night in France.