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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.

 

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.

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.

Chicken Prince

As an American travelling the world I tend to despise the thought of consuming American fast food. At this very moment, I’m sitting in a small Spanish cafe eating a small Spanish tortilla (sort of a thick omelette with eggs, potatoes, ham, peppers). Such feelings of hatred can, however, be erased when weeks of walking are mixed with little diversity in diet. Too. many. sandwiches. (the cheapest option). So, naturally, as Collin and I walked into yet another town and were greeted by the familiar bubble-letter logo of a Burger King, our prejudices vanished as dreams of grease boiled to life in our minds.

Of course, it couldn’t be so easy. It was siesta, as it always seems to be by the time hungry hangry pilgrims roll in to town. We checked the hours sign, a piece of paper hung on the door, resting behind the closed mesh floor-to-ceiling shutters, and learned we only had half an hour to wait. Worth it. We rested on a park bench where people passed, gawking at our battered blistered feet and sweat caked hair.

As this is my second consecutive post about food, it may seem I’m overstating the drama of dreaming of ingestible items. This is hardly the case. The imaginations of hungry hikers are prone to prolonged and  intense flashbacks of tasty treats and savory suppers. On that park bench, in the heat of the shining sun, Collin and I were experiencing the grimiest greasiest dreams imaginable. Dreams of the fast food burger, American no less, an elusive entity in Spain.

We heard the clattering sound of the metal shutters rolling up into their coiled upright position, exposing the glass door of the Burger King. It was only ten minutes past their advertised re-opening time, a respectable feat. Like fanboys, Collin and I  immediately entered at the opening of gates to the surprise of the sleepy workers. They didn’t seem used to either such enthuthiasm or business.

We looked over the menu. Cheeseburgers, bacon cheeseburgers, double bacon cheeseburgers, triple bacon cheeseburgers, Whoppers! It was classic Burger King.

After we allowed the crazed firing of excited neurons to settle at the sights of such delicacies, we approached the counter, stomachs growling.

“Puerdo una bacon hamberguessa, por favor,” I asked, salivating with every syllable.

The young employee looked at me blankly and told me in Spanish, “We don’t have burgers. No beef. We only have chicken.”

On the Camino, the average pilgrim will experience a variety of shocking encounters. The sudden unexpected change of weather, the reunion of friends you never expected to see again, the pure kindness of hospitalarios and fellow pilgrims, along with other trail magic. But no shock has ever been more truly shocking than the feeling of waiting, thinking of, dreaming of burgers at Burger King only to learn that Burger King can’t take your money and sell you a burger.

I tried to close the gaping hole of my mouth and lower my risen eyebrows and wide eyes. I scanned the menu again, struggling to find something that didn’t consist of burgers and burger meat. I ordered a chicken sandwich.

Later that night Collin and I told the story to a class friend, August. Laughing at the bizarre burger experience, or lack thereof of, he suggested that the fast food joint should change their name to Chicken Prince. Well, although Chicken Prince supplied a tasty chicken sandwich, I think I’ll stick to the Spanish tortillas.

Gimp Squad Initiation

Less than a week out of Saint-Jean, a small pilgrim social group had formed. Leading the group was Collin, who munches miles with fortitude. He carries a bum knee and a muscle-gnarled foot as he walks.

Next is Harry. His gimp produces a bowing leg action, where he pulls his right knee out to minimize stress on his straining knee. He walks like a large and dopey fawn. Fern takes up the rear, which in this case actually places her slightly ahead of the group as she can walk slightly faster than the others. Her gimp is less noticeable. At times she would even try to deny any association with the club, but her foot injury makes such denial impossible, as she leans heavily on her two trekking poles.

This is the Gimp Squad. Three young pilgrims limping their way towards Santiago. Fearless, they trudge through the muck of the mud and the heat of the sun, resisting and hopelessly ignoring their nagging injuries and screaming limbs. 40km in one day? No problem.

So far, I had been able to avoid any affiliation with the Gimp Squad. I was healthy, my feet strong. I even went as far to share my opinion that limping was actually quite silly. “Limping’s unnecessary. It only makes injuries worse!” I would jibe as my bulging calves powered me past the struggling squad. I felt as invincible as Achilles. Pure hubris.

 

Two days after the legendary trek to Pamplona, I started for Logroño from Los Arcos. Collin had already bussed ahead to Logroño from Estella, a gimp-driven decision that ate into his soul. Harry and Fern had both trekked on ahead of me. I faced an unfamiliar feeling of bringing up the rear. I was anxious to get out and continue walking.

It was a cold morning. The cloudy, grey sky reflected in the river as I passed over the stone bridge leaving Los Arcos. It had rained the past three days and both my socks and the cuffs of my sweater were already wet. Starting off my walk alone for the first time of my Camino, I walked along the brown dirt and gravel path.

I felt the pain within the first five minutes of the walk. I had heard it whispering hints of sore muscles and slightly inflamed tendons in the past couple of days. The pain was no longer whispering. As I walked along I saw the soft image of the next town, far off in the distance, but now I heard the full bodied voice of pain bellowing from my right heel. My achilles heel.

I looked down at my foot. How could this be!? I stopped to re-tie my boots. Maybe they were too tight? Restricting blood flow? I tied a more forgiving knot hoping for some forgiveness from pain but I couldn’t quiet its voice. It started to rain.

The pain was sharp. I looked up at the distant town. It was a demoralizing sight, resting in the opposite end of the valley basin where I walked. I was 30km from Logroño. I felt as if the purity of my pilgrimage was in jeopardy as I contemplated the possibility of catching a bus from that distant town to to reach my destination. I trekked, no, I limped on. Through the rain and the whipping wind.

 

The rain is pelting

And the wind is whipping

I walk though

I don’t want to go

 

The hills are screaming

The feeling´s demeaning

My feet trudge to and fro

 

Now I hear my calf screaming

I think my ankle is bleeding

So I curse

And I pray as I walk.

 

Finally, I limp up to the buildings of the small Spanish town. I walk past closed shops. Rain pours off the old colonial style tiled roofs onto the hood of my rain jacket. The streets are empty with the exception of cold rainwater running down the middle channel of the cobblestone streets. It must be ciesta.

I come to a crossroad. On the right is the path of the Camino, spiraling down a hill and back up to another distant town. On the left, a bus stop. I jangle the change in my pocket. Somehow unsurprisingly, I pick up my sore right foot and take a step towards the right direction, only dreaming of taking a bus in the next town. I gimp on to Logroño as a full pledged member of the Gimp Squad.

 

I´m almost there now

Though I don´t know how

I fucking

Better be close

 

Now beyond the curving

I see a big building

And I quicken

The gimp in my limp

 

And now here I am

Happy as a clam

I take a

Shower I´m good

Pen and Paper

Sitting in the Iruna Cafe, in the same room where Hemingway spent hours pondering his depression and gathering inspiration, I stare down at my phone. The keyboard protrudes out of the LED light. I look up. Seventeen metal chandeliers droop from the opulent gold ceiling, emitting a gold aura throughout the cafe. Aged brown pillars spurt from the ground to form a central ring. Chatter combines to form the soothing sound of white noise as warm bodies pack above the white checkered floor. The cafe is bustling.

I think about my time in Pamplona. I arrived yesterday night, after a day of dedication and sheer willpower, my group of hikers walked over 40 kilometers for a chance to take a day off in the famous city. After arriving with low morale, sore bodies, and a few newly formed limps, our gimp squad checked into an albergue, cleaned up, and hit the town. We walked down the crowded cobblestone streets where pedestrians rule the roads and cars maneuver through them. Music seeped out of the bars. We explored the city with a new sense of energy and danced with locals.

I look back down towards my phone but its digital screen remains blank. The white light of my unwritten blog post strains my eyes. I turn down my brightness.

I can’t help but feel disconnected from any sense of inspiration. It seems to be drained from the pulsing blue light of the phone, sucking it dry just as it consumes the time and drains the melatonin of my generation. At least insomnia can lead to inspiration.

I pull out my notepad and these words flow from the red ink of my pen. It’s a silly thing, really, to be stumped by the technology that is such a useful and vital part of our modern lives. But, to use Harry’s sang of his Camino, it is what it is. And, as my red ballpoint pen scratches along the paper of my Evergreen notebook, I feel as if I have balance, and this journal post is born on paper.

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.