As a result of my extended layovers in different cities, I have lost track of what day it is, and what day on the Camino it should be. I’m reorganising my entries according to beginning and resting points. But first…
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ZOE!
The WiFi is so unpredictable here. I had planned to blog you a Happy 18th, and catch up my Camino days, but the weather in Ponferrada changed, the winds blew, the rain poured, and…no WiFi again. Dear Zoe, know that you are embraced by Love. You will never need anything else. xoxoxomomxoxoxo Miss you. Prayed for you today, as I promised I would.

Camino Day: Zubiri to Trinidad de Arre

Ya know, after I crossed over the Pyrenees, I arrogantly thought I’d never be troubled by another hill. I seriously need to start looking at the Brierley Guide to see what’s ahead. Each climb between Zubiri and Trinidad de Arre, in the heat, was a kick in the pride of my accomplishment at Col de Lepoeder (1450 metres). The Camino is a bit of an aerobic boot camp.

Anja fared well with her blisters. We walked into Larrasoana, but spent far too much time figuring out where to buy food, water, and treats. Several wrong turns later and some muddled questions in Spanish, an old guy directed us to Casa Elita and Spain’s version of The Soup Nazi. I ordered a bocadillo with ham and cheese, but offended the good woman by using the French word for ham. (Damn those high school French lessons that rooted more deeply than previously acknowledged!) I’d also forgotten a little rhyme I’d heard: HAMon from Ramon. A pretty good trick to remember pronunciation…in my HAMble opinion. (…sorry kids. It’s been so long!) She pointed out to me that “jambon” is in France, and HAMon is in Spain. The unhappy woman cut her finger while opening a carton of milk or juice, sucked at the blood, and began making my bocadillo and Anja’s meal. Well, I’m still living.

A framed picture of Emilio Estevez, Martin Sheen, and some of the crew of “The Way” hung on the wall behind the cash register. The owner’s son had a part in “The Way”. Mom told me her son wasn’t an actor, and I’m not sure how he got the role. My Spanish couldn’t keep up with her Spanish, and a proud Spanish mom speaks verrrrry quickly! Anyway, showing some interest, speaking some Spanish, and clearing some tables probably guaranteed me a bowl of soup at Cafe Elita on some future Camino. At least she was smiling when Anja and I left.

We continued our long, hot, dry way to Irotz. Several times cyclists approached quietly from behind, so Anja and I scrambled to press ourselves into a wall of brush and dirt to let them pass. The path to Irotz was so very narrow. In one place, the cyclist’s tire marks were at the very edge of the path. A centimeter more, and both bike and rider would slip over the edge. The cyclists yelled, “Tranquilla.” No need for us all to fall over the side in our clumsy dance to accommodate the other.

In Irotz, we enjoyed Mojitos on a stick, and met a couple of cyclists who gave me a different Camino perspective. The couple wore cycling shoes, but suffered from blisters and other foot ailments as a result of frequently having to push their bikes over rough terrain not suited to cycle shoes. Riding also presented problems for their rear ends. Many cyclists sat sideways to alleviate the pain in their asses. And I thought they were just trying to look cool! 😉

To try to make a very long day shorter, Anja and I followed a couple of false yellow arrows designed to direct us to a new albergue. The resulting walk added kilometers and thirst to our day. We arrived to Trinidad de Arre behind Gary and Mary, who assured us that we’d have a bed at the monastery, and it was the best possible place to stay. I, again, had reached the point where I’d sleep with animals in a barn if it meant taking off my backpack and shoes.

A group of us wandered into the city for a pilgrim’s meal. Kids played in the street with what looked like one-wheeled bicycles. The head of a bull (No! Not a real bull’s head!) adorned the handle bars. I’m not sure of the rules of this game, but the child charged a crowd of children with the one-wheeled bull, “steering” (hahahaha. Not my best.) the horns directly at the easiest targets. As long as I watched, I didn’t see any child hurt.

Later we attended a short Pilgrim’s Service in the beautiful church. Martin conducted the service, and later explained the Roman and Gothic architectural elements of the church. Perhaps, most importantly for me, he spoke of Pilgrimage. He said we were all seeking something. We must continue to question and be open to answers. He spoke of the meaning of Ultreia. Upwards. Not just up higher, up another hill or mountain. Upwards to God.

I cannot say I’d considered this when I named my blog Ultreia. Thank you, Martin and Trinidad de Arre.

Serendipity is real.

Ultreia!

Day 17: Stuck in Leon. No walking.

Things have taken a drastic detour. Before I look back on my peregrina days, I’ll spill the unexpected details of the past several days leading to my prescribed bed rest, two trips to the hospital, a visit to a physiotherapist, and a pair of crutches.

Warning! It ain’t pretty or even terribly interesting! You can scroll down to the Zubiri to Trinidad de Arre section. 🙂

After getting lost way too often (how did I get around India?), I added a few unnecessary kilometers to my day, and limped into Viana. I might have walked 17 -18 kms, but my left knee pained me terribly. Perhaps carrying a single wood walking stick was not in my knee’s best interest? I drew the compassion of Carmen, the hospitalera, who kindly gave me a bottom bunk. Other peregrinos went out to buy food for me,, as I could not put much weight on my left knee. My pain prevented me from going into town to watch the running of the bulls (which Carmen said was actually a running of the cows. I can’t say. I wasn’t there.

The next morning brought little change. I was the last to leave the albergue, and stubbornly refused to listen to my body. I limped past the bullfighting ring as city workers cleaned the streets and wished me a Buen Camino…poor peregrina. I limped to and through Logrono and on to Navarette (another day of close to 20 km after getting lost several times).

Maybe Navarette is where my Camino ends. I’m not sure. I spent two nights and a full day in bed with my left leg elevated to alleviate the swelling. Somehow, I had to get to Burgos to meet Andrew, but boarding a bus was not possible. Enter Raoul and his Toyota taxi. God bless the man, and the hospitaleros at El Cantero. Three people carried me down two flights of stairs (bye-bye dignity) and placed me in the taxi. One hundred kilometers and 130 Euros later, Raoul deposited my backpack at Hostal Lar in Burgos, then promptly drove me to the new University Hospital in Burgos. I had to visit the good doctors at the hospital twice. The second time with Andrew. Half carrying me. My left leg was swollen from the knee to my toes. My ankle bone disappeared under a fleshy mass, and my toes looked like sausages.

The doctor did blood work and x-rays to rule out an infection, a blood clot, a broken    meniscus, and God know what else? They’ve seen many Camino injuries, judging from the eye rolling whenever someone pointed to my knee and said “Camino de Santiago”. They bound my knee tighter than a King Tut wrap, and ordered several more days of absolute bed rest.

Andrew and I took a long three-hour bus ride across the Meseta to Leon from Burgos, a seven-day walk! We discussed many options, including my return to Canada, our return to Canada, and touring Spain on my damnable crutches until I can walk again… at some point. The fantastic physiotherapist in Leon has been helpful, but he’s uncertain I’ll be able to finish my Camino. I see him again tomorrow for more deep tissue massage and ultrasound. (Oh, and always have travel medical insurance.)

I have cried uncontrollably of loneliness, frustration, pain, disappointment, fear, and shame. When Andrew showed up late Saturday night to my dark room in a Burgos Hostal (I couldn’t get off the bed to pee or turn on a light) carrying licorice all sorts and a bag of candy corn, I cried on his shoulder. I figured I hadn’t just ruined my Camino by pushing through the pain, but I had just murdered his dream and our honeymoon.

My Camino lessons have largely occurred along the detour. I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk to Santiago de Compostela. I’m letting go, slowly.  I am listening to my body now.  Jose Luis told me in Burgos, “You have only one pair of knees. The Camino will always be here. Come back well.”

I am grateful for my health. I am wounded in a foreign country, but I am well.

I am blessed by the countless people who have touched my life along the Camino, and helped me toward wholeness when I felt anything but whole.

And I am married to a man I smugly thought I knew, and yet am now experiencing his enormous  spirit and selflessness and compassion.  God bless you, Andrew. God blessed  me with you so many years ago.

Sorry for the length of this and the emotion. It’s sure to raise a few laughs or eye brows.  Many things happened on the Way from St. Jean Pied de Port to Navarette. I’ll report on those another day, assuming the WiFi holds out here in Leon. I experienced a three-day WiFi dry spell in Burgos. But here in the shadow of Leon’s beautiful cathedral, I know that whatever happens next on this Camino…every little thing is gonna be all right.

Miss you all so much. Love you more.

Ultreia!

I’m still confined to bed. No improvement. The Ibuprofen is turning my bowels to mush, and 24 hours from meeting Andrew, I’m terrified that my Camino is coming to an end. More later.

Day 4: Camino Day 3 Roncesvalles to Zubiri

Did I text someone “KILL ME NOW”? Did the Brierley guide lie? Am I a wuss? The Polish girl I met yesterday is walking her second Camino. She told Lihi and me that today was also an extremely difficult day. Lihi read that on a scale of 1 to 4, with 1 being the easiest, today to Zubiri was a 1. Maybe Lihi lied to keep us walking. Good strategy!

We left the monastery at Roncesvalles spiritually refreshed. A mass during the previous evening in a fabulous church was moving and inspirational. The priest read out the names of each country represented on the Camino that evening, and read a pilgrim’s blessing in almost each of those languages.

A few meters outside the monastery, Lihi and I decided to grab something light for breakfast. I grooved to Genesis and complimented the barrista on her cord and bead bracelet. (High school Spanish is serving me well.) As soon as we sat with our cafe con leche and guilty pleasures, a Camino amiga ran to us with the terrible news that one of our American friends had caught her hiking pole in a raised grate, had fallen, and smashed her knees, hand, and forehead. When Kim happened along with her husband Gary, we did fear that her Camino was finished. Nope. She’s probably in Santiago now as I learn to be in the moment and accept my painful knee.

The group of us left the cafe and made our way past a cafe that housed a piano signed by Hemingway. He’s kind of a big thing in this part of Spain. 😉 The cafe was closed, so we continued through numerous pastures, always remembering to close the gates behind us. Where  in Ontario can you walk with such freedom through a farmer’s pasture? Some pilgrims forget to close the gate. Are they lazy? Forgetful? How hard is it to close a freakin’ gate?

After much walking, our band of Camino buddies arrived at a remote cafe. After downing one more cafe con leche (from now on ccl), I opted to stay behind with Anjia who suffered from sores I’d be hard pressed to call blisters. Holy shit!

Anjia and I continued at our own snail pace towards Zubiri. Perhaps we both misread the guide and the maps and the barristas, but it sure seemed a piss lot longer than 10k to the Zubiri finish line. I took my second outdoor wizz in the woods and struggled uphill over loose rocks and downhill over loose rocks and REPEAT FOR SEVERAL KILOMETERS!

Never have I laughed so hard or so long. I suppose Zubiri residents thought we were mad. When we arrived after 6 pm, there was no room at the inn. Or the next inn. Or the next. We just happened to meet Lihi who scored us each a mattress on the floor of a handball gym (?) after a game (Think athlete smell. Think pilgrim smell.) We enjoyed a great pilgrim menu with wine, walked to a neighbouring bar where Liam the Irish paramedic did terrible but healing things to Anjia’s blisters, and enjoyed the best sleep ever!

Lessons: I’m never so dirty that I’ll shower in a Zubiri handball shower room. However, I do remember saying I’d sleep with bedbugs or serial killers if either offered me a bed. I was THAT tired.

Ultreia!

I will begin catching up Day 3 (Camino Day 2) by admitting to being disabled in bed, at the moment. I will be okay, but I am not now okay. My knee is bigger than it should be, and walking without crutches is impossible. Bursitis. Who’d have thought? Anyway, I needed a couple days to figure out WordPress and my handwritten notes about the past  few Camino days.

Day 3: Orisson to Roncesvalles

Clothes do not dry when the overnight temperatures are cool and the air is damp. Not news, but the reality meant carrying a very heavy backpack filled with soaked clothing and travel towel. Someone said there were dryers at Orisson. News to the several pilgrims in my room.

I began the rest of the climb up and then over the Pyrenees in cloudy, cool weather. The rest of the day was a coats off, coats on, coats off again experience. I’m lazy and Canadian. Coat off. Too much work to remove the backpack and put it back on each time the sun disappeared. The cold wasn’t really bothersome, either. Felt like a crisp spring St. Catharines day.

Now for the reader interactive part. Am I stupid or just incapable of reading basic maps? From St. Jean to Orisson…about 8-9 kms including distance walking out of St. Jean. Distance from Orisson to top of Pyrenees (Col de Lepoeder) another 10 kms. Remember how long I said it took me to climb to Orisson?

I became a child. A scared child. Can I reach the top of this mountain? Around every corner, another hill. I couldn’t look up, but regularly did. The scenery gave me a great reason to stop. Horses close enough to touch. Ewes everywhere. At one point, we blessedly had to stop for an army of sheep crossing before us. I begged them to linger, but that was just me being tired and baaaaad. Sorry.)

The many sounds of the Pyrenees blend into one beautiful hymn. Horses whinny, sheep baa, birds sing, roosters call time,, the wind blows, and shepherds shout. Pilgrims climb. Higher and higher. I couldn’t take another step, and my Camino family left me behind. Lihi from Jerusalem waited with me as if being with me was the only thing for her.

Of course, I felt like added weight. We needed to make it to Roncesvalles AND find a room. There were so many people starting out from St. Jean Pied de Port in September this year. Doesn’t anyone work anymore? 🙂 “Why don’t you trust me?” Lihi asked. I couldn’t believe anyone would want to keep pace with a snail. Even the snails ditched me.

Before we reached the French-Spanish border, a few of us took a wicked piss. Yup, Zoe. Dropped trow outdoors near the sheep and watered the earth. Funny thing about sheep. They will watch. Pilgrims, on the other hand, discretely look away.

The French-Spanish border was a three-beam affair with streamers hanging from the top. As I stood beneath the beam, the wind whipped away the streamers, so I don’t look like much. But neither does it! In fact, Lihi refused to believe it was THE border. Apparently border crossings are very different in Israel. She took my picture just in case I was right.

As I was about to wonder again if “we were there yet?” we rounded a corner and…I won’t describe the splendour. I cannot.

What I did see were people sprawled on the top of the mountain breathing in the landscape, the air, the sounds. They prayed, gave thanks, rejoiced, called or texted loved ones, and sang. Some danced. Some stayed silent. Nobody immediately began the ascent.

I took 6h 25m to climb the Pyrenees. I discovered Heaven and Hell. So many others more or less breezed over. How I envied them.

The Descent: 2h 20m. Almost took a wrong turn. Made an executive decision amongst a team of one Polish girl, one Israeli, and one Canadian. Took five steps and saw the sign we’d all missed. Well, we had made the right decision.

The Lesson: The sign is always there when you need it. Quit talking.   Be aware.

Roncesvalles wrapped its monastery arms around me, did my laundry, offered me a bed, a small locker, and a pilgrim menu of fish, fries, soup, cafe con leche, and two carafes of wine.

Like a woman’s labour, all was forgotten. Again, I think I was forgiven all my bad thoughts on the way up and occasionally on the (easier) way down.

Ultreia!

Day 2: St. Jean Pied de Port to Orisson.

I will probably go straight to Hell for some of the things I thought today. I began my pilgrimage in a small shop. It’s never too late to pick up a 30 Euro copy of the John Brierley Guide to the Camino de Santiago. (Here is the first of many asides. I hope his wife was involved with the rewrite due out in January 2014. Seriously…what is it with men and length?) I also picked up a fine collection of shells to weigh down my pack and a walking stick to help me forget the extra weight of the shells. THE MINUTE I stepped onto the cobblestone street, it poured rain. I couldn’t find my well-packed Journey Behind the Falls rain poncho, so I walked in cool rain up  the Pyrenees for the next 3 1/2 hours.

Following is a summary of the 7 kms I took 3 1/2 hours to accomplish:

Sheep, sheep shit,, cow bells (glorious even when not used in rock music!), tall mountains, rolling hills, mist, clouds above, around, and over me, more sheep shit.

Walking slowed to take ten steps, stop, breathe ten times. Repeat. Okay, take five steps, breathe for ten. Hope to repeat. Maybe just try to make it to the next tree.

I tried praying a Hail Mary. Isn’t there a football play called a Hail Mary for desperate situations? I think I might have said a few Hell Marys just to guarantee my place in Hell. But I’ve apologised at every statue of Mary along the roadside and in every church I’ve visited. I think Mary and I are okay. If not, all my sins are forgiven in Santiago anyway.

I practically crawled into Orisson. Thanks to my smile, bedraggled state, and Jocelyne’s French instruction, I managed to score a top bunk in a room with 11 others for 32 Euros including a Pilgrim Menu at supper and a breakfast. Pity the pilgrims who couldn’t wade through the rain and sheep shit by 2:00 p.m. to score the bunk. Frankly, I can’t imagine anyone walking slower than I walked. The green caterpillars and long-ass snails passed me on their way to Santiago. They carried messages from home: We told you to train! and No one said you had to do this! Screw them! Of course, I mean the snails. 🙂

Before I try to post this, I have to say I missed a lot by not having sleepovers as a kid. Can anything prepare you for farting, coughing, snoring, farting, get up to the bathroom or down … depending on your bunk… farting, snoring…..

The guy next to me in the top bunk saw I was still awake, and recommended  I go out and look at the night sky. I saw the Milky Way as I have never seen it. Hail Mary.

Ultreia!

I am typing on a Spanish keyboard. I cannot get WordPress and my iphone to see eye to eye, AND finding wifi is nearly impossible. I´m on a computer in an albergue in Mañeru…not Manure, Rose! Everyone else is sleeping, and frankly, I wish I were too.

Okay, I´m calling this Day 1: Planes, Trains, and Automobiles…but not in that order. (What can I say? One beer and a couple of pilgrim glasses of wine…)

I made it out of YYZ with only one minor trip of the alarm. My sterling bangles set off the alarms. Score one for bling!

The plane ride to Paris was frought with turbulence. I was able to catch up on three movies I´d missed: Iron Man 3, Fast and Furious #?, and The (most recent) Hangover. That one I couldn´t finish because I was enjoying the turbulence too much.

Once in Paris, I was patted down and felt up until I´m sure the French woman found my long-lost virginity. (Sorry Zoe. I couldn´t resist.) The plane to Toulouse was 35 minutes late. I needed a safety net of 90 minutes to get from the airport to the train station, buy a ticket, and find the right train on the platform. No easy feat in France. Again, luck was on my side. With only 85 minutes, grade 12 French, and a smile, I made my way to the train station, bought a ticket, and got on the correct train to Bayonne… with 15 minutes to spare! And I made a Dutch friend on the way!

From Bayonne, I experienced the French WC. Holy crap. I don´t mind when people watch me wait for a bus, or taxi, or one of my kids. However, standing on a busy corner waiting for the metal door to swish open after it SELF CLEANED… (yup…reminds me of that story There Will Fall Soft Rains. Can´t use punctuation around the title, because I can´t find it on this damn Spanish keyboard. Sorry Maria.)…so that I could pee was embarrassing. The police rolled up to a red light and smiled at me. Jesus! Another guy jumped into the men´s self cleaning pissoire, and got bleached. hahaha. Must have been a stupid tourist too.

From Bayonne, I had to catch a bus to St. Jean Pied de Port. I guess between me getting on a train in Toulouse and arriving in Bayonne, the train workers went on strike. I was lucky to catch a second bus to St. Jean Pied de Port, but arrived soooo late. I was actually afraid for the first time when faced with the steepness of the stone streets of St. Jean. I huffed my way to the Pilgrim Office to get my Pilgrim Passport signed, and nearly passed out from the climb. Breathe easy. I´m clearly typing this after my sixth day of walking. I survived.

All of the auberges were mostly filled, but the kind people at the office stamped my passport on tope of the St. Catherine´s Cathedral imprint, and sent me on my way to a fine, old dungeony auberge. I slept in a room with a double bed and a bunk bed. Min, the Korean cyclist, slept above me. Kim and Gary from ¿North Carolina? slept in the double bed. The only double bed I´ve seen so far.

We were on time for the pilgrims´ meal. So far after the fact, I won´t burden you with the stale details, but it was very good. Several of us shared several pitchers of wine, which helped make the farting and snoring during the night bearable. Apparently, I had the best room. Only four people AND next to the bathroom AND two doors removed from the shower. I wondered in the morning how all those people who took their trumpets and tubas into the bathroom were going to carry them over the Pyrenees. 😉

Upon leaving our auberge, the host wished us Ultreia. Onwards. I took it as a good omen. I´d have hated getting the name or meaning of my blog wrong.

I probably should go to bed. I´m hanging here with two Spaniards, one of whom got to see Zoe when I facetimed her earlier as she slept.

If I can 1) find WiFi and a computer tomorrow, 2) make it over the next freakin´big hill, and 3) stay awake and sober enough to type on another Spanish keyboard, I´ll post days 2 through 7.

But you know…Spanish wine is sooooo good.

From Mañeru, Spain…Ultreia!

…and know that all mistakes and spelling errors can be blamed on this keyboard. But how cool are these symbols: ¿€çºª?

Just finished sewing the Canadian Company of Pilgrims badge on my backpack. I probably should have done that before I stuffed it full of my Camino crap. Oh damn! Where is the needle?

Not much of a blog entry for my first blog entry ever, but this really is a test. Setting up the blog was the most difficult part of my Camino preparations.

As it is past midnight, I can now say, “I’m leaving today for Paris!” I must run through my list of things still to pick up/do/not to forget one more time.

Ciao for now.