Neverending

(May 29th) We woke up so beautifully in Roncesvalles and began our walk through flat farm fields in beautiful blue skies. We walked about 3 or 4 kilometers before we got to the next village which the guidebook recommended as having a fine panaderia (bakery). We arrived about 10 minutes before it opened, but we decided it was well worth waiting, so we did. And it was! And we started something, because as soon as we ordered, the place filled up. Suddenly, there were walking sticks and backpacks everywhere! Tee con leche (tea with milk). It´s what I have every morning at home, but it tastes so good in another language!

So fortified, we started off. Little did we know that it was going to be such a long, long day. When I was in grade school, my family took a vacation to New England and we tried to get to Mystic Seaport. Everytime we saw a sign for it, it was further away than the last time. That became kind of an icon for my family. This was a Mystic Seaport kind of day. And in fact, coming out of one hilly town, I followed the sign towards Larasoanna, our destination for that night. It told me so many kilometers. It took me up a very steep and rocky, but quite beautiful, path with wildflowers everywhere, and a gorgeous view as I climbed near the top of this ridge. Then the path wound through woods at the top, past another memorial, this one for a Japanese pilgrim who died along the way, and finally - finally! - I came out at another sign for Larasoanna, which, just like Mystic Seaport, was now more kilometers away than when I had started up the trail! I felt like I had to have taken the wrong path (even though it was a very beautiful one through the flowers and the woods, and I thoroughly enjoyed it), but at the end of the day, when I checked with everyone else, they had all done the same thing!

I stopped in one little town for a break and watched a little boy, playing at being grown up with his dad. He moved wood with his play wheelbarrow, taking it all very seriously. He's very cute and oblivious to all the people who walk by.

We were still in the mountains of the Pyrenees, although coming out of them, which means going down hill, which means very hard on the knees. Some of the descent was exceedingly steep. There are lots of metaphors about the Camino in relationship to life and one of them is that there is lots of variations in the surface. Some parts are smooth and others are rutted and rocky. Others are simply dirt, while others are fancy. We have seen quite a variety. Parts of the walk that day were on flagstone paths, others were through wooded sections, still others through pastures. The descent into Zubiri was very steep, rocky and rutted and long. It was necessary to be very careful. Life, of course, has different sections, each of which has different textures, some of which are more difficult than others. One of the many other metaphors is that of sharing the journey - sometimes we walk alone, sometimes we walk with others, sometimes we change partners, sometimes we walk with many people and sometimes, we encounter people again. All of that has also already happened and happened that day.

I walk faster than Mary and Stella, even when I am not walking fast by my normal pace, so I was ahead of them by a ways by the time I reached Zubiri. It seemed to be a good time to wait on them and give them time to catch up. I wanted to make sure they saw the sign to Larasoanna. And also, there was reportedly no opportunity to get food in Larasoanna and the next day was Sunday and nothing would be open until we got to Pamplona, so we might want to think about getting something at the little tienda, or market, in Zubiri.

There was a lovely shaded spot, right where the trail to Larasoanna veered off - unfortunately, it was not down by the crystal clear little river where I so badly wanted to dip my feet! But I waited for a while. Which gave me a chance to meet and talk with Michael from Denmark. Mary and Stella didn´t show in the next 45 minutes, so Michael and I went to the market, got a few things, rounded up his friend, Christian, from Sicily (I just love the internationality of all this!) and the three of us headed onward. And onward. And onward. Did I say onward?

In Spain, you get more for your money with the average kilometer. Don´t believe the signs. They´re approximate, I´m sure. There are special signs just for the camino and you get used to looking for them everywhere. Yellow arrows will never be the same for me again. They are everywhere, though sometimes you really do have to have your eyes about you to see them. They are, or can be, on the pavement, on the side of buildings, on little posts out of the groud, on the back of street signs, on light poles. Sometimes they are just yellow arrows, sometimes they are a logo-ized version of a scallop shell, the symbol of St. James and the camino. (See my "Camino" page for why the Scallop shell is associated with St. James.)

We should have been getting pretty close when we saw one that said Larasoanna was just 1.9 km away. Okay, that´s less than one and a half miles. We can do that. We walked and we walked and we walked, through fields and woods, by hedges. Finally, as we were passing a horse farm, I asked the guy in my pigeon-Spanish and he said something like ´yea, yea´and waved us on down the road, so we continued on further for a ways. Then we passed a backpacker coming our way and asked him and he said in broken English, "Oh, you´re really close, just a few more steps!" Well, about a quarter mile later, we finally were there. Mystic Seaport, all over again.

Quirky little place, Larasoanna. There's a little bridge crossing over to it from the pilgrimage trail. The guidebooks say that bandits used to lay in wait for travelers entering and leaving the village to rob them. Fortunately, there don't seem to be any on this day. There are lots of trout swimming in the river, though. The village is small, and skinny, squished between a highway (it's easy to forget that you're close to civilization when you're on the Camino) and the trail, but not very long. Perhaps a hundred or more folks live here. Again, they grow beautiful roses, but there is not much else to recommend it. The lady who checks me into the refugio is not terribly welcoming and doesn't appreciate my attempts to speak Spanish. She tells me, "You are in Spain; speak Spanish!" Sounds rather like some not so kind Americans I have heard. So Larasoanna is not high on my list of must-see villages. No-frills refugio, with an awful ladies' room. At least four men around me snoring all night. Mary and Stella were late enough checking in that Stella gets one of the bunks downstairs just outside the bathroom doors, so she is awakened all night long as the lights are turned on and the doors are slammed. We eat at the only little restaurant bar in town. Ed and Terry from Rochester NY were there, along with Peter from Germany and Laurence, a woman from Quebec, and others we met along the way. Not very good pasta, pretty good beef stew and some runny rice pudding. My first Spanish beer - Keler. Not bad. Moving on in the morning which will be okay.

Whew

We left our cozy alburgue or gite d'rural at Hunnto after a breakfast of hearty crusty bread, butter and jam and either tea or coffee.
We knew we were facing a tough day and the sky was looking rather overcast. As we checked out of the hostel, we noted a card for transport services for backpacks. Stella and I were more than a little interested. Note that we are wearing shorts, mostly because of the weather we had experienced the day before. We will learn that one can not judge the weather by the day before!
It turned out that the sherpa services are Caroline, the same person who had been our shuttle driver the day before. We tried to contact her, but with no luck, so we were just starting out up the mountain, when suddenly, who should drive up, but Caroline, on her way up to the other alburgue about 1.5 km further up the mountain. We flagged her down. She highly advised against her taking our bags due to inclement weather expected on the mountain, but for Stella and I, that was all the more reason TO do it! So I quickly grabbed all that I thought I would need for the day, including my windbreaker, but not my poncho, which was too far down, and stuffed it into the small canvas bag (my carry-on for the airline) and slung that over my shoulders. Caroline was not happy, but she took our bags and agreed to drop them off at Roncevalles, on the other side of the mountain. Mary, meanwhile, looked on, with no qualms about shouldering her bag. I didn't know how much my bag weighed, but I knew it was over 20 lbs. Mary's was somewhere around 15 and Stella's was probably about 17 (to get lighter and lighter as she left things behind along the Camino!).

Talking about challenging, today was probably the most physically challenging of the trip, though others will be challenging for duration and heat. Today we did about 19km, mostly upwards and some very steep, between Hunnto and Roncevalles, so we are now back in Spain. While yesterday, I was really glad to see the gite at Hunnto, words cannot describe the joy at seeing the monastery today about 2 pm at Roncevalles after starting out at 730 this morning at Hunnto!

About 1.5 km after Hunnto was another alburgue, Orisson.
We stopped there for a brief break and to get sandwiches to take with us, because it was the last inhabited place between there and Roncevalles. Wild horses and ponies gather around this refugio, mostly looking for food handouts. There are two kinds of the horses/ponies - wild and farmers'. You can tell them apart because some have bridles on. We saw them a number of times before we got too far up the mountain.
Just knowing that there are 17 km of non-inhabited land ahead of us is enough to give one pause for thought! All of the land between is prime grazing land for herds of cattle, sheep and horses and that has first priority over human habitation. Surprisingly, there were a number of vehicles, though. It was difficult, but lovely views for a little while. Then, as we got higher and higher, the fog set in. And then mist, which turned into light rain, and a little wind. I so wished tht I had pulled out my poncho, but I still would have been wet to the bone in my shorts and boots. It was rather miserable for quite a while. Visibility was down to about 50 feet or so, so there were absolutely no views to be had. The only choice was to keep going. About two-thirds of the way up the mountain, the path takes a turn off a more defined trail for a more rugged, rustic path. At this point, there is a well-known arrow marker so that (hopefully) pilgrims won't miss it. It is sort of a point to say, "Yea, we just might make it yet!" So, since some other hikers were with us, we took the photo op!


You have to learn to walk at your own pace on the Camino, and while Stella was often fastest at the uphills, I had, in general, the fastest pace. I would have been just as uncomfortable trying to slow down and stay with Mary who was next closest behind me somewhere in the fog, or Stella, further back, as either of them would have been trying to keep up with me. I have always been a fast walker, and, in my running days, a relatively fast runner with a long stride for my leg length. So as a result, I lost them in the fog and mist and had only myself and unseen herds of sheep for companionship for much of the time...

[Did I leave you hanging? Sorry, haven´t had internet access for the last couple days and now I am limited by the only euro I have in my pocket. Still haven´t found wifi to be able to download pictures from my computer, just internet access in the refugios/alburgues where we are staying that look a lot like old computer game terminals. ]

Anyway, the day on the mountain was arduous, but pretty neat in some ways. Like being challenged beyond your limits and meeting the challenge. For the most part, I was in a world by myself, except when I happened along some other pilgrim or occasionally someone passed me - there are a number of folks who walk faster! The fog closed to within 30 or less feet of visibility at times, as we climbed higher, and the hood of my jacket kept me from seeing much of the woods around me. There were the occasional sounds of birds - real cuckoos before we got up too far (they´re not just for clocks anymore!) The climb up was rather brutal. I waited somewhere for Mary and Stella to catch up and we crossed into Spain near the top of the peak just as the landscaped changed to a very weird, gray, slaggy, slate-like, other-worldly place. It was almost like something out of a horror or sci-fi movie. There were call boxes on posts every so many feet with numbers on the posts. These were so if pilgrims got stranded in really bad weather, they could call for help. Somewhere, we passed our first marker to a pilgrim who had died on the mountain because he couldn't be rescued in time. A sobering thought.

On the way down the mountain, there were places where there were seasons upon seasons of leaves piled upon each other and it was rather fun walking on them. It was odd being in a world by myself (Stella and Mary were somewhere behind me again), not the sound of another human invention (plane,train or automobile) or being. Interesting things take on colors in this world of drizzly grays and browns, like this lizard, who was a sharp black and yellow. It was rather mystical, but my field of vision was so limited by the hood of my jacket and looking downward, out of the rain, that I felt a little cheated, walking through a world that I wanted to see more of, but couldn´t quite. Everything was so still, yet so alive, so quiet, yet so in the moment, if that makes any sense. Every drip of rain was important. I was colder and wetter than anytime I could remember since I had been a child playing in the snow.

I walked on and on, alone, but not alone, aware that I was being watched over, not just by God, but by the woods, by creatures that had their eyes on me. Eventually, I worked my way down out of the mist and clouds to a long series of hair pin curves. I finally linked up with other pilgrims - Livia and Alesandra from Milano, a couple from Germany and some others. With them, I started following some of the short cuts. The last part of the journey, about 20 minutes perhaps, was through a beautiful wooded stretch. We came to a place where there was a monument, and then a small church, and then finally, we rounded a turn and there, at last, was a view of the gray tiles of the monastery. We all cheered spontaneously.

I arrived in Roncevalles about an hour before Stella and Mary, so I got checked in, found Stella's and my backbacks (glad to spend the 8 euros, but Caroline had been right about the weather!), settled into a bunk in the huge alburgue and began to explore a bit. The alburgue was in a large building (sleeping 100 pilgrims in bunk beds all in one room!) with thick stone walls. The main monastery is constructing a large wing to match the original building to expand their capacity. The doors of the alburgue closed at 10, and when late arriving pilgrims knocked on the door, they were not let in (the place was full anyway), rules are rules! There was a small gift shop in the monastery, and I rewarded myself for the day's journey with an artisan milk chocolate bar with almonds! I don't think the monks made it, but I'd like to think I was helping them out a little bit!

There was a service in the abbey that evening which was beautiful. It was a communion service to welcome and bless all of the pilgrims, and even though it was a Roman Catholic service, all of us participated. I don't think God sees the same lines as we do. The priest, knowing that there were people there of all different persuasions said something to the effect, that one day, we would all eat at the same table, and I understood him to invite everyone, so we went. As part of the service, it was read out how many pilgrims had registered from what country that day, and whether they were on foot (a pie), on a bike (a bici), or on horseback (a caballo). A lot of pilgrims start in Roncevalles, rather than do the mountain which we had just crossed. It felt like quite an accomplishment already, but it also felt wonderful to be continuing on with such a special blessing.

We had dinner at one of the two little restaurants, La Sabina. I had leek soup, wonderful roasted, stuffed red peppers in a sauce, and (oddly, we thought) little, store-bought yogurts for dessert. I didn't sleep too well, since I'm not used to listening to the sounds of 100 other people, and especially the Swedish woman in the next bunk who snored loudly ALL night! But, in the morning, we were awakened in the most delightful way at 6 am. First, there were light chimes. Then, the big rings of lights (not bright lights, just imagine rings like in old castles, suspended from the ceiling) were turned on. Then, the volunteer host circled among the bunk beds singing a beautiful Alleluia in his lovely bass voice. Afterwards, as people were doing the usual shuffling of packs and all, he turned on a CD that included music and natural sounds of bird calls and wind in trees. It was lovely beginning to a morning.

Challenged

Caroline drives us across a small river and announces that we have arrived in France. There are houses and businesses on both sides of the river; those to the south or west are in Spain, and the ones we are passing now are in France. Prices in stores are better on the Spain side, Caroline explains, but real estate prices are better in France. What's a person to do?

A few kilometers further and we arrive in the beautiful and historic little town of St. Jean Pied-du-Port. Here, the river runs right through the middle of the town, or else this is a feeder river to the other.
The cold, beautiful river rushes over rocks as it tumbles down on its way out of the Pyrenees and then is tamed by walls through the little city. It is a walled city from perhaps the 16th century (Laura will probably check me on this, I can´t remember the details at the moment.) Many of the medieval pilgrims were French and they started at a tower near Notre Dame in Paris, according to James Michener in his book Iberia, and the French Route, the Camino Francese, went through St. Jean. There are scallop shell desisgns (the symbol of the route) embedded in the cobbled streets, as well as a fountain outside of the church. They are the first of many that we will see on this trip.



I would love to return to this little town and explore it more. Even though it is in France, it is still part of the Basque region. As we drove by fields filled with sheep, Caroline explained that the particular breed with black faces and legs is unique to Basque. From the milk of these sheep is made a special cheese, Ossau Iraty (I think I have that right). I haven´t had a chance to taste it yet. Lunch before we started was real French quiche with a light, wonderul salad in a little back garden of a cafe.

We registered in the official pilgrim's office and got our credentials stamped again (they were stamped at the alburgue in Pamplona, and then we were also able to get them stamped at the Cathedral and at the City Hall - we're starting to look a little, just a little, official!). They also give us some helpful information about alburgues and other useful things. We choose our official St. James scallop shell (they're much larger than in the US - about 4 - 5 " across) and tie them onto our backpacks, where they will stay for the duration of our journey. And then, with the well-wishes of the office volunteers, we are off!

We go down the hill on SJPP's cobblestone street and set foot out of the city gate and taking our first official step on our pilgrimage. Our first choice awaits us 100 yards up when we have to choose between the over the mountain route or the route that goes by the road we just traveled. Where we are staying this night is 6 km up the over the mountain route. We chose this based on Caroline´s recommendation. The road she just brought us on was the windiest road I have perhaps ever been on with more hairpin turns and no shoulder. It also would have had no views to speak of, other than over the guardrail into gullies. On the other hand, the over-the-mountain route was leaving us open to a much more physically challenging route, possibly through difficult weather, but with the promise of exquisitely stunning views of the Pyrenees. That´s why we had chosen the latter. Last week here was very warm, but the week before they had had snow in the upper elevations! And this is late May we are beginning!

Well, we began the over-the-mountain route. Very shortly after we started climbing, I saw a fragment of blue and white tile. I collect blue and white china bits from when I'm out walking - it seems I find them in the strangest places. I picked this piece up and I almost put it in my pocket to save as a souvenir. But then I put it back down in the dirt. I decided that part of this journey was about learning to let go, about learning to do with less (it might not seem like much, but across all those miles, it would get to be a lot - especially if I kept adding to the collection!). So I kept going...

I can honestly say that those first 6 km kicked my butt. By the end, I was going telephone pole to telephone pole and taking a brief rest at each one before I could go on! At the risk of sounding overly pious (because I most certainly was not), I was taking three deep breaths at each stop, one in the name of each member of the Trinity. Not for any reason other than it gave me more time to pause and contemplate how in the world I was going to go on. It felt like we were climbing virtually straight upward. Compared to where all three of us live, it was vertical! Mary seemed to be doing fine (on a relative basis), while Stella was coming up slowly behind me. I couldn't imagine, if the rest of the trip was going to be anything like this, how I was ever going to accomplish it. But we kept turning around and saying, ¨Oh...look!¨ because the vistas were so stunning.



If I was happy to get to Madrid Airport, I was really happy to get to Hunnto, the ´gite rural´ (French way to say "B&B out in the country") where we stayed. It was superb. We ended up with a private room. Mary had a double bed downstairs and Stella and I had twins up in the loft. Our sliding glass doors opened to a common balcony with a to-die-for view of the Pyrenees, with sheep and cows baaing and mooing just outside.

Dinner was a wonderful peasant fare of flavorful, rustic vegetable soup, crusty bread, and chicken in a buttery sauce with lentils, all flavored superbly, followed by a local cheese with homemade blueberry preserves, and then a small apple tart. And local wines. Yummm. The dining room had the same view of the mountains and valleys, along with a courtyard with a rose arbor. They grow the most beautiful, lush roses over here, deep red, orange and yellow in particular. We had people at the table from Korea, France, Germany, Italy, Switzerland and America (that we know of, there may have been more). It was a full day in the richest sense of the word. God is gracious.

Arrival!

At last! Madrid Barajas Aeroporto could not have come too soon for my liking! I never sleep on planes, so after making this loop~de~loop (still trying to figure out the European keyboard, it´s very different!) according to the little map on the inflight screen before we landed (I think the pilot was perhaps playing with an etchasketch), we landed about 20 minutes late just before 10 a.m. It didn´t take too long to go through customs, but it seemed to take forever for my backpack to appear on the baggage claim. All things considered, things worked out well. We found an ATM and got Euros; we found out where to catch the bus to the central bus station, caught that bus and got to the central station, and (with some help)
got tickets for and got the bus to Pamplona, all by noon! And I am so grateful that Stella, who lived in Venezuela as a child, and Mary are both much more fluent in Spanish than I am!

The journey by bus from Madrid to Pamplona took about five and a half hours with stops in several smaller towns. It was interesting to watch the countryside we drove through, though I had trouble keeping my eyes open at points! Some of it was quite fertile, while other parts were so arid. ALL of it was quite rocky. This is the rockiest country I think I have ever been visited!
Outside of most towns are community gardens where everyone has their own section growing onions, artichokes and much more. Energy efficiency is everywhere, unlike at home. The beautiful and graceful windturbines line the ridges of hills, while solar panels of varying sizes are both in fields and on the top of many buildings. Most of the faucets in restrooms and just about every light switch is on a timer, so as not to waste any precious resouces. Oh that we in the US should be so mindful and such good stewards!

In Pamplona, we made our way to the Alburgue Jesus y Maria (is that not a good portent?) which is located in an old convent. Lovely place to stay. Then we had dinner in the Cafe Iruna (the Basque way of saying "Basque") on the Plaza de Castillo that Ernest Hemingway made famous. It is not a particularly good dinner, but the interior is a wonderfully preserved piece of Victoriana. I have fish and french fries. The next morning, we had our first taste of being pilgrims - waking up to the stirring of everyone else, repacking everything into our backpacks, and getting ourselves ready to hike! We found that some pilgrims bring seemingly everything with them - in the next bunk area over, they even had a little coffee maker! Mary and I went out into the courtyard to do our centering prayer (I didn't know it then, but it was one of only a few times on the pilgrimage I would find a quiet place to do it.) We were the last to leave the alburgue. While waiting for our shuttle to take us over to St. Jean-Pied-du-Port, France (pilgrims call it SJPP!) where we would officially begin, we decided to explore Pamplona a bit. We walked up the street to see the Cathedral, which is being restored, and nearby, Pamplona's version of "Rainbow Row" like Charleston. We also saw their city hall
and the bull ring where, after the Running of the Bulls (San Fermin, in July), the rest of the action happens. There is a monument to Hemingway there, as well as this monument to the bulls. While Mary has more understanding and sees some sort of grace in bullfighting, I can't say that I'm there. We will come back through Pamplona in another few days.

Caroline, a delightful young French woman, picked us up in a shuttle and then transported us to St. Jean Pied du Port, our beginning for the journey. We noted how winding and narrow the road is through the mountains. She told us that when the mountain that we are to cross is not passable, this is the route that pilgrims have to take. I hoped that we would not have to do this because of competing with traffic and, since it is down in the winding passes, there are no views.

Departing

Well if it isn't done now, it's probably too late! A tearful goodbye with my mom - we haven't been apart this long since before my father passed away more than three years ago, so this will be difficult for both of us. But she will be in good hands with Tren, who takes such good care of her each day, and with people from the church who will be checking in on her and watching over her for me. (In the picture, my mother's seated, Tren's on the left and Natalie's on the right.) Dear Natalie drove me to the airport this morning in the midst of all the other things she does for so many people. So now, I sit here, waiting for my first flight that will take me to meet up with the other four journeyers...

I remember the very first time that I flew. I was 17, flying from BWI in Baltimore to Corpus Christi, TX as a Navy ROTC midshipman. It was a terribly dark summer day, pouring rain by the buckets on the ground in Maryland. It probably was a bumpy ride up through the clouds, I don't remember that so much. What I remember, is coming out on top of the clouds into the glorious, incredible sunshine on top of the white, fluffy cumulus clouds below - so ethereal, heavenly, and peaceful! It was wildly surreal and completely unexpected, compared to the world I had just left. Here was this totally glorious world coexisting alongside the darkness that I had just left. I have reminded myself, on those dark days ever since, of the sunshine that is just on the other side of those clouds. Perhaps it is sort of like Jesus telling us that the Kingdom of God is all around us, but we only sometimes get glimpses of it. Most of the time, we see the rain and the storm, not the fabulous light of the sun (Son?) bouncing off of the fluffiness of the lighter-than-air, brilliantly glorious clouds.

Later on, several years after that first flight, there was an eleven year span of time when I didn't fly because I was terrified of it, probably for a variety of reasons. Which was a little ironic, or perhaps terribly fitting, depending on your perspective, given that I was an aircraft maintenance officer in the Navy. Eventually, I decided that I didn' want my life to be ruled by such seemingly irrational fears. I was giving up too much. So, tentatively, and with the help of a medication or two, I started flying again. My first trip was a trip back to England. I've traveled a number of times since then. I´m really glad that I didn´t allow the fear to win!

A good flight from Savannah to Atlanta. Arriving in Atlanta, I checked to see if Mary or Stella had already arrived, which they hadn´t, but they did soon after. Here they are pictured, with Mary on the right, and Stella on the left. Then I got to meet Lexi and Josh. They'll be in later pictures! We went to get something to eat and drink as we waited for the flight. We returned in what we thought was plenty of time, only to find that they were already beginning to board, forty minutes before the flight was due to leave. As Mary, Lexi and Josh were on buddy passes, we watched the standby list anxiously as their names crept slowly upward. Stella and I boarded when our turn came. Do you think they could possibly design any less space to shoehorn people into? At first, all five of us got on, then, it became apparent that Delta had significantly overbooked the flight so Josh and Lexi had to get back off and didn´t make the flight. To date, they are still trying to get over here and meet up with us. Meanwhile, we settled into a long, sleepless flight!

Details

If it doesn't get written on a list, it probably doesn't get done. And boy, have there been a lot of lists! As soon as I scratch something off, two or three more things get added. There are just so many things to think about for a trip this long when you are single and have your own home, pets and a job that you are leaving behind!

As of yesterday, I think I have taken care of everything at work that I need to get done before I leave. Part of my role as a priest, as I understand it, is to ensure that ministry continues and the parish functions smoothly in my absence. I am to raise up lay leadership and ministry. Whenever I would return from a trip, my dear and beloved friend, Connie, whom we lost last year, used to say in her dry way, as only she could do, "We really missed you, but we did just fine." And it was exactly what I wanted and needed to hear. I knew she loved me and did indeed miss me greatly whenever I wasn't there (and likewise me her), but it meant that I had helped equip them for what they were to do and I had let go and let God, as they say. It also meant that everyone there had picked up the reins and carried on, just as they should. The timing is a little funny since I have a new assistant who is just arriving, but perhaps that's better for him, also. It gives him a nice slow time to get settled without me hovering. He can explore, work on the things we've talked about, get to know these folks, his new family, at his own pace, in his own way.

People have been so generous in their offers of help in a variety of forms. Two households have loaned us Spanish language lessons, several have offered equipment, one friend is taking care of my cats and house while I'm gone, another one or two are doing the yard for me. Another is taking me to the airport and one detail yet remaining is to ask someone to meet me when I get back and bring me home. Several people have given gifts towards the trip. It has been a surprise to me from the beginning how many other people are familiar with this pilgrimage and how many people have a sense that someday they want to do it. So a number of people want to participate in it vicariously through us, which is kind of neat. Thank you so much to all of you who are helping in so many ways!

With a trip this afternoon to return a couple of items and purchase one more, and then get a few smaller items for the first aid 'kit', I should at last have everything finalized and ready to pack. Then, between now and Tuesday when I leave, it is cleaning the house (just in case something happens to me, I don't want y'all to find the house a wreck!), doing the yard, paying all the bills and my quarterly taxes for June, some things with my mom and some social events, and oh yes, church tomorrow. It's hard to believe it is finally here after several years of thinking about it, reading about it, getting more serious about it, and finally preparing for it. The latest series of details have all been about how to get from the airport in Madrid to where we start. We take a bus from Madrid to Pamplona (remember the running of the bulls? Fortunately, we aren't there at the same time!), then from there a shuttle to St. Jean-Pied-du-Port just across the border in France. Mary's working that stuff out.

As I have mentioned to some of you in person, I am just fully whelmed at the moment. I don't think my brain can take in much more - between learning about hiking stuff (whole new world), upgrades in technology (netbook, wifi, global phone, blogging...), learning more Spanish, the Camino itself, I have reached my limit for this period of time of preparation. It is time to let it all sink in and just walk and walk and walk and let God take over for whatever purpose I am supposed to be doing this walk and enjoy the journey.

Credentialed

It’s beginning to look official. A few days ago, I received my ‘Credencial del Peregrino’ or Pilgrim’s Credentials in the mail from American Pilgrims on the Camino. It’s a fallback in case we can’t get them over there. Mary and Stella already have theirs. We should be able to get them when we arrive in St. Jean Pied du Port, the little village just across the French border where we are starting. They are given out, maybe, if she likes you, by this little old lady, who has a reputation for being rather curmudgeonly. So we wanted to play it safe. These credentials will be what allow us to stay in the hostels (a.k.a refugios, or now more, alburgues) along the way. We will get them stamped in each town and village at the alburgue or cathedral as we pass through. And won’t they be a nifty memento of this journey? Each place has its unique stamp and so the completed credential at the end of the pilgrimage is rather like a well-used passport, suitable for framing. The Credentials include a "Pilgrim's Prayer" which reportedly dates back to the 12th century Codex Calixtinus (a codex being a collection of manuscripts sewn together):

God, You called your seravant Abraham from Ur in Chaldea, watcing over him
in all his wanderings, and guided the Hebrew people as they crossed the
desert. Guard these your children who, for love of your Name, make a
pilgrimage to Compostela. Be their strength in weariness, their defense in
dangers, their shelter on the path, their shade in the heat, their light in
darkness, their comfort in discouragement, and the firmness of their
intentions; that through your guidance, they may arrive safely at the end of
their journey and, enriched with grace and virtue, may return to their homes
filled with salutary and lasting joy.

Amen, may it be so. I know that Mary and Stella and I are all excited, all a little nervous, as none of us have ever done anything like this before. But then, that's what adventure and, so often, God's call (for me, at least) are all about. The Credentials also have guidelines for the Spirit of the Camino:

- - Share what you have with other pilgrims

- - Live in the moment

- - Watch for the signs that you are on the path

- - Welcome all that comes to you

- - Sense the prayers of those who have gone before you,
leave good will behind for those who will come after you,
appreciate your companions who walk with you

- - Care for the albergue (hostel) as if it were your own home

- - Give thanks at the end of each day

- - When you arrive in Santiago, embrace the Saint on behalf of all those unable to make the pilgrimage.

Not bad rules for life in general, if you think about it. And I would want to add one more that my spiritual director, Mary, just shared with me on my last visit: O Lord, don't let me miss anything this day! Buen Camino!

Rambles

Well, this past week, the backpack finally came out of the plastic and got used. Last Sunday, I spread out everything I had to date, cut off all the tags and began stuffing them into the pack. It wasn't exactly what I will be carrying, but it came to about the right weight, nearly 17 pounds. I decided that it was a good thing for the US Army Infantry that I had never been a part of them, although it might have come in handy now for ME if I had done some time with them. Mary and I walked a little over 6 miles in the heat of the south Georgia sun that afternoon. I came to the conclusion that I might have some 'getting-used-to" time for mileage on the trip, but it just might be doable.

The next morning, I put my still-loaded backpack and hiking boots in the car and headed down to our diocesan conference center for a clergy conference. That afternoon, we had a block of free time, so I went out, again in the heat of the afternoon sun, and did 7 miles by myself. It was an out and back trip and my main discovery was that I could not reach my own water bottle. I had to stop at the fire station on the way back and ask one of the guys to get it for me. It was either that, or take the whole backpack off and then have to put it on again and it just didn't seem worth all the effort. It's always good to find these things out. I suspect the two guys at the firestation were chuckling after I left.

Got another, shorter walk in one morning during the week back home. Then, headed out to another diocesan meeting on Friday down in Stella's neck of the woods, and in fact, stayed with Stella and her husband Friday night. I took all my Santiago stuff and after our afternoon and evening meetings, Stella and I went to her house and we hauled out all our gear and did 'show and tell' with each other. It was fun and exciting and energizing and uplifting. Stella and I have never had that long before to talk about the trip with one another. And so over a glass of wine and some boiled shrimp and some mullet spread and crackers that her husband, David, had made for us, we talked and talked.

Saturday morning, we got up while the moon was still a shiny sliver in the sky, to go walk a couple of miles together before our morning meetings started. We walked out of the house with Stella holding a flashlight on the brick path. Unfortunately, it didn't illuminate the couple of cobwebs that I went through, but I'm choosing to believe that the spiders involved were elsewhere on the web at the time. It was Stella's first time for walking with her backpack. As it turns out, it is the same pack as the one Mary and I have, just a size larger.

When I walk, I tend to think about all manner of things. Like whether squirrels in Spain chatter in a different accent than squirrels in Georgia. Would a Georgia squirrel, if put next to a Spanish squirrel (surely they have squirrels there?), cock its head a little, get a puzzled look on it's little face and go, "huh?" I think about how different time and space are when you walk from our normal life schedules. One day, as I started out walking, I was obviously walking too fast, and my boots and my calf and shin muscles were telling me as much. It felt like shin splints which I haven't had in years. So I slowed down. In another mile, I realized that I felt just fine; all it took was allowing myself to slow down, letting the leg muscles warm up, and enjoying the journey. It's good to know that my boots help look after me. I just have to learn to listen to them.

Time and space are indeed different when walking. Most of us are used to driving everywhere and a mile whizzes by before we know it. Or if we have to pause, we are sitting in a heated or air conditioned little chamber, listening to news or music or whatever. Everything is confined, instantaneous, of the moment. When you are walking any distance, it all changes radically. Normally I walk a mile in about 15 minutes when I'm out for exercise, but putting on a pack slows me down to about 20 minutes or maybe even a little longer on a dirt road. The vista of a mile stretches out for a long ways. Spatial concepts change. As I hike, if I'm tired, I look down at the ground more; if I'm feeling good, I'm looking up and around at where I'm headed. There's a lot to notice at a 2 - 3 mile an hour pace.

We take so much for granted when we are zipping by in a car. When I walk, I hear the wind, I hear the airplanes overhead, the vehicles coming a half mile off or more, the animal noises, children playing down the road, the rhythm of our feet walking together. There are the gradations of stone colors, the chip of blue and white stoneware in the dirt road, the litter, the washboard pattern in the dry dirt, the various wildflowers, the patches in the asphalt, the dozens of shades of green in all the different trees. There is the smell of cow manure, new mown grass, a plowed field, someone grilling dinner, the fresh dew of morning. There is the taste of that one drop of liquid nectar from yellow and white honeysuckle (do children still know how to do that?), the sweat dripping from my cheeks, the warm water out of the bottle, drops of rain hitting my arms and face. The feel of different surfaces beneath my feet, the texture of the straps of the backpack that I periodically adjust, the roughness of my shoelaces that I re-tie yet again.

Walking allows life to slow down to a more absorbable, more sensate pace. I hope that is a lot of what this journey will be about. I am so grateful for the time this week to walk with both Mary and Stella, and the times in between to smell the marshes and hear the cows moo.

Consciousness

Immediately upon waking up Saturday morning, two days ago, I was so conscious that it was May 1st. Not because I've ever had a big thing about May Day, but simply because suddenly - and I do mean suddenly - this is the month that we are leaving. And to be more precise, it is only three and a half weeks away. Aaagh! Three and a half weeks to take care of the details and learn the things that I haven't yet. Three and a half weeks to obtain those things that I still need. Three and a half weeks to get my backpack out of the plastic, pack it with the weight that I intend to carry, put it on and start hiking! I've been hiking, just not with the weight...

My mother is also very conscious of this date coming closer. She is older and in need of some assistance, so on Saturday mornings, I go over to her house and help her out and we have breakfast together. I know that she is both excited for me and also has some reservations about the trip, especially about my safety. She is, after all, my mother, no matter how old we both are. Back in 1953, the summer before she met my father, my mother took off on a 10 week bicycling trip of Europe. It was with a tour group, but she signed up for it not knowing anyone else going except one friend, and not having done much cycling other than a few miles here and there around town (read: totally unprepared physically). She survived, had a blast, and made wonderful, life-long friends. I suggested that she think of this trip as my version of her bike trip. Hopefully, I'm a little more prepared physically than she was. The picture is my mother on the second level of the Eiffel Tower in 1953.

Isn't it funny though, when we are focused on something, be it a word, a person, an idea, or a place or whatever, suddenly that name or word or whatever seems to start coming up everywhere? Is it coincidence or it that we are just more attuned to it, more conscious of it? Perhaps it is really there that often all the time and we never notice it until we have some special connection to it, a particular reason for taking note of it. Or maybe, as my spiritual director, Mary, was suggesting, it just might be God speaking to us. We never know that for sure, but we have to keep listening and discerning. Just in the last week, as I listened to the radio (NPR), Spain, though not specificially Santiago, kept coming up in a variety of ways.

First, there was Fred Child and Performance Today. (http://performancetoday.publicradio.org/?month=4&day=29&year=2010) He was featuring the women's choral a capella group, Anonymous 4. They were performing music from the 13th century from a women's convent, Las Huelgas, in north central Spain. The convent had been started by one of the many King Alfonsos for noble women who wished to live a monastic life. This particular convent was known for it's music and in particular for the complexity of the music. It was gorgeous.

Then, on Sunday morning, driving to church, there was the discussion of the European financial situation. Of course, Greece is in the most serious shape, but Spain is not too far behind. It made me think that as tourists, we might find some good deals (!), but on the other hand, the money that we are spending over there, particularly in the smaller villages, might be very welcome and needed.

Then, on the way home from church, I was listening to The Splendid Table (http://splendidtable.publicradio.org/listings/100501/ - click on the section "calls"), a program about the appreciation of food and drink and good table fellowship. One of the callers was a bride-to-be getting married in a few months, literally to 'the guy next door.' They are both gardeners and have joined their gardens and wanted to grow the food for their reception, which, oh by the way, will have a Spanish theme (you knew it would be here somewhere). So Lynne Rosetto Kasper, the host of the show, proceeded to rattle off a whole list of wonderful sounding dishes, all Spanish in nature, straight out of the garden. I was trying to take mental notes for the dinner Laura and I will do! Something like sliced heirloom tomatoes with paper-thin slices of onion, sprinkled with lemon juice, then dressed in an olive oil warmed with roasted peppers and some fresh ground coriander seed that has been warmed until fragrant ... 'pimentone de la vera' hmmm...

So is it just coincidence, or am I more conscious of the word "Spain" popping up whenever it does, just because it is in the forefront of my mind? Is it God whispering in my ear, or nudging me with a divine elbow? I don't know. I just know that it's everywhere right now!