Pre-Camino Travels through France 2016

 Pre-Camino Travels | Camino Part 1 | Camino Part 2 | Camino Part 3 | Camino Part 4 | Camino Part 5

Public Art in Paris

The Pre-Camino Jaunt through France...because why not?:
You might be reading this because you thought it was a good idea to hear what I was doing in Europe, trying to walk 500 miles across Spain. I'll get to that in a bit. But first...
I spilled into the Charles de Gaulle airport on a Tuesday afternoon weaving through a French film crew making a young boy race down escalators over and over again while passengers waited patiently for the film crew to capture their moment.  Welcome to the birthplace of film! Wooooo, France! Per usual, people mistakenly think I know what I'm doing in public and I explained (IN FRENCH) to a woman how to get to another terminal in the airport. I don't speak French, you guys, but I am totally literate with numbers and pointing and mumbling cheerful vowels. After giving instructions to a stranger in this foreign land of fromage and omelettes, I knew I was going to be just fine.

The hostel (I had booked a few hours before during my layover in Dublin) was right next to the Gare du Nord train station. This made it the ideal destination to stumble to in my jet-lagged state. I am also probably the only person in Paris who is visiting without any knowledge that the Euro Cup is going on all over France. Large groups of men chanting things in matching shirts, some wearing a flag from their home country as a cape, roam the streets. 
In my jet-lagged first night in Paris, I joined the Englishmen at the hostel bar and got (re)acquainted with football (yes, soccer) rivalries and their preferred chants and off-key songs. My favorite was when the Irish insulted the Swedes by chanting: "Go home to your sexy wives."
The lack of French in the air reminded me of one of my favorite headlines from The Onion: "George Bush gives France 30 days to speak English."  As I would find out throughout the week, the first question to me as an American is to explain our unbelievable Presidential Candidates. I shrug sorrowfully and say I am a vegetarian art teacher who loves Europe and Mexico.

Paris Day 2:

My friend, Dallas, who I met in Spain last year, connected me with her French boyfriend, Quentin, (pronounced: Gon-TA while speaking through your nose) who was working in Paris and, thanks to Facebook communication, graciously met up for a drink with me. He is a protection officer, who interviews refugees seeking asylum in France. I learned that while Germany has accepted over a million refugees this past year, France has only accepted about 70,000. I have the impression that Quentin is helping a lot of people in this world.
I joined Quentin in the Fan Zone to watch the France v. Albania match. Thousands gathered to watch a jumbo screen in the field in front of the Eiffel Tower. The security to get into the Fan Zone was intense. It is good I did not have the French words to express my feelings to the girls around me pushing to get to the front of the women's frisk line.
The experience at this sporting event caters mainly to the male population so I used the men's toilets. The security guard found me and began snapping his fingers at me to get out of the men's section. I'm happy to report I did my part to liberate the female bladder muscles from the oppressive women's waiting lines. "Allez Les Femmes!"

The fan zone consists of thousands of people gathered in front of the Eiffel Tower roaring at the screen when France scores a goal and booing at the screen when the camera pans across French President, Francois Hollande, seated in the stadium. Do You Hear The People Sing? I certainly did. 
After the match, Quentin and I walked for several metro stops, passing through the Latin Quarter, amazingly lit up at night, before we could eventually get onto a metro train that didn't have huge queues

Paris, Day 3:

Best Falafel in Paris, L'AS du FALLAFEL

I walked to the legendary Montmartre neighborhood and walked past Moulin Rouge and then the temporary residences of Van Gogh, the oh-so-French musician Eric Satie, and even a residence of Renoir. I climbed up to unbelievably scenic Sacré Cœre, as you do, but returned to La Rue Lepic for a lunch at Le Cafe de 2 Moulins, made famous by the movie, Amelie, of course, where Amelie works as a waitress. There was definitely a bigger fan girl there though when I sat down at an outside table. She was dressed in Amelie-like clothes with a very Audrey Tautou haircut. In the photo below , you can see her friend taking a picture of her from across the street.
I ate at an outside table while watching construction workers saunter by chewing on torso-length baguettes. It was everything. I probably would have cried happy tears if I hadn't been so dehydrated.

Girl dresses up as Amelie in front of famous Le Cafe de 2 Moulins, Paris

The Louvre

The next stop was the Louvre. My.very.first.time. I was supremely happy being among so much humanity that I barely noticed the...humanity. The crowds were bad but not that bad. I spent many hours in my undergraduate years reading about the origins of French Modernity, and here I finally was in front of Ingres, David, Delacroix, and a few other classical gems to make my heart race. I was too happy to finally be wandering this amazing building. It is also an experience to watch large crowds look at themselves through a screen standing in front of Leonardo Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. My favorite overheard conversation was between a boy and his father in American English standing in front of the nude statue. Boy to his father: Dad, is Venus de Milo a boy or a girl? Dad: She's a girl. That's about all I can tell you.
I will admit that I even snapped a shot in front of the Mona Lisa with my niece's baby molar. This brings me to the bag of teeth I am carrying around. During my going away party, I asked people to a bring a rock or a quote for me to carry with me on my trip. I have a few really good rocks and I'm honored to carry them in a little plastic baggie on my person at all times. They are tucked between my passport and an emergency energy bar. One of the objects in my bag is from my friend Robert who gave me the fossilized tooth of an Oreodon, a creature that existed 35 million years ago. He dug it up in Nebraska. A relative of Robert, Sky, who I've never met before but is a true artist soul, arrived at my party and gave me a "stone of safe return." I think its powers will reveal itself as I walk with it. One other notable object I am carrying comes from my niece, Sarah. You see, Sarah had a loose baby tooth when she arrived at my party. She began working really hard to wiggle it free during the course of the party. I'm not sure if it was going to come out in an hour or a week but she's a tough girl and out it came. She offered her tooth to me as an object to carry through Europe. (Of course, the tooth was photographed first for tooth fairy verification.) So now I have a 9-year-old baby molar and a millions-year-old Oreodon molar to accompany me.

Paris, Day 4:

Today was the day I was to reunite with my friend, French-speaking Swiss Rachel, whom I met in Mexico almost 5 years ago. I had travelled and learned Spanish with her for a few months and we had not seen each other in almost 5 years. Upgrading from a random hostel full of Brits to an Airbnb fancy-pants apartment is an odd lifestyle shift. I had booked 3 nights in the tre chic Le Marais neighborhood weeks ago to share with Rachel. The only problem was that I completely forgot to check if there was a door on the bathroom. The good news is that Rachel reminded me of our hostel experience in Chiapas where I was really sick with parasites. Travelers like us don't require modesty and our 'so French' apartment definitely didn't need bathroom doors. Before Rachel arrived, I toured Saint Chapelle, nearby Notre Dame, known for its jaw-dropping stained glass. Soon thereafter, Rachel arrived from Lousanne, Switzerland and we wandered the neighborhoods of Paris catching up on 4+ years of life since we had seen each other last.

Paris, Day 5: 

Paris AirBnB with no bathroom door.

Rachel and I went to the Museé D'Orsay and I basked in the delight of Cezánne and Manet. I gave Rachel a personal tour through the history of Modern Art startling myself with the abundance of oddly detailed information I know about this influential period of human cultural production. High five to my liberal arts education! Student loans almost paid off!
It was at this time that I needed to find wifi and start booking trains and accommodations for my impending detour through Bordeaux and onto the Camino. That is what I'm here to do...walk across Spain. Paris is just a little break and side excursion. To our surprise, the Museé D'Orsay did not provide Wifi service. For an institution representing so many artists who pushed beyond the status quo, the museum was remaining comfortably right at about the year 1995. Get your wifi in order, Museé D'Orsay! I've got a train to catch. I mean, you've got a few things going for you. Keep it up. But Toulouse-Lautrec would totally be all up on Instagram like a pro.
We just missed the last tickets of the day for entering the Rodin gardens and we returned to our tiny apartment, without regret, crossing back over the Seine and the rain-soaked streets of Paris. I know the Museé Rodin is supposed to be great but I had plenty of art and beauty and 19th century bourgeois aesthetics to fuel me for a long while. I had to get back to the Internet and buy a train ticket.

Rachel's boyfriend, Matthieu, was also in town for a book he had just published. The book has yet to be translated into English, but if you want what I'm guessing is an enchanting French read, look up Percussions by Matthieu Ruf. We took the metro to join him and his friends for dinner. Bravo for amazingly kind and fun and interesting Parisiennes!  We discussed presidential candidates, of course, and we also discussed the ways that one can identify a European versus an American walking down the street. Come in close, dear friends, I have a secret: It's all in the shoes. Yep: our nationality is hidden in our footwear. Test it out and tell me how you do. If you get a trick universal shoe brand, look at the "ensemble"-how the shoe pairs with the pants and jacket and any other accessories... and you are sure to find the pedestrian's continent of origin. We expanded our talk of identity into the "bobos" around town. Bo-bo stands for Bourgeois-Bohemian types. They can be described as intellectual types who enjoy food biologique (organic) and high fashion but relish in a good second hand store. I can't quite grasp the distinction between bobos and hipsters but they assured me there is one.

Bo-bo Education

Rachel's boyfriend, Matthieu, was also in town for a book he had just published. The book has yet to be translated into English, but if you want what I'm guessing is an enchanting French read, look up Percussions by Matthieu Ruf. We took the metro to join him and his friends for dinner. Bravo for amazingly kind and fun and interesting Parisiennes!  We discussed presidential candidates, of course, and we also discussed the ways that one can identify a European versus an American walking down the street. Come in close, dear friends, I have a secret: It's all in the shoes. Yep: our nationality is hidden in our footwear. Test it out and tell me how you do. If you get a trick universal shoe brand, look at the "ensemble"-how the shoe pairs with the pants and jacket and any other accessories... and you are sure to find the pedestrian's continent of origin. We expanded our talk of identity into the "bobos" around town. Bo-bo stands for Bourgeois-Bohemian types. They can be described as intellectual types who enjoy food biologique (organic) and high fashion but relish in a good second hand store. I can't quite grasp the distinction between bobos and hipsters but they assured me there is one.

PG Rated version of painting at Musee D'Orsay

Paris, day 6 to Bordeaux:

 The next day, with limited time before my train departure to Bordeaux, we took a long breakfast, while people watching on the street near the St. Paul metro stop. We then walked, with my full pack, toward the Promenade area of the city that was once train tracks. It reminded me of the 606 trail in Chicago or the Chelsea high line in New York. 
We did not manage our time well crossing back through town though. Rachel and I sprinted through the metro and up to the Gare du Montparnasse with the clock ticking. My electronic ticket, validated through a screenshot on my iPad, let me through to a whistling train, just like in a movie...and there I went, hugging Rachel goodbye, and hopping onto a train, sweating and full of happy adrenaline that I didn't miss my train to Bordeaux.

While riding on the train, I read that Bordeaux is a vibrant city, full of university students, with  dazzling food and wine. (Bordeaux, duh.) The train station might prove otherwise. I have seen some dodgy parts of lots of towns but let's just say the train station and the surrounding area might be where the once vibrant university students go when they drop out. Stay in school, kids. While stepping around garbage and swaying teenagers on cobblestones streets, I imagined Bordeaux was some abandoned shell of a city. Maybe some French entrepreneurs decades ago were all like, let's break through the old palace and open up a bistro. My aunt is gonna run a weird hotel. My cousin will run a second hand store and all of the college-drop outs will take care of the stray dogs. It will be great...and it sort of is.

Matchy Matchy in Saint Chapelle, Paris

I write this from the little restaurant on a tiny square in Bordeaux. The waitress asked me, in English, (per George Bush's mandate) if I liked my wine astringent. I just smiled and said yes, absolutely. I have no idea what that means but, yes, I love, astringent wine. Astringent wine-loving Jean heads to the start of the Camino in Basque country tomorrow. 

And if you have reached the end of this...wow, you good-for-nothing millennial, you read something today! To the rest of you, thank you so much for reading and supporting me on this unusual pilgrimage I'm only beginning now. More on that next time! 

Pre-Camino Travels | Camino Part 1 | Camino Part 2 | Camino Part 3 | Camino Part 4 | Camino Part 5

Camino de Sanitago Part 1

 Pre-Camino Travels | Camino Part 1 | Camino Part 2 | Camino Part 3 | Camino Part 4 | Camino Part 5

Here begins the first installment of emails written to my friends back home while hiking El Camino de Santiago. To see my Pre-Camino journey through France, read the previous blog post here.

The first day of the Camino de Santiago, Pyrenees Mountains

In the footsteps of St. Francis of Assisi, Charlamagne, Paulo Choelo and...Shirley MacLaine, I have begun my 500 mile walk, the Camino de Santiago, across Spain. The popularity of the Camino Frances has grown in the past few decades in part from some well known authors writing about it. It also helped that Martin Sheen made a super cheesy (but I secretly like it) B grade movie called The Way and I imagine Post-Franco Spain is probably a little bit more stable for the adventurous middle-aged mom from California trying to find herself.
Medieval pilgrims took such a risk and made such a sacrifice to take the pilgrimage to Santiago that they would often make arrangements in the event that they never returned home. But don't worry! I've got an excellent team coordinating the watering of my plants in my apartment and the bandits under the bridge only want to sell you stale bocadillos and wifi service in their cafe, a snake oil of sorts perhaps, but one that will allow me to eventually see home and loved ones again.

Day 0: St. Jean de Pied de Port, France

Steep inclines with full backpack, Camino de Santiago, Spain

Pilgrim's Passport for the Camino de Santiago

Day 1: St. Jean to Roncesvalles, Population 30

Day 0: St. Jean de Pied de Port, France
From Bordeaux, I managed to get on a train without a heart attack. I switched at Bayonne to a little train that took me and mostly other Pilgrims to the traditional start of the Camino Frances. (There are many pilgrim routes that all lead to Santiago. This one is probably the most popular.) The little medieval town of St. Jean was picturesque. I found my way to the sweetest little Pilgrim albergue (hostel) called Gite Ultreia. Everything in this area is written in French and Basque and sometimes Spanish. I strained at every word on the street constantly changing gears and saying Bonjour and Gracias in the same sentence. As soon as I got into the albergue, I immediately felt the difference in attitude and tone of the camino. As I would later hear from another pilgrim, "you smell peace."

So far on day 0, I had no friends. I went on my own to the restaurant across the tiny street. The restaurant's back terrace butts up against the medieval city walls. It is where footman soldiers would pace looking out. It is now a restored tourist footpath. The walkers passed overhead while I dutifully completed the vegetarian pilgrim menu (omelette, potato, and salad.)
Natalie, the host at this pilgrim hostel, sold me my Pilgrim Passport, the credential, for 2 euros, and I received my first stamp from her. I think they are like getting stickers when you are a kid. Pure joy.

After slowly walking around and looking at everything-I mean everything in the entire town- for several hours, I went back to fall asleep in Gite Ultreia.
Marco, the Italian, had a different idea. He came stumbling in right at pilgrim curfew (you have to be in by 10 so you don't disturb the other pilgrims) and fell asleep in the next bed snoring like I've never heard someone snore. It was like Darth Vader slurping peach cobbler through a straw. I thought I wasn't the type to need earplugs but Marco Vader taught me otherwise.

You are never along on the Camino.

Day 1: St. Jean to Roncesvalles, Population 30
25.1km-Crossing the Pyrenees
I started the Camino with a fairly awkward breakfast with the host and a father and son from Oregon sitting in the small guest kitchen. Starting somewhat late at 7:30am--thanks Marco Vader--I walked to the corner cafe and bought a sandwich and liter of water and well...I started walking...passing through the famous pilgrim archway out of the old city. Within minutes I was climbing a steep road sweating and out of breath. I stopped at the top of one hill looking at little houses and albergues and thinking:  "WHAT THE (*&*# IS THIS?" This totally sucks. Then I just started belly laughing at how hard it already was by myself climbing steep incline after steep incline. Within the first hour of walking, and after passing a few slow walkers, I made pace with a young Swede, named Camilla. We soon forgot we were struggling up hills and we started talking about how we were going to help each other find vegetarian options at the next stop. Camilla is a Swedish language and Religious Studies high school teacher switching to being a school librarian. (Teaching is a tough gig...even in Sweden.) She had done a practice hike across the first 3 days of the Camino with her sister last year in preparation.
During that first day, we bought cheese at the top of the mountains from a local. It is the best cheese I've ever had. He even stamped my credencial for reaching his cheese stand. There were the most beautiful views in all directions and I can tell you that things look even more beautiful when you work for them.
 The sun was getting hotter, inclines getting steeper, and somehow I was stepping over the French border into Spain (or Navarra depending on who you are talking to.) The descent in the mid-day heat was a hobble of penguin steps down slippery rocks. 
The first day's destination is in Roncesvalles. All that is there is a monastery, a beautiful 13th century building that runs a very organized operation taking in hundreds of pilgrims everyday. I bunked in a little section with a Korean woman underneath my bunk and a Spanish mother and daughter who were sending their packs along ahead of them each day. That felt like cheating to me so I am not tempted to pay for that service. I'm gonna stick with the heat rash on my back where my huge pack sits. 
Camilla was one section over in the bunks. Our unspoken rule was that we were doing everything together now.
After the best shower of my life, we "barhopped" over to the two bars on the one street town, eating french fries and "Claras" (light beer and lemon soda) at the first one and pasta and wine at the second. The Pilgrim menu at the monastery was not vegetarian friendly so we went the a la carte option happily replenishing our electrolytes and losing them at the same time with alcohol.

The Pilgrim Purge

As sort of planned, I got rid of a few items of clothing I had been wearing in Paris. One pair of jeans, a pair of running shorts I've probably run a few thousand miles in, a pair of old socks, and a notebook with my used pages torn out of it. I carried those things over the Pyrenees and now I was so proud to get rid of them. There are donation piles where pilgrims leave things they don't need and other pilgrims can take something they might want. Is there a local Spaniard rocking my running shorts somewhere?! 

"This is not Spain" Hiking Basque Country, Camino de Santiago

Day 2: Roncesvalles to Zubiri, Population 200

Border between France and Spain, Camino de Santiago, Pyrenees Mountains 

Day 2: Roncesvalles, pop. 30-Zubiri-population 200
21.9km
I've decided that starting the Camino is a bit like the first day of school. You don't know who to talk to, you don't have any friends yet, you are constantly checking the signs to make sure you're walking the right way, and you are not sure which pilgrim is in which group yet.
The second day included quite a lot of inclines again and the heat was unbearable in the last few miles. 
It's nice to have upbeat Camilla the Swede to quote Pippi Lonstocking when your feet start to ache in the heat. She talked about how Pippi would always look on the bright side of things. "Our muscles are sore but at least we have muscles." Camilla also taught me a mountain climbing song in Sweden. I have it recorded and it entertains me to no end to sing in a foreign language.
I thought I was a really light packer but for some reason I have become the girl that walks with everything on the Camino. My mochilla, the backpack and I, have had to get to know each other really well. After a few kilometers in on the second day, I pulled a few straps tighter and I think I started floating on the trail. Wearing a pack is all about pulling the right strings. Your backpack is like your horse and you have to learn how to balance weights and where to pull in the reigns...but now that I think about it, are you your backpack's horse?

Our second day's accommodations were in a teeny tiny town and we opted for the cheapest "albergue municipal." I would soon learn that most albergues have coed bathrooms...at this municipal hostel they had separate showers for men and women but there were no shower doors. "I want to take you to the Yyyyyy-M-C-A!" Leave your modesty at home everybody!

After another adventurous shower, Camilla and I joined a German girl, Sylvia, at the river. I mentioned I knew yoga and I began my first international class of yoga by the river with Camilla and Sylvia.

Day 3: Zubiri to Pamplona, Population 200, 000

Day 3: Zubiri-Pamplona-population 200,000
20.9km
We continued through the hills of Navarra passing some industrial buildings that jolted us out of the rustic medieval pilgrim path. There is an option to follow the green dotted lines in our guide book for the scenic routes so we opted to take the one towards an 11th century church run by an order of friendly nuns. After climbing an extremely steep hill, sure enough, Camilla and I were greeted by a grinning nun sporting sensible sandals and slacks. She offered us water and a photocopied pilgrim prayer in our language. Sitting on the little steps outside the tiny church, panting and reading the prayer, she invited us in to view the 16th century retablo behind the altar. What impressed me most though was her folder system with laminated explanations of the history of the church in over 30 languages. They were neatly collated alphabetically by language across the back church pew. That is some organized lamination to impress any teacher.

The "Om" of the West

Beginning the Camino de Santiago, just 790 kilometers to go

We were then invited to climb to the top of the church spire and ring the bell, just once, for our prayers, waiting 30 seconds between each of our bells to let it ring out. An Italian couple (whose identity you will learn later!) joined us in the bell tower and we each stood and witnessed each other's bell ringing. It was really special. It's the "om" of Western of civilization.
When we entered the outskirts of Pamplona, I was not only shocked by people walking by without a large backpack on, but how many buildings there were in close proximity. I was gone for 3 days from big towns and I was already out of it. The sign outside la farmacia displayed the temperature at 34 degrees Celsius, aka a million Fahrenheit.

The albergue in Pamplona is where I met the very American KathyJo from Minnesota. She is a pediatric nurse in her 50s doing the Camino for the 3rd time and here this time to train to be a hospitalera. These are the people who volunteer to run the albergues for the pilgrims. Within 5 minutes of knowing her, we were putting our clothes in the same washing machine. We had detailed conversations about how our packs get lighter because we start getting rid of things we don't need. I started bragging about the pair of jeans and what not I left in Roncesvalles. She just shook her head and said she wished she was seeing my pack in Santiago. I was now called heavy pack girl.

She also had a rosary she was carrying to be dipped in holy water in every church along the Camino for her sick mother at home. She had me in tears in front of the washing machines within 8 minutes of knowing her.
Camilla, KathyJo, Sylvia from Germany, and I all went for pinchos (pinxos)-the tapas of the North- in happenin' Pamplona. We were not there in time to see the running of the bulls (that happens July 6), which is opposite of the "Camino feeling" but we did see the barricades going up around the city hall building and through the streets where spectators hide or look out from. I love how people buy drinks and pinxos and sit on the ground in the middle of the street in circles. The street is the Pamplona living room.

Bell tower, Camino de Santiago, Spain

Day 4: Pamplona to Puente La Reina

Day 4: Pamplona to Puente La Reina
23.8km
I had already spent 72 continuous hours with Camilla, sleeping, eating, and walking within a few feet of each other the whole time. I had not only learned a Swedish folk song but I also learned the detailed working conditions for teachers in Sweden. We also talked at length about linguistics. Her English and Spanish are way better than mine. I could not identify animals in English that she was pointing out to me.
I will say when we went to dinner in Puente La Reina with a table full of Spanish pilgrims, I made a really great joke in Spanish. So there.

The walks also get really intense in the last couple of hours when the heat sets in and our water gets low. The public fountains are sometimes abundant along the Camino, but -magically- a refreshment truck will appear on the side of the road just when you think you cannot go on. Those trucks are taking all my euros in exchange for blue powerades and bananas.
Rosa, from Barcelona, joined Camilla and I on our walk today and she taught us Catalonian Songs. We were now the singing girls. During this day's walk we reached the top of the mountain called "Alto de Perdon" with amazing views of Pamplona in the background and hydroelectric windmills dotting the hills all around. 
Rosa is a great dancer and I taught her to samba on the Puente (the bridge) of the Puente La Reina.
We were just out to view the historic bridge but stumbled upon live gypsy music (100 percent natural Navarra...they were not shipped up from the South) playing in the street and I think the whole village came out to watch.
In one of the churches, there was a chapel dedicated to a priest from the town who was recently given sainthood for being martyred in the 1930s. Rosa told me to look up what side of Franco he was on. I will do so and get back to you.

Coffee break, Camino de Santiago, Spain

Day 5: Puenta La Reina to Estella

Day 5: Puenta La Reina-Estella
21.9 km
This was the first day of my Camino without walking with Camilla since she left at 4:30am to start walking. She wanted to tbeat the heat. I wanted to sleep while it was still dark out. I walked with Rosa for most of the day through more beautiful countryside and little villages. Rosa is walking the Camino for the 4th time and was giving lots of insider Spanish information about the upcoming national elections and commentary on the local graffiti reminding us that Navarra is not Spain. Everybody wants to represent themselves. Even on the Camino, while not using Internet for an entire week, I got word of Britain leaving the EU. It was some good craic hearing what the Irish pilgrims were going to do now that the British pound was plummeting.

Footcare is key

Secret Hiking Weapon: Diaper Cream, applied twice daily.

But this is the point where foot talk gets real. Bring on the diaper cream, everybody! Keep those chapped toes dry! Upon reaching Esterra I came to grips with the fact that I did indeed develop teeny blisters on my pinky toes. It also just so happened that the snoring Marco Vader had reserved a spot next to my bed at the same albergue that day. (Pilgrims run into each other day after day from town to town.) I take back every bad thought I had about Marco because he happily took a needle and thread to my toes (with antiseptic). The thread is to help drain the blisters. I walked to dinner with thread hanging out of my toes. I wore compeed (second skin) the next day with some extra bandaids on those toes.  If anyone is into blister popping videos, I have a great one, narrated with Italian. Just ask. I do realize that some of you who subscribed to this email were not signing up for exclusive blister-draining footage. So it's not included here but it is so tantalizing to watch. Foot care solutions are 40% of what we talk about. There is another 40% about food options and the rest is about why you are walking the Camino. I offered to buy Marco Vader a copa de vino for his blister assistance but he was very happy to just hear my story of "El Diente de Sarah"- The Tooth of Sarah-in Spanish instead. 
Another reason to like Marco Vader: When I reintroduced myself as Jean como Blue Jeans, as I usually do to clarify pronunciation, he responded, "no, you are Jean like Gin-Tonic." 

I have had a good amount of time in the evening to work on some of my drawing series. When people ask me why I am doing the Camino, I now tell them I came to draw. It is my walking artist residency. That seems to satisfy most people, including myself. 

Travel Sketchbook and iPad on the Camino de Santiago.

Day 6: Estella to Los Arcos

Day 6: Estella - Los Arcos
21.5 km
In my continued effort to lighten my load without paying ridiculous sums to ship things ahead to Santiago, at 6:30am, I tried to give away my purse to a Spanish girl on the Camino. She agreed to stow it in her bag and send it ahead in a taxi. I think she just got a new purse and doesn't know it yet. I also tossed out another pair of pants I didn't really need. Pilgrims talk about how many ounces objects weigh and those were some hefty ounces to unload. So liberating!

Wine and Hiking Come Together at last!

Free wine for Pilgrims on the Camino

It was a first in my 5 day routine to set off on my own without Camilla or Rosa. I soon found Dourmid from Dublin (I'm not spelling his ridiculous Irish spelling right and I can't be bothered to fix it.) It is strange to walk several miles with people you just met but we got along just fine and shared the experience of filling our water bottles from the well known Fuente de Vino in Irache. The 10th century monastery connected to it is now vacated, but the winemakers remain and let pilgrims drink free wine from 7-9am. Free wine is almost always delicious but this was extra delightful. Wine before coffee...never been...toffee? Laugh-y? Kadafi?

We continued through beautiful countryside and because of my amazing blister remedies, was practically skipping into the next town. It is now Sunday and I'm checking emails for the first time in a week in the kitchen of the albergue municipal, drinking the rest of the wine from Irache from my water bottle, watching the familiar faces from the Camino trickle into town, and awaiting a foot massage from a Brazilian who drives in from the next town over to give pilgrims foot massages everyday. 
This is my last night in Navarra before heading to the Logroño region tomorrow. Rosa and I have plans to taste the liquor local to the region. 

Yours truly, Heavy Pack Girl Jean-Tonic

Daily Laundry Ritual on the Camino

Follow to Part 2 of  the next stages of the Camino...Pre-Camino Travels | Camino Part 1 | Camino Part 2 | Camino Part 3 | Camino Part 4 | Camino Part 5

Excerpts: The Package

What I saw during Lasik Eye Surgery

I just experienced one of the more extraordinary things in life, Lasik eye surgery. After more than 20 years of corrected lens wearing, I now have 20/20 vision. Science is real.
Here are some drawn and digitally altered images in attempt to recreate what I saw through the steps of surgery. While I had anesthetic drops in my eye so I couldn't feel any pain, I was awake and still able to see what was going on.
The hardest part was anticipating bright lights coming into your eye and not being able to blink.
After taking numbing eye drops and lying on the exam bed, the machines moved into place over head and bright lights zoomed in on my face. The surgeon placed a patch on my left eye and a speculum opened my right lid, clockwork orange-esque and there I went...toward the light.

Then, I presume, they suctioned my eyeball because I lost partial vision but could still see the ceiling lights in my peripheral vision. The strangest twinkles of blinking blue and green dots appeared for a few moments across the black patch. I read on another blog that those are blobs of your veins???
I think this is where they cut open my cornea as well. I felt pressure and encouraging words of "Good job, Jean" from somewhere behind me. Then I saw a green dot coming towards me in between red dots. I was told to keep looking still at the green dot. Or maybe this happened before I lost vision for a few moments? I can't remember already. Maybe it reappeared?
  There were a few fleeting moments of a faint burning smell that I was told beforehand is NOT my eye burning, but the intensity of the laser machine. Then, they folded my cornea flap back in place and I think added some fluid to the surface of my eye. It looked like someone was brushing clear nail polish over my eye and lightly dabbing here and there.
 
Then they repeated it on the other eye. After less than 10 minutes, I sat up from the bed and they asked me what time the clock said. I could read it just fine.
I was driven home and took a long nap. The end. Now I walk around smiling at everything! Absolutely Amazing!
Did I mention science is real?

Comic Excerpts from Oregon

Piano Lesson Memories

This is part of a series I am working on about my history of music education.

Finding Your Stomach

10 years ago today, my mother passed away.

Even though this page from my illustrated novel is not finished, it feels right to post it now. What is ever really finished anyway?

I have learned that you can have the most devastating loss and your gut can still be there in the morning, or even 10 years later - not just in tact, but even stronger.

Don't Listen to the Data Monster.

Stare at the data monster right in the face in my studio. I'll give you a snack. A series of drawings/comic pieces/illustrated writings will be on display at my studio during our open house happening October 18th and 19th, 12-4pm at the West Carroll Art Studios at 3200 W. Carroll (at Kedzie) in Chicago. It is part of the Chicago Artists Month events going on all over town. http://chicagoartistsmonth.org/west-carroll-open-studios

Resurrection Dreams (Comic Excerpt)

I have an illustrated story, a drawn writing, a comic, a graphic novel, a whatever you want to call it, that I am currently working on.
I found one panel from that story to work just as well on its own, out of context of this particular storyline I have in progress. The following comic excerpt is from a story about when I was very sick.

Chick Pea Pancakes, You Guys!

Chick pea pancakes, you guys, chick pea pancakes! Thank you to my dear friend and neighbor, Skyler, for offering them to me on so many occasions that I finally took it upon myself to make them on my own. They are so good and easy, I have had them as a meal almost every night for the past week. The hardest step is remembering to get the flour when you are in the store. The Chick Pea flour, aka Garbanzo bean flour, can be found in most grocery stores and I hear in abundance at Indian grocers...)

I mix water and the chick peak flour 

together, I pour little silver dollars of the batter into a pan full of olive oil for a few minutes and then flip. I cover them in chopped parsley and salt. There is no such thing as too much parsley. 

There are many incredible things coming to me these days besides amazing high-protein pancakes... one of those things has been the bluegrass singer, Claire Lynch, I heard live yesterday. Music restores.

The Looking Stool

In my art room, all of the stools are painted by students from years past. When a stool painting starts to fade or get chipped away, it is taken out of rotation and someone from art club usually paints a new design. These stools become well-known icons in the room. Some students race into the room so they can sit on their favorite stool. They are, in effect, putting their bottom on the very image that they adore but they want to "have and to hold" that stool for the 45 minute class period. There are several students that love the Batman stool in particular. The only problem is that the bat logo has completely worn off. There are no signs of Batman anymore. It must have never had a sealant coat put on it. Nevertheless, the stool is still coveted. They race to get close to the Looking Stool, to an invisible image.  I guess it is why we stare at historic plaques and gravestones. It's just enough to recall an image for us that was once there. And it seems we humans want to get close to our images. 

Here is a short talk by the artist Lynda Barry about the power of the image:

Socks in a Bag

From the age of 6 until about 11, I danced in the Sheila Tully School of Irish Dance.  (Apparently there is a website now.) We had the laced up leather soft shoes, the ornate celtic designs on dresses, and the night before a feis--the name for the dance competitions--we slept with curlers in our hair. Ouch. (Apparently, the girls wear wigs now.) I cannot find any pictures from this time in my life. A true tragedy.

Vintage two-toned Umbro Shorts

I remember all of our "practices" in the basement of my Catholic school. We practiced in our Umbro gym shorts, over-sized t-shirts, athletic white socks, and criss-cross-laced-dance shoes. I remember Sheila Tully--Herself--making that distinctly satisfying 'click-click' of a tape into the cassette player and pressing the play button, the distorted accordion sounds would blare, our promenading and hops in rhythmic unison...Doting mothers would stand in the hall chatting while their daughters worked on jigs, two hand reels, hornpipes, and if you were an older girl, the hard shoe dances, too.

Once, when we were lined up in formation with one toe pointed out, Sheila Tully, herself, walked down the line and stopped in front of my toes, "No socks today?" I shook my head no and my face went flush. My mother was not doting in the background during Irish dance class to see this embarrassment and she was certainly not keeping track of my socks. If I wanted to dance with socks, I would have to be the one putting the socks in my bag.

So here I am now, 20 years later, putting socks in a bag. This time I am not going to an Irish feis. I'm heading to Rio to perform in Carnival! My mother is not here to help me pack my socks either. Instead, I am packing for a trip because of everything she taught me. She taught me to do things for myself and to go after what I want. It's her absence, once again, that has shaped her influence on me. A year before my mom passed away, I remember her telling me that she wanted to go to some community dance event at a summer festival. She always wished she danced more. She didn't care if she was the only one over 60. I never had a chance to take her there. But I am taking her spirit with me on this specific journey to Brazil, with enough sunblock for the both of us.

When I told my Aunt Mary about this amazing trip down to Rio de Janeiro to dance with Samba schools, she told me, "You know, your mother always lived through you and all of your adventures. She would have done all the things you are doing if she could."

Last week, I was volunteering at a concert at the Old Town School of Folk Music, the miraculous organization that is helping send a group of us down to Rio. At that concert, I heard this song and it described the feeling of my mom and leaving on this trip. "My mother, she once told me, you you gotta be as bright as you can...my suitcase, it once told me, you gotta be as light as you can."

How To Dance Chicago Samba

With only 20 days away from our feet on the streets of Rio de Janeiro, we are practicing our little hearts out in the studio. Hopefully our regional styles are, um, not too apparent when we are dancing in Carnival! Sambaaaaaaaaaaaa!

His Ink on Brake