Camino de Santiago Part 2

 The journey continues. Catch up on previous stages of the Camino here.

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

Day 7: Los Arcos to Logroña

Another day on the Camino, backpack is getting lighter.

Day 7: Los Arcos - Logroña
27.8km
This was a long day made lighter by the company of Jane. I couldn't find Rosa in the morning and Camilla had left before dawn so I teamed up with Jane, the Australian, who, yep, you guessed it, is a teacher. She left corporate law and started teaching at an International American school in Romania last year. I tried to get her to sing a song...she teaches 2nd grade!!...and the best we got, because of my prodding...was the Kookaberra song that I learned when I was in Australia. We made up some of the words that we couldn't remember:
         Kookaberra sits in the old gum tree-ee. 
         Walking the Camino so happ-i-ly
         Laugh, Kookaberra, laugh, Kookaberra
         Gay your life must be.
Jane is not so musical. I changed the subject.

Our Lady of the Cherry Tree

One of my favorite Camino moments so far happened when Jane and I saw an Italian family on the path picking cherries from a tree. The couple had two daughters, the youngest one they were pushing in a stroller. We found the older one standing on the shoulders of the father grabbing cherries and they asked us to take a picture. We then copied them and latched onto the next tree that was ripe with the most delicious cherries and wow, did we feast. Jane was ready to go and I was all, like, no way, look at that branch! Wait, here's an even better branch. I can pull the entire tree down and get, like, 20 more cherries. I could have lived next to that tree. If I was living in the right century, I would have seen an apparition of Mary right there and opened an Albergue called Our Lady of the Cherry Tree. No, actually, I would be sainted for my vision of Mary in the cherry tree and my ability to feed the masses on cherries and love alone and an order of nuns would be formed and we'd be called the Franciscan Cherries because that has no inappropriate references to anything at all and has been approved by multiple focus groups.  
Ten minutes later, we carried on through the heat.

13th century Octoganal Church connected to Knights Templar

In one of the towns, a Camino attraction is the 13th century octoganal church where, legend has it, the Knights Templar was active. Where are my illuminati conspiracy theorists when I need them?

Peregrinas in Logroño

At one of the small towns...getting smaller and farther apart...I found Rosa and we carried on the rest of the way. Jane was moving fast and I was, I don't know, digesting cherries, so I stayed back and walked at Rosa's pace. I was very excited to spend time in this town as we had great plans to TAKE OVER Logroño. Peregrinas gone wild! We were in La Rioja, wine country, how could we not?
Of course, we found a private albergue that doesn't lock its doors at 10pm. We wanted to stay out a bit later than usual to take in the late night Spanish atmosphere in the streets eating the pinxos.

Rosa and I tried finding Peregrinos wandering the streets that we recognized to make a crowd on the pinxo street in town. This little happenin' town has one tiny street where everybody gathers at 9pm to eat small plates of amazing things displayed in glass cases. You pay for a drink and a plate together to make a pinxo and everyone naturally spills out into the street and falls into the next bar for another plate of greasy ham. This vegetarian loved it. It was Monday night so Pinxos were still great but Rosa said it was not the usual shoulder-to-shoulder crowds in the street pining for the next small plate of fried awesome sauce as it usually is. It was Rosa's last night on the Camino before returning to Barcelona (many Europeans just do sections of the Camino when they can squeeze it in)... so she wrote down her favorite stops along the Camino on a little piece of paper as we took in the Monday night pinxo atmosphere. Before leaving in the morning, I unloaded a tank top that I didn't need that I thought Rosa would like. I will miss Rosa.

Pinxos in Logroño, and thinking of decades past...

Day 8: Logroña to Nájera

Day 8: Logroña-Nájera
28.9km (According to Camilla's guidebook, we walked 30.1km. It was a lot.) 
I had breakfast with Rosa before she caught her train to Barcelona and then I started walking on my own. Starting at a late time without other pilgrims around was a surprising relief. I had been constantly chatting with people for the last several days. 
This was a long, hot, shade-less walk through vineyards and gravel paths alongside or crossing expressways. It was beautiful in a brutal sort of way. 
There was some strange stone hut at around 22km and I saw Camilla waving from it. She was getting out of the heat for a few minutes She jumped out and joined me on the rest of the blistering hobble over red dirt paths and asphalt roads into Nájera.
The albergue we found at 4pm only takes donations and I fell into an odd dream state in my bunk without bothering to shower. I woke up at 5pm needing to eat everything in sight. We had walked almost 30km two days in a row and it was not Spanish dinner time in town.
So we went to the supermercado and found amazing things like bandaids and chocolate bars and lemon flavored sports drinks and hobbled back to a terrace for pasta. The miles and the heat totally wiped me out. Operation lighten my backpack: I threw away a bottle of makeup and some paper/brochures.
No drawing tonight.

Day 9: Nájera to Santo Domingo

Grapes growing in La Rioja, Spain

Day 9: Nájera-Santo Domingo
21.3 km Grañon+6.7km=28.0km
Camilla and I set out early, continuing through beautiful countryside with distant mountains and passing practically every grapevine in the La Rioja region. This was the first day we walked farther than the guidebook suggests making our way to Grañon. We stopped in the suggested town of Santo Domingo for coffee and fruit and to change into dry socks. Then we carried on. The weather was cool and overcast and I could have gone 10km more but the sweet little albergue in the church of Grañon, treasured by pilgrims, was calling our name. I'm glad we pushed on to stay in the attic of the church...at first. This albergue was tucked in the annex of the village church and was the homiest place we had gone to yet. Since it was a parochial albergue, meals are made communally and you pay a donation before you leave. During dinner with about 15 other pilgrims, I got to sit next to the selectively mute French guy. He looked to be about 30 years old, dressed in skater shoes, and sweatpants. To be honest, he may have just robbed the supermercado. I don't know. During the whole meal, he ate with a spoon in his left hand and a pocketknife tightly fisted in his right. We were eating soup. He flicked open the pocket knife for our cooked apple dessert and the friendly Italian on his other side also flinched backwards. He grunted when wanting something passed to him and when I asked "hablas español?" He responded loudly, JUST FRENCH. NO ENGLISH. I then passed him the pitcher of water.

A Frenchman and a Swiss walk into an albergue...

A Swiss woman nervously carried on a conversation with me while this was all happening. She talked about driving across the U.S. when she was younger and understanding how Americans think big because we have room to think in our big country. In Switzerland, she thinks they think about life differently because they are tucked inside tiny pockets of mountains. I have been thinking about this ever since she told me. 
Some albergues have traditions like this one, after communally washing the dinner dishes, a timid Canadian hospitalera led our little group through a candle ceremony of sorts in the church's choir loft. A little tiny doorway from the albergue tunneled us through and all of a sudden we were standing inside the medieval church in the dark. We all said things in our own languages in the dark church holding candles. The French guy did not attend, mostly because I think he did not understand what was going on.

The Bed Bug of Destiny

That night, I woke around 1am itching all over. No, chinches, no!!!! I whipped off my sleeping bag and turned on the light on my cell phone trying to see what had bit me. After bites started appearing all over my body in the dark, I climbed down from the sleeping loft and slept upright in a chair. The next morning, after many consultations with fellow peregrinos and judging by the look of my bites, it was probably not bedbugs/chinches. We agreed that I had been bitten voraciously by a spider or a flock of "wood mosquitos" as one of the Italians called them. One of the Spanish hospitaleras and I laughed and discussed my fate. These things just happen sometimes. El Camino es como la vida compactada. You will see everything along the way.
Some language notes: when you are tired, it is even more difficult to explain yourself in a second language. At one point I said, "Tengo pecas de naranjas". This Translates roughly as I have orange freckles or I have freckles from oranges...which, if you have seen my face, is not entirely false but a really funny thing to  exclaim to the hospitaleras at breakfast. I meant to say "Tengo picas de narañas." = I have spider bites. Finding a word in another language can sometimes be like looking for a sock in your backpack: it's in there somewhere.
If it sounds like these bites aren't a big deal, you don't entirely understand how Sensitive Sally I am when it comes to my skin. I think I just developed a swollen pinky out of sympathy for the other pinky that was bit last night.
One perk of getting a late start because I was dealing with my insect problem was that I saw local Spanish teenagers arrive at the albergue to clean. They were doing some kind of community service and wanted to experience the peregrino life for a day. It was humbling to pack and literally head for the hills while young people I didn't know scrubbed the toilets I was using.

Wheat fields of Spain

Day 10: Grañon-Tosantos

Day 10: Grañon-Tosantos
About 22km
I left behind a t-shirt dress in the donation pile as an offering to the insect gods, and in my continuing effort to walk lighter. I was very happy to start my morning walking out of spider town with 2 hours of sleep. I made pace with the smart and friendly Italian, Ettore. Walking through the rolling hills as the sun was coming up made my Italian friend teary-eyed. They say one day on the Camino is a year of knowing someone. I may not have made pace with Ettore had I not been bitten by that insect the night before.
I only got to know him for about 3 months that morning though because he left his water bottle in the last town about 10 minutes earlier and walked back. I continued on past the "big" town of Belorado, population 2,100. I dragged my orange freckled, spider bitten, legs to another parochial albergue in the town of Tosantos, population 60.
I went farther than the guidebook again today so my kilometers are estimated. Today was a test of my physical limits when I had no sleep. It was the first time I had the sensation of wanting to sleep in a field of wheat and could have acted on that desire. I found a shady rock to sit on with my pack about 500 meters from the edge of town fixing my socks, rummaging through my pack, sipping water and thinking I'd never make it.
I was the fourth pilgrim to arrive that day. The French pocketknife guy was there though. Maybe it was my destiny. So was Camilla and the Swiss woman from the albergue the night before. At 5pm, everyday, a local man with the keys to the church built inside a cave in the mountain, arrives to let the pilgrims inside. This particular church was a 12th century hermitage built into the side of the cliffs. It was as amazing at is sounds. After we left the cave, the Swiss woman fled the scene and walked to the next town because the French guy was so intimidating. She later told me, "I don't need those kinds of people in my life."

Santiago the Sage

The communal meal that night was with just 6 pilgrims plus our hospitalero, named, of all things, Santiago. Santiago and I talked at length, sitting outside on the stoop of the 400+ year old house, about many things I didn't know I could communicate in another language. He said that I have been thinking about everything from home as I walk and not living in the present moment. He knew this because of the way my feet looked. He said the Camino is about paying attention to your body and heightening your senses. He also talked about walking the next large stretch of the Camino called La Meseta. He said it is one of the most important parts of the Camino where pilgrims finally make the "Camino interiór," that is, they walk within their mind. La Meseta has long straight paths through flat plains for several days. Many Pilgrims take a bus from the two major cities, Burgos and Leon, on either side of the plains to move onto the next portion and "save time." Santiago says many people don't walk the ugly landscape because they don't want to look at the ugly side of themselves. I have been thinking about this ever since he told me this.

Centuries Old Albergue on the Camino

In this albergue, the tradition after dinner is to go up to a little hidden chapel in the house. Santiago passed around notes left behind by previous peregrinos. We were each given a note in our own language and read them out loud. Even the pocketknife French guy read aloud a French note. The notes will be read 20 times (about how many days it takes to get to Santiago from this town.)
The next morning we left our own notes to be read to the pilgrims that come after us. 
One last note about Mr. Pocketknife: He started his Camino in Le Puy, France. His Camino will be easily over 1000 miles. He has a story I will probably never know.

Day 11: Tosantos to Agés

Day 11: Tosantos to Agés
About 26.1 km 
I left this morning from Tosantos with good ole Camilla the Swede and Gentle Oscar from the North (of Italy) on either side of me. One of my favorite parts of each day is heading out of town and seeing the vista of the town as the sun is rising. Seeing the 12th century hermitage shrink into the hills in the distance was more beautiful than words. As we walked along, I ran into the friendly Italian whose name I could now remember and spell: Ettore. We started singing about the names of towns...or perhaps I started singing and he started laughing. Today was going to be just fine. I discovered that the pack of Italians did not know each other. They were all from different parts of Italy. When Etorre and I arrived in the town of Agés, population 20, including the cats and a dog, we reunited with the Italians and I shared my drawings from the Camino. My Spanish is starting to sound Italian.

Seeing the 12th century hermitage shrink into the hills in the distance was more beautiful than words.

Day 12: Agés to Burgos

Day 12: Agés to Burgos
I decided to leave in the morning with Ettore and the rest of the Italians: Gloria, Antonio from Sardinia, Andrea from Milan, and Patrícia from Sicily. This turned out to be a great stroke of luck. I learned to walk the Camino the Italian way. First you take your sweet sweet time to get ready leaving in the in morning. Then you realize that your name is not Jean, it is Gina and you will be called Gina from now on. Then you have an espresso in the albergue to get going. Then you walk for 30 minutes to the next town and have another espresso. Then you get to another small town and find the bar and get another round of espressos for everyone. After 9am, at the next bar, you buy a round of beer and potato chips and enjoy the country air and wave to the other Italian pilgrims walking by and say ciao. Then you begin climbing a hill and start singing. I have never been so happy to haul a huge pack up a hill. My face hurt from smiling and I forgot about my legs. It was probably one of the happiest mornings of my life. I have recordings of the Italians singing. I will play the singing whenever I am feeling blue.
At some point while we were singing, we missed a turn to take the route by the river. So we entered the HUGE city, population 200,000, of Burgos via industrial roads and highways. Ettore and I had to stay with the pack because we were out of euros and hadn't seen an ATM in 3 days. We finally found one on the outskirts of town. Entering Burgos was like walking out of a subway station onto Times Square. Wow! A city! Glass windows! Blinking lights! High-heeled shoes!

Cathedral in Burgos as we continue on the Camino

Cathedral in Burgos, Spain

 
We found a small albergue by the cathedral.
If you haven't been to Burgos, here is why you should go...THE CATHEDRAL! It is like 100 churches in one with the most amazing gothic architecture and art. It is more a museum than anything and the church custodians were shooing me and Ettore out the door at closing as I took photos of 11th century wood carvings, 500 year old embroidery, oh, and a random painting by Leonardo Da Vinci. No big deal. If the Camino ended at Burgos, I wouldn't have been disappointed. The jaw dropping interiór dome is worth the 200+ km I have already walked. Two of the Italians are stopping their Camino in Burgos. They have to go back home to work. We ate a great big meal together talking in Italian with Ettore "translating" for me. 
It was such a beautiful day.
Tomorrow, we face La Maseta.

Continue the journey with me to Camino Part 3. . Pre-Camino Travels | Camino Part 1 | Camino Part 2 | Camino Part 3 | Camino Part 4 | Camino Part 5

Espresso for Pilgrims before Sunrise, packs resting outside bar.

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!