Haikus for the Camino

The French

Silver Fox*, so buff

won`t speak any language but

French and snores: you suck

*Silver Fox is one of our nicknames for a fellow pilgrim who looks like a body builder, wears spandex, and is friendly if somewhat ridiculous.

Wheat Fields in Wind

Look like oil sliding

down roads, hordes of cheering fans,

quick clouds, a stampede

By Luke, who smells

Jen is disgusting*

Burping all the time, my God;

Thank God for Dutch girls

*I am NOT gross... I`m just trying to convince our friend from Luxembourg that American girls drink Coke and burp all the time...

Belorado: The enchanted city

It was our seventh day on the trail and our first Saturay night. The albergue said curfew wasn`t until 11:30. In camino time, that was like letting us stay out all night. What would we do with all those hours to fill?

The passage of time goes slowly in the afternoons. After some cerveza, a shower, and tending to our feet (Kishor, I took a photo just for you) there isn`t a lot to see in these small towns other than their churches and squares. Sometimes, we find a grassy area and throw. No one brought playing cards, but we all admitted to weighing the pros and cons of carrying the extra weight. The Dutch girls finally made some out of paper from their journal, and we played `President`in Belorado over Sangria.

Belorado had more fun in store than we were ready for, though. Right after checking in (a process worthy of its own entry), we heard a brass band playing what sounded like football fight songs in the street. We went outside to find a group of attractive twenty-somethings wearing orange t-shirts and dancing in the street. There was sax player and a couple of horns, and everyone had a plastic cup of beer in their hand. It looked like a migratory frat party. After asking around, we found out that it basically was...

Everyone in the town who would turn 25 that year was celebrating on the same day. Then, the 30-year-olds came out of a neighboring bar in green t-shirts with even louder musical accompaniment. Apparently, when you turn 30 you get a receding hairline AND overpowering percussion. They definitely won the battle of the bands that ensued.

Somehow, the two groups continued to dance to the same songs well into the night. This town was creepy... it was freezing there, white wolf-like dogs roamed the square, there was a waffle-iron saint and an iron demon in the church. The next morning, we stepped out of the clouds back into sanity.

The Great Camino Race

On the 4th day, we walked 17 miles from Los Arcos to Logroño (I love that there´s a tilde key). The last stretch was in the rain, and I had a shooting pain in my foot by the end of the walk. When we arrived, the only albergue in town was full. We didn´t have a bed. It was at that moment we decided the race was ON.

Everything turned out O.K. of course. They had overflow mattresses in a nearby church, and the priest sent the snorers to another room. I was thankful the church had no problem overriding the supposed egalitarianism of the trail - calling out the camino leppers. The church didn´t open until late, though (late = 9pm since our regular bedtime is 10pm... we have yet to see stars). So, we set off into town rather than collapsing in bed, and I bought some bonafide Spanish hiking sandals. Any souvenir I don´t have to carry is O.K. by me!

The next morning, Luke concluded we should leave our international companions in the dust and walk the 18 miles to Nàjera (I love that there´s an accent key) as fast as possible to snag a bed. Anytime we spotted pilgrims ahead of us on the trail, we dubbed them targets and picked up our pace. We passed the Brazilians, the Italians, and the French. It was like the Olympics. This definitely wasn´t what I expected our spiritual pilgrimage to entail. We rolled into Nàjera at around 1:30 in 29th place. Considering people had set out from multiple albergues in several different towns, we felt pretty good about that. To celebrate, we made giant hamburgers. Yeah Team America.

It´s interesting the way the Camino seems to be transforming. It used to have much less traffic, and pilgrims were more reliant on the surrounding communities for lodging and support. Now, there´s more of a touristy feel. You can choose to stay at warehouse-type albergues outside of town. The restaurants we pass feel like ski lodges, and many people seem more focused on ¨getting it done¨ than the experience. There are more outdoor enthusiasts than Catholics. Of course, it´s hard to be critical since I don´t have much of a religious motive, either... I just wish I could walk slower.

In which there is written an open letter to Spain

Dear Spain,

How are you centuries ahead of us in public transportation, sleeping patterns, and beverages, yet so far behind in hairstyles? When I rode your metro in Madrid, it was like a ride in Disney´s Futureland. Everything was so sleek and brightly colored, and you´re right that automatic doors don´t make much sense. The giant green button in your train was much more efficient. It was like those sensor sinks, except better. The doors didn`t open when you walked by.

Also, I hope that one day we Americans will follow your siesta lead. No one is actually productive from 2 - 4, so why not embrace it? Of course, it did make things a little tough when we got into Pamplona and everything was chained shut, but we got used to it. We needed to walk of that jet lag anyway.

And what`s with your opaque silver Pepsi bottles? Do you mean to tell me beverage plastic doesn´t have to be clear? That it`s even more space age (and earth friendly) if it looks like aluminum foil? Also, your wine is super cheap. I had a glass for dinner that was $0.88. Oh and I love that all your coffee is brewed by the cup in a French press. Man, drinking in your country makes me happy.

With all these modern strides, there`s just one thing holding you back, Spain, and I think it needs to be said. It`s the mullets. Everyone here has them. I saw a group of eleven schoolchildren the other day, and five had mullets. What are you teaching your children? We're not talking haven`t had a haircut in a while mullets, either. These mullets are a serious statement, Spain. Maybe it has something to do with the siestas... and the wine. Are mullets the haircut of the future? Am I just not getting it?

Of early morning rustling and the third day

Everyday we´ve been getting up earlier and earlier. When Frei and I hiked in Oregon, I complained about her rustling at 5:30, but now there´s anywhere between 15 and 75 people moving about by 6am. I hate them. It`s at least an hour into the hike before I get over my rage. The thing is, it´s always the loudest snorers who´re the first awake. We walk into our room and size people up based on how loud they´ll snore at night. Luke also claims he can diagnose fellow hikers based on their coughs and nighttime noises... pretty soon, I think he´ll start charging.

Today was my favorite day on the camino so far even though the third day is supposed to be the toughest. There were fields full of red flowers and mist over a meseta in the distance. We only went through one town - Villamayor - but we saw a Roman bath on the way, and there was a beautiful church. It´s weird because you´ll see an isolated medeival church on a hill and factories and highway in the background. You could probably see the majority of the route by car if you wanted to, but we feel physically and spiritually superior to our autopista counterparts. They´ve got somewhere to be... we only need to make the next town before the albergues fill up.

As we* were walking down the hill outside of town, an old man trudged past us lugging a large sack. I felt sort of bad with my hiking pole and hip strap and him all hunched over. When he passed me, I said "Hola!" and then he motioned for me to stop. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out two sweet gummy candies, and wished me a buen camino. It was pretty humbling. And delicious.

I´ve gone back to hiking in the Rainbows since the route is pretty tame, and they´re a great conversation starter. After this guy from Spain asked me about them and saw I could speak Spanish, he started telling me about everything we were passing. I learned the difference between the grape and olive trees, realized that all the grass in the distance is really wheat fields, and got an insider´s perspective on Spain and the trail. It´s funny the way the path brings together such a diverse group of people. If someone is going your speed and you can semi-communicate, you walk together. There are people from all over the world and varied backgrounds crammed into the bunk-filled rooms together. We get up together, stink together, and drink wine from fountains at 8am together.

* I use "we" loosely because I´m definitely the slowest of the group. My strides are short, what can I say? So, by we, I mean I mean I keep an eye on everyone when they go up a hill or around a bend but otherwise make new friends.

Of our adventurers´ first sally forth and disappearing windmills

When we were hiking up our first mountain outside of Pamplona, it began to thunderstorm. I asked Luke if I should ditch my metal hiking pole because of the lightning, but he reassured me that it would be fine. Then, he said:

"We should probably walk with some distance between us, though. That way, if it strikes one of us, the other one can come help. Oh, and keep doing CPR... the heart can stop up to 3 times."

Awesome. Also, I didn´t know CPR. An hour earlier, the skies had been clear over Pamplona behind us. As we got closer to the mountain and its windmill spine, though, the clouds rolled in. I dug my pole as far into the mud as I could and kept telling myself there were a lot of things on the mountain... why would the lightning pick me?

Things had been going super well up to that point. In Pamplona, we´d found our Pilgrim Passport, lodging, and the trail thanks to some friendly French women and a stout German guy with a briefcase. The night before we ate Paella, saw a Basque protest, and danced in the street with a tamer Basque contingent. Nuns gave me delicious coffee for breakfast...

Just as I was making peace with death, a jolly Spanish man carrying an umbrella (!) came up beside me. He said he was on his way to meet friends for wine in the next town. He said we were close. He said there were lightning rods at the top of the mountain. Ahhhh.

After it cleared up some, we looked back and saw that we had passed the windmills at the top of the mountain without seeing them. We had been hiking on a mountain amongst windmills in a thunderstorm and hadn´t even reazlied it. Rock.

One of my favorite parts of the trail so far has been that it eliminates so much of the burden of hiking. As soon as we were drenched and cold, we came upon the next town where we had coffee and bocadillos. There are fountains all along the way, so you don´t have to carry a ton of water. AND you get to sleep in a bed (surrounded by old people who sometimes snore and walk around in their underwear) but it´s a bed! All of this probably contributes to the fact that the average age of the camino hiker is about 55.

We have, however, been able to find some kids our age to hang out with. There are two Dutch gals who are at the tail end of their gap year, have super cute accents, and are learning to play frisbee... "What is a flick the wrist and how do you do it?" There´s Juan Pablo, our Mexican translator, who recently wooed a priest and convinced him to let Luke ring the bell of a medieval church. We also have a German in the group who cracks corny jokes and has uncanny knowledge of American movies. ´tis good times.

Oh, Frei and Amal, I also thought you´d be interested to know that I am still always the last one ready...

Tomorrow: the WINE FOUNTAIN!

Prologue: which relates our adventurers´ quest and motivation

(You´ll have to forgive the entry titles... I´m reading Don Quixote en route)

For the next month, Luke and I will be hiking across Northern Spain on the Camino de Santiago, or Road of St. James. The plan is to walk the 450 miles from Pamplona to Santiago de Compostela in 24 days - averaging between 15 and 20 miles everyday. We might end up hopping on a bus from Burgos to Leon if the terrain doesn´t look very exciting (or if our bodies give out), but as of now, we´re planning to do the whole thing a pie. At night, we´ll stay in albergues, or hostels, that are often run by monks or nuns.

According to legend, St. James preached in Galicia during the early Christian period before returning to Jerusalem, where he was beheaded. His body was taken back to Spain by his disciples, and it was forgotten about. 800 years later, a shepherd called Pelayo saw a bright star over a field. The body underneath the ground there was surrounded by seashells, and the church declared that it was St. James. This declaration occurred at the onset of the Christian Reconquest of Spain and lent a destination and Patron Saint to the cause. The spot where St. James´s tomb was ¨discovered¨ became known as Santiago de Compostela (campos = field, strella = star hence Compostela).

At times during the 12th and 14th centuries, the number of pilgrims headed toward Compostela outnumbered those travelling to Rome or Jerusalem. These fervent Catholics were hiking to repent and cut their time in Purgatory by up to half... I have less lofty goals. The camino seems like a great way to do two of my favorite things (hike and speak Spanish) without having to carry a tent or spend a lot of cash. Also, if I can walk 450 miles, I can definitely teach 9th grade... right? I´m pretty sure Luke is here for self-enlightenment, but you´ll have to ask him...