Chatty Jim

I am not sure why I am doing the camino and every time someone asks, I struggle to come up with a satisfying, yet fluffy answer. 'For adventure,' I´ll say, 'for my soul,' or perhaps 'for a break from normal chaotic life.' However, none of these answers seem to quite fit. The truth is that ever since I read about the camino nearly ten years ago, Saint James has been chatting like an old auntie in my ear. 'Come for a visit,' he will say, 'and have a lovely wander on your way.' As life has shifted these past few years, Jim has gotten a bit noisier. 'We have much to gossip about, you and I... what paths you have chosen and what paths you have yet to choose.. We must discuss this whole letting go of the paths you did not choose.'

Of course, as I appease Jim with backpack and scallop shell, I begin to hear the more demanding, father-in-law type voice of Shiva, 'When are you coming to see me at my Mount Kailash address?? Don´t wait too long or Ganesh will eat your dinner!!' But that may be an adventure for another time.. ;)

As per my Toulouse gatekeeper Bernard´s advice, I bis a bitter sweet farewell to Toulouse and boarded a train for St Jean Pied-de-Port. As multiple backpackers boarded our connecting train out of Bayonne, I felt like a kindergartener on the first day of class; nervous, excited and terrified. 'I am about to walk 500 miles!?!?! Really!? Maybe I should just rent a car.'

St Jean Pied-de-Port or 'at the foot of the pass,' sits tucked in the lush Pyrenees, surrounded by green lush rolling hills and occasionally shrouded in a mysterious mountain fog. St Jean is a beautiful walled medieval town, the perfect  setting for watching Spain thrash France in the Euro cup (futbol...or for those of you who watch that sport with touchdowns...soccer.)

Upon  entering town, I checked into a gorgeous cheap little room with yellow walls, a blue quilt and bright red shutters and then proceeded to find a restaurant to watch the game. I ate and cheered as pilgrims from all corners of the world crowded around the tiny tv.

The next morning, I wandered the tiny streets with brightly shuttered houses and stores selling beautiful items to tempt pilgrims with their already overloaded backpacks. (As a result, I have bough gifts for everyone...but only in my mind.) I got my third pilgrim stamp before roaming the pilgrim museum located in a creepy medieval jail. As the sun settled lower, I wandered next to the beautiful little River Nive, finding a set of stairs where I could sit with my feet in the water and ukulele in hand. I played about a half hour at which point, a large overly fluffy dog stumbled down the steps to eat my sandwich wrapper. After a bit of a snuggle, I packed up the uke and walked up the steps with the dog stuck to my side, only to discover his owner and a few other townspeople listening above. Though I may have translated wrong, they said that they hoped I woould keep playing (or perhaps the opposite) but I explained that I would be beginning my camino the next morning and needed to get sleep. I hugged the dog an headed back to my hotel, their 'Buen Caminos' ringing out behind me.

Back at the hotel, I tucked myself in early between lavender scented sheets and watched the god awful never ending Italy/England match before drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

Day One.. St Jean to Roncevalles

From what I have read, the first stage of the camino is a grueling 25.1 kilometer (32 km adjusted for cumulative ascent) ´Baptism of Fire.´But what no one mentions is that aligning the first stage of ones camino with the first day of her period is a condition desserving of its own whole new circle in Dante´s Inferno. And to make matters worse.. the word 'tampon' in french means 'stamp.' Oh, the uterin joys!

I left a beautifully sunny St Jean at about 730am taking the Route de Napoleon and nearly quit at the first hill. (seriously Jen!! ever hear of stretching first!!) Three hours later after climbing about 700 meters I reached Auburge Orisson, downed a Gatorade and continued climbing another 300 meters to Veirge d'Orisson, a lovely statue of Mary overlooking spectacular mountains and steep drops. I rested temporarily at her feet before bidding her farewell and continuing on as vegetation changed from full lush trees and angled cornfields to rocks and grass chewed down by roaming sheep and cows. With cowbells echoing on the wind, I passed rolling peaks populated by wild horses and unsettling amounts of vultures (they were waiting for me to keel over..) Around every bend awaited another amazing panoramic view across the Pyrenees, France on one side, Spain awaiting on the other. I passed Cruciero, a dramatic mountaintop cross adorned in pilgrims scarves and I doused my head a km later in the Fontaine de Roland, a fountain dedicated to the betrayed fallen nephew of Charlemagne. 

I smugly   tackled 1450 meters at Col de Lepoeder only to be passed by a group of ladies in their sixties and seventies while leaving france behind and crossing into Spain´s Navarre region. I began the 3 km descent into Roncevalles with a slightly more humbled heart and halfway down, I came across a middle aged red headed american waving her walking sticks wildly at the flies around her. Looking for an excuse to slow down, I matched her pace and shortly we were joined by a cute young polish couple who were using the camino as a chance to grow closer. Together with shaky knees, aching muscles, crispy skin and one burning uterus (sorry guys) we descending into Roncevalles with the joy of those leaving purgatory firmly behind.

Roncevalles (valley of thorns,) fabled resting place of Charlemagne´s massacred rear guard, is a tiny town of nearly a hundred residents but as it is the Spanish gateway to the camino, it is home to a 400 bed Augustinian pilgrim refuge which runs with biting effieciency. Pilgrims eat promptly at 7pm, have lights out by 10pm and are booted out unceremoniously before 8am the next morning. After a fitful night in a room with a hundred of ones closest unknown friends (though none snored with the same astounding volume of my husband) 7am lights came on brutally early. 

Since at my current pace I would finish the camino well before I was to meet my friend Barb in Leon, I took my second day to slow down, waiting on a bench outside the refuge for my american friend to emerge. As we walked slowly, we traded life stories and our tales of luckily meeting outt supportive husband´s (both of whom are likely gorging on take-out in our absence)

Megan (diff name) an exhausted woman with a strong personality told me that the day before, she had sent her 46 lb backpack ahead of her in a taxi and as a result, another pilgrim, nicknamed her 'cheater'.  What this foolish german woman wasn´t aware of in her ignorant taunting was that Megan´s 46lb bag contained medication and an IV to keep Megans benign yet growing brain tumor under control.

Megan and I walked, passing through leafy shaded trees, near fields full of mooing cows and through the dainty pristine town of Burguete. 3km later, as heat and fatigue from the restless night before slowed us down, we stumbled on an adorable two bedroom apartment for 20 euros each in Espinal. I kept thinking I was translating wrong as the price seemed way too cheap! We sat in a cool apartment, chatting away, devouring bread, cheese and chocolate before Megan headed off for a much needed nap. 

I spent the suns waning hours sitting outside next to my drying clothes; a steep cow filled hill to my right, a sleeping german shepard and a huge old church to my left, a white horse rolling in the dirt directly ahead and a snail on the wall next to my shoulder. The air carried the smell of grass, roses and animals as church bells and cowbells drifted on the warm wind. As I slowly sipped my Nescafe, I though of what a dutch girl had said at the refuge that morning, 'Why is everyone in such a hurry..is this a race??' 

While some are racing to the feet of Saint James, others are walking the slower way With James...the way to themselves.

Future Tense

I once asked a friend why he never goes back to where he has been. He said that it is never the same and memories are best left as they are. I suspect he was talking in double meanings. 

Toulouse is full of memories for me, but these memories are happy to be shaken up, reviewed and replaced. One warm afternoon, I sat in a cool cavernous Basilique St Sernin, wrapped in the warm glow of a tiny desk lamp as Bernard, a sweet man in his sixties who looks strikingly like my college theory professor, stamped my pilgrim passport. "Voila! Buen Camino" During our long chat, he explained that the french side of the camino is physically easy but as there is not much demand, it is difficult to find places to stay. He recommended taking a train to Bayonne to start from St Jean Pied du Port.."for your first time.." he added. He sent me on my way before sitting back down at his desk piled high with maps and books, to quietly wait hours or days for the next pilgrim.

*******

In France, June 21st is Fete du la Musique, and oh what a party it was! By 8 pm the narrow streets of Toulouse looked as though all the beautiful buildings had thrown up their occupants. Everyone was out; school kids, old lovers, thin smoking men and woman looking like sexy ashtrays, a mom and her small son walking side walk cracks as though on a tight rope..

In the city center, a gypsy violin sang mounfully through the capitol square and at each decrescendo a marching band could be heard a block over. On one corner a jazz singer battled to be heard over an african percussion band and a block down, a brass band won out over house music. Toward the end of the night, I found myself back at the feet of St Sernin, drawn in by a large group playing drums and hand cymbals while singing in Arabic with total abandon. As the music sped and crescendoed, a tall dark man pulled me into the circle to dance, spinning me like a whirling dirvish. "The music," he said, his voice hinting to his Morrocan heritage, "the music means, Come woman, come man...LIVE!"

*****Everytime I have come to Toulouse I have worried that it will be my last and so each time I have devoured sights, scents and tastes. Coming back four years later, I am older (obviously) stronger and supposedly wiser. Yet I worried that Toulouse might not welcome me back to her rosy streets. However, on my first night after stumbling on a jazz(ish) band playing Brittney Spears' Toxic, after being asked out by a shop keeper, after stuffing myself silly on falafel and chocolatines, and after playing ukulele by the river, I stopped worrying. I finished out my first night sitting in the grass strumming chords as the Garonne River passed by and the lights of Pont Neuf gently changed from green to red to purple. I was joined by two musicians with their guitars who insisted on playing "Let It Be." As we played and sang, I finally understood how silly I must sound singing French opera ;)

On my last day in Toulouse, I ventured to Sept Deniers, the neighborhood located a couple kilometers northwest of the city center where I had previously stayed. Paths that had just been laid out and planted when I had left were now fully grown and shaded with green life. I walked slowly next to the river, letting familiarity wash through me. Memories that had merely become photographs came back to life in the form of jasmin and rosemary hedges and beautifully painted houses. I walked lighter as my true pilgrimage destination came into view (Santiago?? Pfft..) This particular Boulangerie was home to the decadent creme catalan that I had lost sleep lusting over many a cold dark night. I happily walked in to see the same lovely skinny shop keeper only to nearly cry as she informed me that the creme catalan was now only an autumn offering. (WHAT??? Son of a....!!!!!)

I compromised on a rich chocolate eclair and sat on a bench to watch planes land and the river flow. I vindictively licked my fingers and chewed with obvious pleasure as sexy french woman jogged by, longingly looking my way. As the world settled into a warm late afternoon glow, I felt waves of nostalgia wash off of me with the flowing of the Garonne. I finished my eclair and called my husband.

Afterall, Sept Deniers was where my past ended in order for my future to begin.