What If...

I stood shakily, sweat rolling in dirty lines down the skin of my legs, my nose red from the rubbed off sunscreen and my tangled hair sticking to the back of my neck. My maroon bag had turned into what felt like a dusty bag of bricks and both of my pinky toes had blisters bigger that the actually toes themselves. My knees ached.. Oh, how they ached. I looked ahead at the rocky path leading straight up, I cinched my backpack higher against my body, I gulped hot water from my sun kissed water bottle, I gripped my walking stick and with a long suffering sigh, I took my next step. 

Why? 

Because I was a pilgrim and Saint James was waiting.

But, What If…

What if I did not have my ultra light backpack or my quick dry synthetic clothes… What if I had no walking sticks or expensive hiking shoes to cushion my steps...What if the content of my bag actually was the sum of all I owned...

What if there was no bed or church floor waiting at the end of the day…What if there was nothing behind me and only unknown ahead…

What if I had seen my house crumble…What if I had seen people die; my friends, my parents, my husband, my child…What if people looked at me and saw a terrorist...

What if I had nearly drowned...What if my very soul had died along the way…What if the only way to live was continue putting one foot in front of the next…

What if the only way to feed my family and educate my children was to walk through fields and barbed wire, past shouting people and police…

What if every moment of my aching desperate walk was drenched in constant fear and hunger…

What if the only things I had left were the next step and hope…

What if… 

I am home now, on the other side of the world, surrounded by the purpose and routine of my normal daily life, but Saint James is still whispering in my ear. "It was not so long ago, Jen, that you were the one in need of help."  

This past weekend my husband and I left the busy city and drove through endless cornfields to arrive for a peaceful dusk outdoor dinner overlooking far off horizons. The sun had set brilliantly gifting us a humid deep summer sky dotted with shimmering stars. As others stood in the yard, staring up in awe, I sat on the deck talking with my beautiful, strong foster mom. "Jen, every day will break your heart," she advised in response to my desire to follow her path to becoming a foster parent. She sighed and looked across the field at her star counting husband while the night whispered around us. 

"Jen, you are a pilgrim every day. The moment you leave my house, you are still a pilgrim. You still have a path to walk." Saint James assured me. "Will you continue or stand still? Will you offer your help and heart to others or will you look away? What have you learned on your way through your very own field of stars?" Saint James brushed a hand through my hair and with a backward smile, he left me to contemplate the sky.

Elvis Presley sang this song over 60 years ago on the Ed Sullivan show in order to raise funds for Hungarian refugees fleeing war and oppression. Today, this song still feels incredibly relevant as millions are on the move to find hope and safety for their families. My heart is with them. 

Help! Feel! Empathize! Love!

Spicy Spaniards

“It must be the eyes,” Paul commented while shaking his head. “They look with those big brown eyes and the women just melt!” 

Along with our small group, there were approximately 40 other pilgrims walking our same stage each day. At first, we saw the other pilgrims as competition for beds, but eventually, many simply became friends. There was the Spanish father, Agustin, with flamboyantly curly hair and his beautiful 15 year old daughter whose shorts never quite reached below her bottom. There was the young smiling couple who in Paul’s words, must have had hand blisters from the constant hand holding. There was Emma the Brit walking with Spanish Marina, Polish Monica, and a horrible case of severe shin splints. There was Mihail the Bulgarian who had so far lost 20lbs while walking the camino. And then there were the Spanish men... Praise and glory be to God! There was the endlessly happy guitar player Esteve, There was the adorably emotional cop, Miguel (and anyone who know me, knows exactly how I feel about the incredibly fit and attractive Spanish police force...) There was Guillermo who despite our foul Spanish and his incomplete English, ALWAYS managed to communicate, there was Esteban who spoke rapid fire Spanish and when asked to slow down would actually speak faster and there were others that we camino ladies sighed over. 

Karin lit up whenever these lovely boys were around and Zuzana, a tall redhead from the Czech Republic, deserted us completely when they looked her way. Paul sighed and nodded knowingly. “Ah we are not young attractive single men, are we..?” 

Since I had a husband walking with me, my response to the Spaniard boys was, of course limited, but I will admit to a mild case whiplash whenever they walked by.  Ameya did not notice, nor complain as he was walking ahead with two beautifully fit Danish women. 

Walking with a husband certainly changes one’s Camino. I had spent the first half of my Camino on the North route, washing my clothes in sinks and sleeping in 5 euro rooms with countless other stinky pilgrims. I ate simply, enjoying albergue kitchens and I woke early, heading out the door by 7am. Upon the arrival of my husband, things changed, our average start time was between 8 and 9am, we stayed in private rooms, Ameya was always searching for washing machines and if one was not to be found, I would generally be washing his clothes in the sink as he had a late afternoon snore. He did not lighten my pack as promised, by carrying my camera or first aid kit or Don Quixote.  (which I was stamping alongside my pilgrim’s passport.)  And there were many mornings when he would wait for other pilgrims to walk ahead before sheepishly asking me to tie his shoes. But, to be honest, I quite liked the private rooms which were not that much more expensive, and I did not suffer as a result of using washing machines. However, ogling Spanish men is not advised when your husband is nearby. 

Eventually Ameya had to try an albergue, but my intent was not to start him off with an albergue complete with dirty floors, creaky beds, and one bathroom for all pilgrims. We had decided to follow our Catalonian savior, Judith, who had called ahead to reserve us beds in Lugo. After thirty pleasant pastoral kilometers, after multiple beers in the first bar in Lugo, complete with our Spanish friends, after walking up the hill to the city center, down the hill on the other side and nearly across the river, we arrived at our unkept albergue where we each took turns at 5 minute showers before all heading back up the hill to the city center for a large group dinner. 

Dinners in Spain are always long and complicated, but when picking a place for 15+, well...it could take days. Ameya, realizing that his hunger would only be fed when a restaurant was chosen, looked at the first menu in the town square and told Judith, “this is it.” As they decisively sat down at a long outdoor table, we followed without question. We had come out of the wilderness, the rugged wild mountains, and had eaten the same exact menu every night, which despite walking past field after field of prosperous vegetables, our menu lacked anything green. So, upon arrival in Lugo, I was thrilled to sit in front of a large plate of grilled vegetables flavored simply with balsamic vinegar, it almost made up for the filthy albergue. 

We talked long into the night, stretching dinner comfortably toward the third hour. Jan and Esteve, who were staying at a different (though possibly cleaner) place, joined our table after discovering that their albergue locked the door at 10pm. “It will be easy to climb through the window,” Jan said convincingly.  

That night, we poured ourselves into our beds, Paul, Dimitri (who would be catching a train early the next morning,) Ameya and myself in close proximity. Ameya fell asleep immediately as Karin quietly slipped into her bed after staying out for an extra drink. 

“There isn’t a chance that he could sleep on his side, is there?” Karin asked the darkened room. I sighed heavily, the sound blending with that of the jarring snores coming from Ameya’s bunk below. 

“Nope.” 

Peeing Pilgrims and Sea Stars

Karin peed. A Lot! It seemed we were always stumbling upon her in the act;  behind a tree, near a 13th century abandoned pilgrims albergue, in tall grass, and once when talking with her, we turned to discover just her backpack thrown on the side of the road as she had dissipated into the forest. Ameya joked that she had a bladder the side of a grape. But Karin is German and Germans have a different perspective when it comes to things of the body and basic nudity. She told us a story from when she was younger and visiting the USA. She had been hiking and returned to the campground where there was an outside shower. “I took my clothes off, because that’s what you do when you shower.” People began to stare in horror at the showering naked young woman; families, moms, dads, children, dogs... maybe even bears. “I did not know that in America, you shower in your swim suit!” she said in her defense.  

Karin wanted a baby. She had left her job and set out to explore the world in order to find peace with the fact that she and her husband had not yet had a child. She traveled to Peru, she attended meditation, she worked at an orphanage in Thailand and she was walking her Camino, all after the heartbreak of two miscarriages. Karin should have a baby, but life does not always follow our plans, and as she scrolled through her phone, showing me pictures of her smiling face alongside her laughing little Thai charges, I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps, there is a little one somewhere already waiting for her love. 

I, on the other hand, am ambivalent about having children. While I am convinced that my husband wants a child, he and I had not yet learned how to be partners, which was a big factor for us choosing to walk the Camino. We did not know how to love and respect each other without waiting for the other to change. I wanted him to be more capable and hands-on and he wanted me to fulfill a traditional supporting role. We weren’t even sure that we could stay together without losing ourselves.  And so, there was no room for thoughts of children when our very identities were being torn down. But time passes and eventually there will be no time left to choose. Perhaps I will not be a mother. That possibility does not terrify me.

But to look at the bright side, my genetic makeup is really no great prize to be gifted to the next generation anyway; Diabetes, rampant heart disease, cancer, mental health issues, addictive personalities, below average height, fierce hatred for maths... how could I curse a child so??  (As I write this, please know that fostering and adoption are very real possibilities..)

Children have a different place in society in Spain than in the US. Perhaps if faced with parenting in Spain, I would not be so hesitant. I longingly watched families walking the camino together; fathers with calloused hands lifting tiny backpacks onto small shoulders as mothers dispensed encouragement. I envied. In the non pilgrim world of Spain, children run in the town squares shrieking as everyone in the area observes and watches out for danger. Kids kick soccer balls against walls of ancient churches, play tag in restaurants, have unstructured play, and are reprimanded by strangers when out of line.  They eat the same food as adults, are welcome in bars and are an accepted presence generally everywhere anytime. However, according to Jose, the Spanish primary teacher that I had talked with a week before, Spanish kids are learning bad habits from their western counterparts. Obesity rates are rising, playgrounds are resting dormant in favor of technology and parents are beginning to over schedule their children. Ah, progress..

The morning after our pulpo apocalypse, we had a slow café in the bar attached to our hotel before wandering uphill out of Fonsagrada. Since the albergues shoved pilgrims on their way by 8am at the absolute latest, we were always slightly behind. But as became a pattern, we always managed to find a rhythm along with our way to Karin, Paul, Dimitri, Jette and Cristina and occasionally, Jan. We spent our day meeting up, passing ahead, and falling behind before eventually walking as a chatty group. 

Early in the day, our path took us up a mountain topped by windmills and the Hospital de Montouto, a collection of crumbling buildings from the 13th century meant to house pilgrims on their way to Santiago. Hospital de Montouto was founded in 1360, during the time of the plague, by Pedro I who is remembered as either “El Cruel” or “El Justiciero” (The Lawful) depending on if one were to side with the  English and Jewry or the French and Pedro’s half brother Henry, who eventually stuck a knife into Pedro’s chest. (multiple times if historical accounts are to be true..their family had serious issues!!) Thankfully, unlike the plague or the hundred year war, the pilgrim’s hospital continued to function into the start of the 20th century. We climbed over stone walls to make our way into the open hilltop meadow. We laid our hands on the ruins of ageless rocks, touching history.  

Karin may have peed there. 

“It is busy all at once and then it’s just me, a cat and a dog” Our path led us down the mountain and directly to the picnic tables of a tiny bar full of joy and love, manned by one.  ...and his dog and cat. Paul nearly fainted with joy when the smiling Argentinian bar owner placed a tiny pot of hot water and a teabag before him. 

Twelve kilometers later (300 miles) we were surprised to find ourselves already at our destination of Cádavo Baleira as comparative discussions of politics, immigration, renewable energy and other such things had caused the kilometers to fly by. We checked into our tiny hotel with Karin taking a single room for 25 euros as all the albergues were full for ten kilometers in either direction. We showered, washed clothes in the sink, walked the entirety of the little livestock town which took about ten minutes and sat outside enjoying cold beers with Jette and Cristina, before heading back to the hotel restaurant for dinner. 

Dinner was a loud and long process of conversation, cultural confusion and laughter and our group grew by two as Christophe, a high level corporate auditor from France and his wide-eyed, innocent son, Marron joined our table. The next day, we knew we were to arrive in Lugo where we would be saying goodbye to our favorite Russian.  Due to his vacation time limitations, Dimitri would be taking a train to Santiago before beginning his journey home to Kaliningrade. So, throughout our meal, the wine flowed and we raised our glasses in Dimitri’s honor. “To the happiest Russian we know! Salut!” Our glasses clinked and were emptied with smiles while Dimitri told the well known and loved story of a boy tossing stranded starfish into the sea, a boy who could not possibly save all the starfish but could change the life of at least one. We listened as Dimitri worked his way through the telling, making the story his own, since in his endearing version of English, the ‘starfish’ became ‘sea stars.’