Unfortunate Cornfields..

"Jim, you totally suck! You had a wild party without me.. I had to read about it in the newspaper!!" James looks sheepishly at the ground,"Yeah, it was quite the fete...but you will be here soon and I hear that you are bringing cake."

I looked over at Marion in the dark, her eyes open, her hands reaching for her phone to check the time. I could hear Genevieve rustling around in the bunk above me. "It´s time," we whisper, sneaking quietly out of the albergue and stealing into the cool humid night air. We looked at eachother, each with a mischievous gleam and a silent smile. "Thirly kilometers to cover and it´s only 2am... we will meet James by morning." We head off on the path through dense forests, our walking sticks clicking, our tiny flashlights flickering, the air smelling of warm pine, dogs alone announcing our arrival into each tiny town between us and Santiago. Distorted shadows danced before us as a moonless sky dangled massive stars above our heads with the big dipper looking close enough to scoop us up and deposit us at James´ feet...

I had considered leaving a note of apology for the farmer but I didn´t know how to word it in spanish.. 

"To the owner of this lovely cornfield, I am truly, TRULY sorry about what I did in your field. I realize that there is nothing that those particular stalks of corn did to deserve such a fate.. But believe me when I say; James made me do it!" I had made it successfully through my entire pilgrimage with my stomach in tact but James said that he wanted my last night to be a truly memorable story. So it was not until my final race to Santiago that I was brought low by a questionable creamy dessert at dinner. However, one is not a true pilgrim until one has pooped in a pitch black forest at four in the morning...and again one hour later in the aformentioned unfortunate cornfield. 

We could tell that our pilgrimage was in its final days when our conversations had changed from deep conversations about love, family and the meaning of life to food, poop, and sex and a ranking of their importance. Everyone seemed to have an engaging embarrasing story of loose bowels. Genevieve had her moment while hiding behind a garbage can, praying that no one would look out the window during seista, and Matt had a period of a couple days when he would just disappear midsentence in a mad race for a toilet (or a large bush.) And as for food conversations.. I have learned never to mention that I am hungry to anyone who is french as that person will immediately begin to describe delicious foods with such eloquence and poetry that I begin to hallucinate.. 

The sun had risen over the trees, filtering through a misty haze. A frail rainbow rose above the western horizon pointing us on to Santiago. Marion, Genevieve and I stopped five kilometers outside of the city, momentarily afraid to go on. "Are we ready to finish?" We had lit two candles the day before to celebrate Genevieve´s two months on the camino. She and Marion were about to finish a journey of 1600 kilometers from Le Puy to Santiago, twice my distance of a mere 800km. We were nervous. We walked anxiously through the outskirts of town, straining our necks for a glance of the cathedral spires. One block away we saw the church peaking through the beautiful old buildings and our hearts sped. Our tired feet raced and as we burst into the open courtyard of James´ house, we burst into tears. We had arrived; tarte de Santiago and champagne (cava) in hand.(note to self.. never buy cheap champagne when in the presence of anyone french.. it´s not worth the amount of time they will spend bitching..) We ate drank and cried, smiles beaming through our tears.

"I loved having you here, I hope you know that you can come back anytime!" James says with the warmth of an indulgent uncle."Really Jim? Thanks! How does next week work for you?"

Well, Hello Jim!!  

Spicy Pilgrims

I see Saint James Everywhere!! (and not just in my head.) In many depictions , he is astride a white horse with his lance pointing down towards the heads of unfortunate infidels. ´The Moor Slayer,´ they call my James. In the centuries when miracles began to be attributed to James on the western coast of Spain, much of the Iberian penninsula was under moorish control. However, more than one history book mentions that the society  under the Moors was one of the most religiously tolerant and artistically flourishing societies of it´s time. But as they began pushing further north, catholics pushed back south. And once Charlemagne got involved... well, it was only a matter of time (centuries) till the Spanish inquisition.  Legends place Saint James and his horse riding to the rescue time and time again, indiscriminantly vanquishing enemies of the christians and saving Iberia for the catholics. "Are the legends true James??" I ask.  He just smiles, "What do you think, Jen.."

"J'adorrrrrre le sex," Matt drawled, putting an Eartha Kitt style growl on his "r" and motioning as though smoking a cigarette and blowing out tiny seductive smoke rings.  Topping 6ft 4inches and as gorgeous inside as he is on the outside, Matt has become one of my favorite people of the camino.  He is a beautifully built blonde man with intelligent blue eyes and a mouth that comfortably wraps itself around countless languages. He is truly lovely, but despite his outrageous appeal, he was unhappy. And so one day, he left his job and walked out his front door towards Saint James.  He has since walked a couple thousand kilometers and is ready to soon meet Saint James with his mom at his side. (seriously, can this man be any more sexy!!)  We all sat around a large table in an open square of Leon, the sun setting behind ornate buildings as we sipped our beers and listened to Matt describe his encounter earlier in his camino with Dolores, a woman in her 60s with a lust for life and an appreciation for beautiful men. Dolores had walked the french side of the camino along side, Matt, Genevieve, and the others who came from Le Puy. And though I never had the chance to meet her, I find myself wanting to be like her as I aquire more years... full of life and just a little bit spicy.. (Matt requested that I make it perfectly clear that though he and Dolores had a hostel all to themselves back in France.. he did NOT sleep with her..)

                                                                 *****

¨The camino has four parts,¨ Blas said, recounting the wisdom he had heard from a priest earlier on in his camino. ¨From St Jean to Burgos, a pilgrim is learning his body, adjusting to his backpack, his shoes, dealing with blisters and aches. From Burgos to Leon, his demons surface with the heat of the meseta, attacking and tearing him down from all sides. From Leon to Santiago, our pilgrim lifts his head and rebuilds himself, having learned from the force of his weaknessess. And finally, from Santiago to Finisterra, our pilgrim meets his new self.¨ Blas then added that the wise priest was on his second trip to Santiago because he had not been happy with the new self he met the first time.

I discovered on this camino that I actually carry a lot more sadness through my life than I was aware of. I have always been comfortable recounting details of my life as simple facts minus the sting, but somewhere between Burgos and Leon, I realized that I had merely been pretending. As the brutally hot meseta scorched my body, the stark monotony of the wheat fields forced my brain to analyze the state of my life. I am not ok with things as they are. I am tired of the fearful balancing act that is my relationship with my mother and I actually am hurt that my father still hasn´t acknowledged me as his daughter. I am frusterated with my need to bury myself in work each time a holiday rolls around in order to avoid reality.

The meseta forced thoughts of my husband as well. He is a good man with an unscarred soul and a paralyzing fear of elevators. When he steps into an elevator, and the doors shut behind him, he feels his heart rate speed and the walls close in. I feel the same about marriage.. and by ignoring the damage done by a less than ideal childhood, I am cheating my husband of having a real wife. I don´t how to be married or to be a mother and I fear every day that in trying, I will regress to what I grew up with. Marriage terrifies me as it gives me the perfect opportunity to fail loudly and miserably. And so rather than approach my marriage rationally as an adult, I have hidden like a child, filling my time to the max, accepting too many students, too many commitments, too many gigs, saying yes to everyone but my husband... turning my husband into just a roomate. St James may or may not have been a Moor slayer, but his meseta slays pilgrims everyday, causing us to water the dry cracked earth with our snot and tears.

*****

"Un, deux, trois.." Marion, Genevieve, Isabelle and I sat in a dusty, tiny town near the top of a mountain. "Huit, nuef, dix.." Goats walked past the door as Genevieve reached for the one remaining slice of cheese not touching the meat. "Onze, douze, treize.." I lifted my wineglass to wash down a delicious veggie paella. "Quinze, seize, dix-sept.." A man at the end of the table scratched obsessively at his bed bug bites. "Dix-huit, dix-neuf...DIX-NEUF!!" Isabelle looked up from picking her feet at the dinner table. "Est-ce que je pourrais  mourir a cause des ampoules!??" (Could I die from too many blisters??) As she pushed on one toe nail, puss squirted out the top.  A few days later, we bought cake and lit a candle in honour of Isabelle´s 20th blister.

*****

We have laid our stones and prayers down at Cruz de Ferro and as the hill of pilgrim´s stones appeared, I heard myself say "Oh no, I am not ready!" We have crossed into a lush misty Galicia and as we see the kilometer markers ticking from triple digits into mere double digits, we are looking to Santiago with wild anticipation and paralyzing fear. What versions of our lives will we go home to when we leave eachother and James behind..

These last few days have been a time for realizing how transient our final camino moments are. People who I was sure I had seen for the last time have turned up for one more conversation.  I said goodbye to Matt as he left for the next town, his eyes looking to see James in a matter of days. "We will keep in touch," we say as we reach for one last hug. He smiles brightly, blows a kiss, and heads off to meet his new self.

Blas and Leopold, two american boys who actually chose their alter ego blog names, turned up at the breakfast table at the top of a mountain. Along with the adorable young korean girl Jay, we spent the day walking together. Blas, an attractive college kid studying recording engineering on the east coast, had spent another day a couple weeks back chatting with me about music and potential career paths. His cousin, Leopold (seriously.. Leopold??) is a tall student of medieval history who occasionally goes into tour guide mode.. but he has such an endearing smile. Together they have a quirky sense of humor and a wrecklessness that allows them to take up any dare. Alongside Jay, with her cute clumsiness and innability to turn down food, we laughed all the way from O´Cebreiro to Triacastela. They made fun of me, Nico, and everyone else so effectively that I had to stop walking long enough to keep from peeing myself. Perhaps life is too funny to be sad.  

Isabelle has left us to rejoin her Michel and to fight for being in love. They have raced ahead along with Blas and Leopold to arrive in Santiago on July 25th..the feast day of Saint James. Nico will meet James on the night of the 24th and Matt will arrive to meet his parents on the 26th. Marion, Genevieve and I have our own grand plan for meeting Jim.. But I will write about that once implemented ;)  We are all racing for the chance to start our lives over; wiser, stronger, and with more compassion..

"What should I do about my husband?" I ask. James snort laughs a minute before responding, "You´re asking the wrong question. The real question is what should your husband do about you?" "Gee thanks Jim, you´re such an ass!" James winks, "Whatever you say Jen. But excuse me while I put the kettle on... you are nearly here."

Coquelicot..

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" I said, pointing to the tiny frail red flower. Nico and I were walking quickly through fields endlessly painted gold beneath a cloudless blue sky. Occasionally though, the yellow gave way for a tiny brief moment to allow a delicate paint stroke of red to peep through. ¨Coquelicot,¨ he said. ¨Say it again,¨ I responded. ¨COH-cuh-lee-coh..¨  ¨One more time please.¨ As he slowly and clearly repeated himself, the wispy frail flower danced in the warm breeze.  

Nico and I had spent the entire day walking together about 70 kilometers east of Burgos. The rolling hills of the Pyrenees had long since given way to the vinards of Rioja only to be followed by the dreaded unbroken horizons of wheat. We took advantage of the thirty kilometers we had to cover by sharing stories of our pasts, our present and our hopes for the future. We talked politics, family, jobs, my students, his little girl, past relationships etc.. We simply talked in a way that could never be possible in normal life.  We had hours! We parted ways in Burgos when I needed to slow down and he was ready to cover more ground but I was happy that I had had a chance to learn about Nico. However, I found out a couple days later that he had walked ahead and had said things about me that were not kind. I also learned that many of the things he had said to me were not based in truth. I felt blindsided. 

St James is pissed off at me though. I caught up with Nico a few days later in Leon and took the opportunity to let him know exactly what I thought of him (I may have let an entire city block know.. I need to work on being more subtle.) When I walked away from him, I felt powerful and happy...ready to start my camino again.. But the very next day James started bitching at me. ¨Really Jen,¨ he said with a dry sarcasm. ¨Do you think that you are the only one who can be hurt? Haven´t you learned anything at all!?? Maybe you need to start your camino from a bit further back.. Perhaps from China!¨ 

James knows that I am getting closer and the lessons are becoming more condensed. He is mad that I wasted a large part of my camino racing after others rather than racing towards him. I crossed the dreaded mesa and barely looked up in my efforts to cover 40 kilometers a day. My body grew stronger as I pushed harder but my impatience with myself and my own stupidity mounted. I stopped listening to James. 

But now I am trying to listen.  St James is talking a mile a minute, keeping me up at night while others snore away.  He tells me that the camino is not about a fun walk across Spain, but is rather a chance to take one´s heart and soul apart only to put them back together more completely. The main problem though is that rather than having the aid of anestesia.. one is given a San Miguel (spanish Budweiser... they sell beer in vending machines here!!) 

There are simple things that have become true luxuries.. proper sized bath towels, bed sheets, a hot bath, a washing machine.. Restaurants see pilgrims coming a mile away as we steal toilet paper, horde sugar and marmalade packets, and leave piles of dirt and dust where our boots rested.  I have long since given up on my boots, walking the last 200 kilometers in my Teva sandals and socks. (truly a sexy combination..) I am proud of how my body is taking shape.. However, my tans lines are horrifying and from here on, my feet should only be viewed in the dark. But I am stronger that I thought.

I started my camino alone but I know I will not be finishing alone. I am currently walking with Isabelle from my last post, her friend Genevieve who almost, ALMOST makes smoking look sexy, and Marion, with her youthful angelic face.  They have forced me to stop running from myself. We explored beautiful Leon together, taking pictures and eating everything in sight. We comforted eachother in Astorga, while eating obsene amounts of local chocolate. And tomorrow we will pamper ourselves in a hotel in Ponferrada.  They are saving me even as I am unaware I need saving.  In Astorga, I walked alone to visit Gaudi´s stunning ornate church and I walked each section looking right through the beauty, seeing nothing but my own flaws and fears. As I wandered back towards the hostel, lost in my own dark thoughts, I heard my name shouted times three across a large square and I looked up to see the laughing faces of my three beautiful guardian angels.  James is waiting for us.

Walking in 4/4 time

I have become a human metronome. When I am absolutely positive that the next village is at least three thousand miles away, I start counting and timing my steps...¨about 160 steps (beats) per minute,¨ I think as I begin hitting the ground with my walking stick every four steps. I am satisfied walking in 4/4 time for all of one minute before I decide to try 3/4 and then 6/8. Next I begin to ´ta´ syncopated rhythms and occasionally, I even attempt two against three with my feet and walking stick. (I nearly fell off a mountain trying this..)

But this walking thing is tough. It starts with a little hot spot on the left baby toe and then the stride is altered unconsciously to compensate. Next, sharp pains begin shooting up through the left calf and soon enough there is an awareness of aching knees, tight stomach, tired arms and even dry eyes and a too tight ponytail. This is the moment when one becomes a human metronome..

St James is chatting again, telling everyone that they will soon feel better if only they would walk over to his house for a visit.  The camino calls out to broken people and while most people know that they walk the camino with broken hearts, there are those of us who like to say that we are whole and well. We are simply having an adventure. But our own pain mirrors that of the blisters on our feet; they hurt horribly for the first few steps each morning but once we get moving the pain fades to numbness.. we no longer feel a thing.. that is until we find ourselves at the end of each day picking our feet and draining our wounds, figuratively and literally speaking.

Yesterday, I spent a part of my afternoon getting lectured in spanish by a tiny woman in a small neighborhood pharmacy."Show me your feet now," she said. I sat down and as I pulled off the wrapping around my baby toe, a little boy who also happened to be in the pharmacy leaned over for a look. "Blehk!!" he shouted as he gleefully looked closer. As my angel pharmacist doused my foot with antiseptic and tightly wrapped my festering toe, she asked with resignation.. "you are walking tomorrow aren´t you?"  St. James has become my magnet.

This week has been difficult. I cried in Burgos, leaning against a wall with my head to my knees. My thoughts had scattered and doubts had crept in. "What do I think I am doing here.. I should just go home. I am not equipt for this." But even as I thought these things St James spoke up, calling me a sissy. (He can really be a bastard sometimes!) "Lift your head and stand up," he said. "Stop trying to see me through your camera  lens, stop listening for me in your Ipod, stop trying to drown me out in conversations with others, stop crying over the blisters on your heart and feet.. FEEL!! Then you will know you are alive!" So with a pushy Jim shouting encouragement, I put one foot in front of the other.. one step closer..

However, the walking is perhaps the easiest part of the camino. Each day we are born with the sunrise, mature with the wheat, fall in and out of love with others and ourselves, and die by the sunset, hoping that the new days incarnation will be stronger and wiser. I came to the camino with an open heart, but I didn´t realise just how much I had to learn. People trust, walk together and share their entire lives stories, yet at the end of the day may not even know eachother´s names. And people can come to the camino, creating an entirely different version of themselves.

Isabelle is absolutely beautiful. I would hate her if I didn´t love her so much. When she is walking, she has her hair up and covered giving her a childlike appearance, but when she lets her long dark hair fall down past her shoulders, she is stunning. She is tall and thin yet walks with freakish strength and speed. And she has huge expressive eyes radiating kindness. We talk together like children as neither of us can communicate very well in the other's language, but even so, I felt instantly comfortable in her presence. So, it was with great empathy that I watched her eyes well up and her face crumble. I wanted to help but though we might try, we cannot slay our friends´ dragons. We can only hold our friends when their dragons slay them. Nico held Isabelle as she buried her face into his shoulder to cry.

I had been walking with Isabelle, Nico and Michel for a few days, days that I had truly treasured. We celebrated Isabelles´s birthday in a village courtyard, creeping too late into the chapel to sleep, but giggling like schoolkids far into the night. But as I mentioned above..each day we live new lives. Michel, a Quebec man with dark hair peppering grey and bright blue eyes, told Isabelle that after walking a 1000 kilometers together, he needed time to walk alone. She struggled to understand why.  In the meantime, I learned that someone who I trusted was actually someone I should have guarded myself against. Nico, an attractive tall frenchman with clear eyes and lightbrown hair, said that he was walking away from a broken marriage and a job change and talked often of his beautiful little girl with lovely golden curls. But though Nico may have been trying to learn to heal, he had a weakness for women and hadn't yet learned how to protect those who would come to care for him. The camino calls out to broken people though...even those who continue to break others..


"Really," I think with aching feet, "Another F$%&ing wheat field!?!?!?" I hear James laughing. I am halfway there.

Even Jesus gets pooped on sometimes..