I awoke in the morning in a frilly bed surrounded by the most feminine apartment, yet the following night found me sleeping on a table in a catechism classroom... Ah, the Camino.
My day began as I put in my contacts in a bathroom surrounded by more makeup and perfume than in a pharmacy and I sat to have a quiet coffee with Maru before starting my walk. Bright eyed with moss green eyeliner, purple nails and styled blonde tinted hair, Maru teased that I must be a little crazy to make the pilgrimage. But she sent me on my way with a full belly and her well wishes.
The San Fernin festival begins in Pamplona on July 7th of each year and commences each day for a week with the running of the bulls, finishing at the ring where the bulls are then put before the matador. Many have raised voice to the cruelty of the practice and the region of Catalonia has even banned bullfighting. However the Basque consider the battle between the matador and the bull to be a testament of grace and respect. And many would agree that the respect and care with which the Basque raise their animals is far more humane than the typical American factory farm. Hemingway wrote quite romantically about the dance of bullfighting. However, as he liked to hunt lions.. I won't put much stock in his idea of romance. And honestly, I can't help but lack sympathy for gored runners and matadors; they chose the game, the bulls didn't.
My walk began with a flat track running directly along the coast with a slightly hazy sky. Sailboats dotted the horizon and people walked from town to town, beach to beach. Six km brought me to the lovely seaport town of Geteria, home to Magellan's protege, Juan Sebastián Elcano, who completed the first circumnavigation of the globe after Magellan was killed.
Narrow pretty streets led downhill towards the church and as my walking stick clicked against the cobblestones, I heard the chanting and excited squeals of children. I rounded the corner to catch a progression of little ones all in white, except for telltale red bandanas tied around their necks. As they shrieked, restauranteurs and residents from the surrounding balconies tossed buckets of water on the happy children in an innocently sweet reenactment of the running of the bulls.
Leaving Geteria, the route turns steeply uphill, so steep, in fact, that the engines of scooters choked and sputtered while trying to ascend. Enjoying a hilly walk with a horizon made out of ocean, I was happy to see Ole wander up the hill in my direction. We ambled into the town of Zumaia while he told me that somehow he had magically found a room the night before. As we sat at a tiny cafe, drinking Fanta and cerveza con limon, old men played cards and unleashed dogs weaved through the bar patrons.
We walked on, talking of our homes and differences, our partners and ex-partners and all the other details that pilgrims share. Upon reaching the next town, we said goodbye as I was feeling a growing nagging pain in my hip. I intended to stay in Itziar to soak in a hotel tub while Ole, continued on to Deba. However, minutes later I was told by towns people at a cafe that there is no hotel, the alburgue is full and I must continue on. So with growing aches and pains I continued through a lovely, relatively easy walk into Deba. Much to my horror, I discovered that in the pretty whaling town of Deba, all three alburgues were full, as were all the hotels and pensions. I stumbled around in shell shock, beginning to contemplate a night sleeping on the beach when I noticed another group of dazed tired pilgrims. I started following them figuring they knew more than me and sure enough, a priest was letting them into the classrooms next to the church. And after considerable wine and food (and no access to showers) that is how our stinky group of two Spaniards, a Canadian, an Italian and an American came to be sleeping on the floor and tables in a church catechism classroom... There was monumental snoring... And laughter.
As a side note, I saw Ole at dinner and he said he found a hotel..How the F@$K!! I am beginning to think that he is actually Finnish royalty..
One would have to assume that on the first night in an albergue, one would return from dinner before the 10pm curfew. But, sure enough, that first evening found me and two fellow pilgrims sharing wine and dinner at a little cafe by the water's edge. Joaquin and Marie are an older couple living in Stockholm. They had finished their pilgrimage but had a fascination and respect for the basque people. So, they had chosen to spend their last days before returning home, enjoying the basque hospitality. "They are blood, sweat and steel," Maria said. Joaquin added that nearly every family lost a man or had one in jail as a result of the civil war. One could understand their cause if not their eventual tactics. All around the tiny village were signs and flags declaring and demanding independence. Spain had not been kind to them. We chatted and wandered back to our albergue before realizing that we were locked out. We knocked softly, received a scolding from the hospitaliaro and snuck to our beds as chastised teenagers.
Saint James has a sick sense of humor. No matter how I plan or what I do, the second I set my foot on the Camino, my period arrives, a despised and unwanted companion. The perfectly imperfect timing also means that my arrival into Santiago in a months time, will find me in the same sad state. After I began my morning with a tiny ferry across the port, I stood at the staircase leading straight up the cliffside, my bag sitting directly on my ovaries and my uterus radiating an ache to my knees..
The day's scenery was stunning, the Atlantic carving a dramatic coastline and the beaches of San Sebastián tempting to any pilgrim. Hydrangeas grew wild along with other brightly colored flowers dotting the path. Butterflies and bees posed for pictures as I huff and puffed my way past. A little dog ran happily past and as his owner caught up, I shamelessly stared at this gorgeous specimen of basque genetics. Dark thick hair, wet with sweat, strong corded muscles and bronzed skin dotted with occasional tattoos, and Oh, what a smile! As he grinned his way past, I rolled my tongue back into my face and trudged on with a slightly lighter step.
I had planned to stop in Orio, in fact, I had dreamed of stopping in Orio as my pesky uterus slowed me down, rendering my limbs rubbery.
"There are no hotels in Orio??"
"No, we are not a tourist town."
"But we are standing in a tourist office!"
I trudged on, six additional kilometers, ready to write Orio off, but an old man stopped me for a chat, lied through his teeth while praising my Spanish and kissed my cheeks. Orio is not so bad.
In the last kilometer of a 30 km day, I met tall and blonde Ole from Norway, who was walking five days to Bilbao after breaking up with his girlfriend. Upon arrival in Zarautz, we were both gutted to learn that all 4 hotels were full.
Maru saved my day, a friend of the receptionist at the last hotel, lovely Maru who lived alone, opened her home to me. And I thanked her by promptly falling asleep and sleeping 10 hours straight.
The route was literally called "Purgatorio." That should have been the first warning. And later when the route split again, I optimistically took the path marked "Peregrinos Alpinistas." The arrow pointed up which, not surprizingly, is exactly what the path did. Occasionally, paths will form switchbacks to avoid being too steep, but this particular path went straight up the side of a mountain. Thankfully, right before the split, I caught part of a mass in the tiny mountain top church of Santuario de Guadalupe (or so I thought that was the top!) I had prayed for my soul, so if the purgatory route were to kill me…
The Basque are hearty people who survived brutal oppression under Franco. For many decades, he did his best to stomp out the language and culture, but based on the amount of "z"s and "x"s on street signs and way markings, Franco failed miserably. As I climbed, huffing and puffing with screaming thigh muscles, a stocky old man with arms and legs of stone, a man likely well into his 70s, jogged happily by, touched the top of the mountain and turned back to lap me... All while smiling. I loathed him.
The region is stunning, ocean on nearly every side, Hondorribbia lay to the North, a beautiful fishing village where, years ago, I had shared a feast in a cozy restaurant while a storm raged outside. As I hiked, the clouds hung low over my massive mountain, keeping the air humid and enhancing the fragrance of wildflowers and sheep poop. Wind tangled with hair and kept sweat from rolling down skin. A French family picnicked in the shadow of a crumbling medieval tower, children laughing and speaking excitedly while parents rolled eyes from a blanket on the ground. Cow Bells reverberated across surrounding hills as racing motorcycles droned in the distance. The world dropped off, hundreds of feet below, beckoningly lush and green in contrast to the brambly mountain top.
As I descended from the heavens, a Basque family sat around a tiny plastic table smiling at me. I don't know what they said, but I was hugged and sent away with wine in my belly.
I am watching a ferry shuttle people across the inlet while fat greedy catfish swim at the waters edge. The air is cool but the sun fights his battle with the clouds, occasionally winning. The town of San Juan is built into surrounding cliffs, trapped by the waters edge. Children scream as they cannon ball off a ledge into the water below. The houses have beautiful wooden balconies and conversations between them, an old woman shouting at children in the square from her balcony above. My backpack is in an albergue above, in a room with 8 bunk beds, the proprietor giving instructions in rapid fire Spanish. My day's clothes are drying on the line, my superwoman underwear drawing attention.. (I also play the Rocky theme in my head while climbing little mountains..) the sun is momentarily winning brightening the color of the abundant cheery flowerpots. And there is wine and delicious food to be had...
In terminal three, gate L10, shameless eavesdropping turned to meeting, turned to conversation. Lois, with his dark Spanish hair, pale eyes and sexy accent beamed at Brian, a CPS teacher with smart glasses and an infectious laugh. "We are getting married!" They say with huge matching grins. They would be traveling through Spain with a hundred if their closest friends and family in celebration. As they and their friends happily shared in minibar sized Bacardi toasts, those of us around them greedily soaked in their radiating warmth. Each journey begins with love.
When Saint James, with sunscreen smudged on his nose and a little dog in tow, sits down next to you, it would wise for any pilgrim to sit up straighter and listen. Three blocks from Chamartin train station and four hours until the next train, found me sitting on a park bench in a tiny working class square. A weak morning sun trickled through the leaves of the trees as a woman proudly swept the street in front of her book shop. Old men bought her newspapers and sat on neighboring park benches for a morning read and chat. The sound of metal broke the air as the frutería and charcuteria raised their storefront shutters. Pigeons cooed and clustered as cafe workers set chairs on the sidewalk for the coming patrons. A harmonica softly filled the courtyard, the player unseen. Stodgy Spanish men walked obscenely small fluffy dogs, occasionally using the pups to start conversations with wayward tourists.(Spanish men are wily that way!) Santiago sat down next to me, his little dog sporting a tiny pink ribbon, and we talked of soccer, New York, gun violence, a changing Madrid and the camino. A teacher of science and math, dear Santiago had very definitive views on each subject. With a mention of the missing pilgrim, Santiago, very firmly, told me to have care. And with a backwards wink, he was off to feed his pup breakfast.
A train car, empty but for one peregrina, a teenager with hot pink headphones and a police officer, the tinny sound of a movie playing though his phone. apparently, he does not see us as a threat. The train moves smoothly and silently north, eating through vast fields of gold speckled with the occasional brilliant flash of poppy red. Large windmills turn calmly and endlessly over tiny villages surrounding crumbling churches. The mountains are waiting in the distance. Taxis, planes, subways and trains... My ass is numb and my feet are itching to walk.
Irun with her beautiful waterways and tall stately trees did not fare so well under the rule of Franco throughout the civil war and WWII. However, she has recovered beautiful and a Saturday night is full of life. Laughter and conversation and the clinking of wine glasses echo off church walls as happy children play soccer in the courtyards. A cool night sky is flickering with the lighting of a coming summer storm. As the resulting booms shake Irun, children shriek with fascinated terror.
The rain begins.
Narrow pretty streets led downhill towards the church and as my walking stick clicked against the cobblestones, I heard the chanting and excited squeals of children. I rounded the corner to catch a progression of little ones all in white, except for telltale red bandanas tied around their necks. As they shrieked, restauranteurs and residents from the surrounding balconies tossed buckets of water on the happy children in an innocently sweet reenactment of the running of the bulls. 
