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..

Angelo

I was sitting on a park bench just before the bridge entering Pamplona in the late afternoon sun when a man came up to me and without preamble asked where I had started that morning. "Zubiri," I said. He sniffed and stated that he had started in Roncevalles (nearly 20 km further.) I responded with a sarcastic "Well, aren´t you special," while suspecting that my tone was lost in translation.  There are many types of pilgrims on this road and there is a great danger in getting caught up in the race. One wakes at the crack of dawn, dresses in near dark, leaves town before stores open, speed walks across the countryside, arrives at the planned destination during siesta, and goes to bed before the typical spaniard even thinks of having dinner... all without having to mix with the world at all.  Of course, while some choose to use the camino to leave the temptations of the world, I have come to terms with the fact that I want to use the camino to see the world in all its beauty.

 

Some things in life are truly unfair though... world hunger, war, Spain´s tendency to deny visas to east indians, the fact that hostels lock their doors at 10pm yet the Euro games start at 845pm... When Spain played Portugal, I simply broke the rules, fully prepared to sleep outside. However, as luck would have it, there were at least 15 other pilgrims in the bar with me and we slunk quietly and gratefully into our unlocked beds that night, dreaming of saved goals and Spain victories.

 

And now for the practical...

I have one tiny blister on my left baby toe. Its actually more of a callous. I have a bruise on my right hip and chafing on my left shoulder from my backpack. My nose, knees and ears (ears?) are peeling despite multiple applications of sunscreen. My lips are chapped and my skin is dry but I have never felt so strong. I can climb mountains, swim in rivers, pee in wheat fields, walk with butterflies...

 

I have stayed in Zubiri where I was introduced to communal showers. I slept two nights in Pamplona, exploring the old city and gorging on churros. I conquered´Forgiveness Mountain,¨  I laid awake well past lights out in an alburgue called Camino del Perdon, I found an oasis and rest at La Casa Magica in Villatuerta and I pampered myself with a bath and a bottle of cava at Hotel Irache.  I am currently a couple km outside of Los Arcos though by the time this gets typed, I will have made it to town. I am momentarily hiding from the sun behind a haystack, eating an orange and listening to Paul Simon´s Slip Sliding Away on my solar powered ipod.

 

I have met so many amazing people...  The two welsh boys camping out and crossing Spain fueled entirely on the spanish equivelent of Little Debbies, the amazingly lovely german women volunteers at Casa Paderborn, the incredibly attractive brazilian cyclist who treated the german woman with the respect one reserves for moms and aunties, the beautiful italian and austrialian girls with their mother, the two cute overly tall german boys, one of whom actually climbed Forgiveness Mountain two extra times to look for the bag of ´tobacco´that he had dropped, a lovely English woman who had just bravely quit her job and was looking ahead to unknown possibilities, and a gorgeous colombian woman who shocked me by revealing that she was in her forties though I was sure she was younger than me. We walked together for a couple days as she told me about her work in India.. which explains why I kept accidently calling her Sandhya after my mother in law. She told me that the Camino and life will always provide exactly what you need.

I have eaten the pilgrims menu 5 days in a row, which generally consists of fish and chips but I have finally deviated to a delicious paella and yesterday I had a veggie sandwich the size of my torso!

 

My camera is holding up well and I would highly recommend the little Nikon 510.. though I am figting a bit with the macro setting and there is now a crack on the screen that is growing daily. I am taking a million pictures but it is when I set the camera aside that I begin to capture images for my soul. For example...  the moon rising over an old church, a morning tea and heart to heart chat about life and love with two wonderful women, the pure joy on the faces of the spanish kids as Spain easily won the Euro cup and...

 

There is a tiny mountain called Monjardin, with the ruins of Castillo de San Esteban guarding it´s peak. As the sides drop away, rocks give over to hearty trees, giving way to rolling vinards and wheat fields.  Tucked into the base sits Villamayor, a small town of about 150 residents. In the center of town is the 12th century San Andres church with a sign stating, always open´´

 

I pushed through the heavy door leaving the sun´s heat behind as I stepped into the tiny church. Angelo (Ahn  hay  lo) an old man with a gruff voice and firm grip, took my arm, pulling me towards an elaborate silver crucifix tucked behind wrought iron bars and lit from behind. ¨Mira¨he said while pointing to the colorful jewels on Jesus´crown.  We chatted in broken spanish a few moments till he pulled me in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. ¨Buen Camino,¨ he warmly said.  As I reached the heavy door to leave, I looked back to see that Angelo had resumed his place at the foot of the cross, his eyes on the face of God.

 

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.

Ram Raksha

I approached the lovely white house with black shutters apprehensively on foot, after having driven by at least five times.  I shuffled with shaky knees up the front walk on a suitably gray day. I lifted my hand to the bell, held my breath and rang.  A small old man in a button up shirt, khakis and thick glasses answered the door. “Hi,” I said, “my name is Jennifer Sherrill. It’s nice to meet you. I am your granddaughter..”

Growing up, I had heard stories of this imposing house and judgmental man. I had heard how my mother had been brutally turned away for not being rich enough or classy enough for my father and as a result, neither was I. However, as I had always suspected, I had heard wildly altered versions of the truth. Though I was aware of this house a mere hour’s drive from where I was attending university, it wasn’t until my third year of study that I had gained enough pride and self respect to attempt such a drive. Despite my nervousness and clumsily stated introduction, my grandfather did not bat an eye nor did he hesitate. He simply said, “Come in.”  

I visited him many times thereafter, having found a lonely old man whose wife had passed on the year before and whose children were wrapped up in the daily details of their own lives. While I had missed meeting my grandmother, my grandfather shared lovely stories of when they were young together. We listened to old recordings of big bands and Benny Goodman and I played my grandmother’s well loved, time worn, baby grand. I never asked about my father.  Those questions were not for my grandfather to answer. 

As time passed, the house was packed up and my grandfather moved to a small apartment in an assisted living community.  With each visit I could see him standing a little less tall, having a little less energy until one visit I showed up with an optimistic pot of daisies only to be told by the front desk that my grandfather had died. ‘I should have known,’ I thought, ‘How could I  have wasted so much time?’

  

My husband’s grandfather is taller than mine was and is rail thin.  He wears white loose pants and a white tunic, occasionally covered by a sweater vest despite the Thai heat. He has need of a pair of large thick glasses and has a full head of shockingly white hair, which in combination with his white clothing, gives him an air of a Santero priest.  He naps easily though massive chaos and watches hindi soap operas at an astoundingly loud volume.  He goes for slow meandering walks each day and on his walks, he lovingly picks flowers for his daughter, my new mother-in-law. 

He has witnessed the world change from the Indian perspective. He has lived through World War II, The rise and fall of freedom fighters, India’s independence from England, and the partition of a separate Pakistan.  He has seen his daughter leave India to build a life with her husband in Thailand and he has watched his grandson walk the ‘seven steps’ with his new fair American bride.  Yet every single day at the same time, he sits at the dining room table calmly reciting the Ram Raksha as a priest reciting his rosary. Occasionally, I sat with him, enjoying the ebb and flow of the ancient Sanskrit words. 

My husband and I have since left Thailand for our home in Chicago and his grandfather has returned to his home in India. However, there is comfort to be found in the knowledge of continuity and each day as this tiny old man begins his hymn to Ram, I imagine the ear of the supreme god Vishnu bending down to listen.

La Boulangerie

written on Friday, July 15, 2011 at 3:12am 

A few years back, I found myself in love and  boarding a very large plane headed for France. In preparation, I had managed to take one semester of French which added all of about six words to my sad arsenal. I was resolved to being the quiet american girl at every gathering. 

Leaving my Chicago students happily to their summer, I arrived in the south of France in June and instantly fell head over heels. Toulouse with her beautiful bridges, rosy buildings and periwinkle blue shutters immediately claimed my heart.  I was fascinated by the outdoor markets and tiny windy roads, all of which seemed to lead back exactly to where they started. Each morning, Jonny would hop on his bike and head off to work while I would meander aimlessly through town. I was fortunate that our apartment was next to the river as my first truly comfortable phrase in french became “Ou est La Garonne?” (Where is the Garonne river?)  As long as I could find the river, I could find my way home.      

Shopping was truly terrifying as every occasion to open my mouth merely exposed my ignorance.  I started at the larger grocery stores, the Champions and Carrefours where one can remain more anonymous and can read the amount owed at the checkout on the register. The entire event would require nothing more than a mere “Merci.” Eventually though,  the tiny inviting shops of Le Quarter Sept Deniers (our particular neighborhood) drew this painfully slow witted (in French only...) girl through their doors. 

‘Le Petit Jardin’  (the little garden) with it’s brightly colored fruits and vegetables was my first hurdle. The lovely shop owner with her frizzy grey hair and lawn chair perch repeated tirelessly the cost of my two tomatoes until at which point she got out her own money and counted out with me the paltry amount owed. I suspect that by the next day I had been a part of the local gossip as when I ‘Bonjoured’ my way into the boulangerie (bakery) for the first time, the beautiful thin woman behind the counter seemed prepared.  As I pointed to each object, she slowly stated the name, then waited patiently for me to repeat after her... “millefeuille” mill fweeee, “chocolatine” shaw co lah teen, “pain” paaaaayn. I visited her often and each time her smile grew more broad as my pronunciations came closer to not outright insulting her beloved language. On one such visit, a new item in a tiny terra cotta dish caught my attention. As I pointed in that direction, my impromptu teacher smiled knowingly and said “Creme Catalane.” I had been introduced to heaven.  Later that evening, I spooned tiny, smooth, richly creamy bites slowly into my mouth, letting the taste melt away before beginning the next blissful bite. I savored. 

When I bought the next bit of Creme Catalane, I told myself that I only wanted to have another pretty terra cotta pot to take home.  When I bought the next two, I said firmly to myself that a set of four pots was plenty.  When I wandered in, a few days later for the fifth, the lovely skinny shop proprietress stated with censure  “Plus!!?Vraiment??!?” (More? Really?)

Life has shifted as it tends to, and Jonny has become a past love. Not long after our parting, he left France for the familiarity of his home in Bristol.  I have since returned to Chicago, married and my husband and I have happily begun our adventure together.  Occasionally though, my mind wanders back to that lovely summer. However, I don’t feel the need to dwell on lost love.  Rather, I daydream of balconies overflowing with leafy color. I dream of being surrounded by a musical language while eating delicious cheese that looks (and smells) as though it had, that very morning, been excavated from an ancient tomb. I reminisce of a sweet afternoon demi peche (cold lager with peach syrup) and of evening glasses of warmth inducing wine.  I am nostalgic for friendly neighborhood "Bonjours" and I ache to overindulge once more with multiple pots of creme catalane.

Sometimes I catch a fleeting smell of my Toulouse; fresh baked bread, the river and rosemary hedges. To this end, I have planted an entire balcony’s worth of rosemary ...As a result, my husband suspects that I may be unbalanced ;) We are planning a trip next summer and while I can’t wait to share with him the beauty of Toulouse and her Pyrenees to the south, I worry...will one trip ever be enough? 

Bear Walker...

written on Monday, August 15, 2011 at 2:42pm

In American Indian folklore, the bear is revered as  a guardian earth spirit, a witness to birth, life and a companion to crossing into the afterlife.  However, to the Ojibwa Indians who populated the northern states and Canada, the Bear Walker is a feared shape shifter, wandering the nights as a bear while acting as an omen of horrible things to come. To less superstitious modern day adventurers, a visit from the Bear Walker is no less ominous as the Bear Walker is the bringer of uncontrollable anxiety and fear..causing one to make choices against one’s own best interests.  The Bear Walker can visit anyone.. a nervous bride, a camper lost and alone, a sick person afraid of the doctor..etc.  The Bear Walker exists patiently in all of us...waiting..

The summer I turned sixteen, I packed my bags and headed to the Northwoods of Wisconsin to while away my days as kitchen staff for a small sleep away camp.  Located about 5 hours north of Chicago in Rhinelander Wisconsin, Camp Algonquin sat on pretty little Lake Snowden, and offered accelerated academic learning programs coupled with water sports. I had begun my journey to this camp, convinced that I would be worked to the bone, feeding campers not much younger than myself. However, what I found unexpectedly was the beauty of bright stars reflected on a glassy lake. I found joy in the night time playing of an old out of tune piano in a lodge with bats chirping from the massive fireplace. I found a lifelong obsession with kayaking and I found peace in the soothing call of a loon...

Our first week was camper free and designated for staff training as we all learned our routines. Life was not nearly all work though and on our third night in residence it was announced that, following campfire, there was to be a bear hunt.  There were to be no actual harming of any bears involved, merely a simple late night stroll through the woods in hopes of spotting a cuddly big bear.  After about a ten minute walk down a gravel road, we took a tiny trail into the depths of the forest, making noises as only a group of twenty inherently does. Foliage closed in, blocking out the stars and filling our nostrils with the scent of humidity and pine. After a few minutes of imposed silence, we heard the first twig snap. We all froze, my palms clammy and my heart racing.  ..Snap!! (held breath)  Crack.. (I grabbed the hand of the person nearest) ...CRASH!!!  Our hiking guide unnecessarily shouted at us to turn and run.  We raced out of the forest and halfway down the gravel road towards camp, our hearts leaping in our throats and our first bear hunt under our belts.  Later, I was told that there weren’t actually any bears in that particular forest, rather just a slightly chubby camp owner who found joy in scaring the wits out of his staff and campers.  However, the bear hunts continued through the summer and as the staff was loathe to spoil the fun for any of the campers..we kept the lack of bear tidbit to ourselves.

To celebrate the dog days of summer, my new husband and I loaded the car with our usual travel fare... Coke zero, granola, a road atlas and a complete lack of conviction as to where we would be spending the night. We kissed our massive cat goodbye, pointed the car north and were on our way for a week long wander through Northern Wisconsin. 

As we tend to get started late, dinner found us in a dreary gray Lake Geneva, merely an hour and a half from home. We fortified ourselves with a lake view table, clam chowder and close proximity to a lovely wooden bar complete with a carved bust of a woman.. and by ‘bust’ I mean an incredibly perky bust!!  I kept my eyes focused on the lake’s water and my soup while my husband’s eyes trained somewhere over my left ear towards a wooden nipple... 

We quickly made up for time in the trafficless Wisconsin evening and stumbled onto our trusty hotel standby, La Quinta, in Stevens Point. I finished out the night studying travel guides while “That 70s Show” played on in the background. In my reading I discovered that the town of Mount Horeb happens to be the Troll capital of the world and even has trolls guarding the bridge entering the city. However, at the height of my excitement, my loving and occasionally logical husband mentioned that we had already passed Mount Horeb by at least 150 miles and absolutely NOTHING could provoke him to turn the car back around towards that direction..not even trolls! (next road trip..) 

The following day, Ameya and I drove past my beloved Rhinelander and stopped for lunch in the lovely touristy lake town of Minocqua. Surrounded by a multitude of small lakes, Minocqua is perfect for countless watersports and is home to the “Min-Aqua Bats,” the world’s oldest amateur waterski team. (By the use of the word ‘oldest,’ I am convinced that they are referring to the age of each individual teammate?) There is also a downtown strip full of restaurants, and t-shirt shops in one of which Ameya bought a t-shirt emblazoned with “Call of Doody” (which parallels his favorite video game, Call of Duty..I can only pray that he doesn’t wear this shirt when he sees his patients!!) We wandered into a pool hall filled with healthy sized local high school kids and had a quick lunch of pizza and Pepsi, before piling back into the car and continuing north. (This was to begin Ameya’s horrifying discovery that absolutely No One in Wisconsin serves Coke.) 

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Wenabozho, the Ojibwa ‘Puck,’ had many adventures the world over. Upon finding himself on the shores of Lake Superior, he spotted the largest beaver he had ever seen. In his excitement, he built a dam of dirt and sticks, thus trapping the massive beaver. However, the beaver eventually broke free and as it swam away Wenabozho frantically grabbed large handfuls of the earthy dam, throwing them after the quick beaver. As each handful fell to the waters, an island was formed, and thus the Apostle Islands were born.  

  The Apostle Islands off the coast of Northern Wisconsin, were said to be named by french fur traders for the twelve apostles of Jesus but as there are 22 Islands, this name slightly lacks in descriptive quality. Taking the Apostles even further from their namesake is the presence of Devil Island. Story tellers say that all of the Apostles were at one time inhabited by the Ojibwa Indians...except for Devils Island as it was believed that countless evil spirits were already in residence. Devils Island is home to multiple sea caves formed, beaten and battered by the storms and tireless waters of Lake Superior. When the wind blowing through the caves is just right, chilling sounds can be heard echoing off the island, deterring potential visitors.  The Apostles are also home to a Cat Island, but as this is one of the smaller islands, it is unlikely that our obese cat would even fit..

At the beginning of each of our road trip adventures, Ameya hops into the driver’s seat (even though I am clearly the better driver..) and I grab the atlas to navigate.  Ameya, never truly knows where we are headed, merely a general direction.  He simply goes where I tell him to. (I hear that this is a very valuable quality in husbands.) After a combined driving time of about 8 hours, we saw our first signs for Bayfield, gateway to the Apostles.  We drove the last few miles excitedly before rounding a final bend, enabling us to see Bayfield, Lake Superior and the Apostles spread magnificently before us. We drove downhill into town, and stopped at the Winfield Inn office to get keys to our room and to pet what potentially could be the oldest cat on the planet.

Ameya and I had rented a cute cabin-like room at the ‘House on the hill,” which is aptly named since during our stay we hiked steeply up what felt to be a 45 degree incline after every glutinous meal in town. Upon getting our keys, We promptly dropped our bags on the outrageously comfortable bed, met our resident chipmunk and headed downhill to explore the town.  

According to a 2000 census, Bayfield has approximately 700 year round residents.  However, the Apple Festival in October brings nearly 40,000 visitors to it’s shores and at least half of the homes are weekend and summer homes.  For lack of a better word, Bayfield is simply beautiful, with it’s clean air, clear Superior waters, stunningly painted rambling victorian houses and incredible amounts of lush flowers and gardens. Bayfield has also been ranked as the ‘greenest’ city in Wisconsin and signs of that are everywhere in the abundant recycling bins, water conservation reminders, and general awareness of it’s inhabitants to be graceful good stewards of the beauty before them. The downtown strip is full of quirky restaurants, art galleries, ice cream shops and a multitude of colorful flower boxes.  .  

Each morning Ameya and I would lightly load up on granola (and in his case, Coke..) and each evening we tried a different restaurant.  For our first dinner, we found ourselves at Greunke’s with it’s clutter of 1940s memorabilia and world renowned fishboil (which unfortunately was not happening the night we were there.) We sat down happily to incredibly tasty fresh whitefish sandwiches and draft Leinenkugel. Ameya, who likes to point out when he is the only brown person in the room (he forgets that I was one of three pasty people at our wedding in Thailand) was surprised to see that we had been seated next to an East Indian man, his pale wife and their three young overly energetic girls.  Our next dinner consisted of flavorful pasta at Ethel’s who boasts of having Bayfield’s best pasta, but as far as I could see, Ethel’s was Bayfield’s only pasta. However I would easily rank Ethel’s above many of the Italian places I have eaten at in Chicago. We sat at a table near a genial pudgy older man with a beard, who I was convinced was actually Santa Claus for the way kids were gravitating towards him.

For our final dinner, we took the advice of our kayak tour guide and Bayfield resident home painter Rob and went to Maggie’s. Maggie’s is a unique restaurant in a hot pink and turquoise house (painted by Rob) filled with hundreds, if not thousands of pink flamingos.  We walked into an hour wait and happily ordered drinks to pass the time. (mine was coincidently named ‘pink flamingo’)  We both ordered broiled whitefish sandwiches which were amazingly generous in size and tasted wonderful. I suspect that in my future there will be late night unfulfillable cravings for this flavor.  Anyone visiting Bayfield MUST visit Maggie and her millions of flamingos! 

Bayfield may potentially have the nicest most warm shop keepers as store after store found us chatting endlessly with those behind the counter. In one particular case, we even hugged goodbye before leaving the store.  We met Rufus in one such store. Rufus is a gorgeous old English Sheepdog who acts as a large rug while his owner runs a small art gallery and stitches beautiful pictures into cards to sell. We were informed that the overly fluffy white and gray Rufus brings joy to people through visits to local schools, hospitals and retirement homes. He is extremely cuddly however, once one forgets to pet him, he gives a little yip reminding his admirer of his incredible bumbling cuteness.  While driving around to see area orchards, we ended up at Good Earth Gardens where despite closing time having passed, the owner, a proud older man with perfect posture, showed us around and pointed out broken branches and crushed flowers...signs of a visit by a local bear. We lingered, playing fetch with katie, his agile black lab and talked of our lives.  Everyone we met, it seems, visited Bayfield and simply never left.

Bonnie Bergman was working in another lovely shop filled with beautiful artwork from local artists including herself.  Despite there being a mere 15 minutes till closing, we instantly struck up a lively conversation covering all topics including our home and her youth in Chicago, our beloved pets..those here and those no longer with us, and our political views.  Bonnie comically informed us that she had been a radical in her day and now wears her ‘bleeding heart Liberal’ earrings.  I joked that my husband is secretly a republican but won’t admit it as he knows I wouldn’t have married him. We shared pictures of our kitties..ours via cell phone camera, hers in the form of a painting. And we bought a couple of cards with her beautiful paintings.. one depicting a lovely twilight lake bridge titled “There used to be a Bridge.” Upon our leaving, we hugged goodbye, and wished each other well, feeling as though we had each found a kindred spirit.

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Measuring 14 miles long and 3 miles wide, Madeline Island is the largest of the Apostles and is home to the tiny town La Pointe. Named for the Indian wife of a french fur trader, Madeline is the only island not to be a part of the Apostle Island National Lakeshore as it is open to commercial development.  Ameya and I enjoyed a 20 minute ferry ride from Bayfield to La Pointe, and had a light lunch of fish tacos at the beach while watching evil children chase baby ducks. After lunch we went off in search of a bear and gnome woodcarver I had read about, dreams of a Chicago gnome infested balcony filling my head.  However, dreams died as the price tag for a foot tall gnome read $400!! 

We rented bikes intending to cycle to the far side of the island to see the renowned lagoons, but upon reaching the far side of the island, we were told that bikes were not allowed into the park. Being from Chicago, where bikes magically disappear even when locked, we opted not to leave the Treks unattended while we went on a three mile hike.  We left the park, backtracked a few miles and continued on our way to the other side of the lagoons, where we vowed to not speak with any park rangers, hoping our feigned ignorance would be enough to explain the presence of our bikes in the park.  We stumbled onto a beautiful beach with clear water and colorful smooth stones lining the bottom at the mouth of the calm inland lagoons. 

Our trip back to La Pointe was filled with outdoor life as we spotted multiple deer, saved two fat fluffy catterpillers from the middle of the empty road, and tried to avoid squishing the grasshoppers as we rode on. Our path was a smooth flat two lane highway completely surrounded by thick trees, occasionally offering tantalizing glimpses of a blue Lake Superior.

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‘Tandem kayaking leads to divorce,’ or so we were told by our aforementioned kayak guide.  Rob was another transplant, as he had spent years living in Kenosha and working in Chicago before the lure of Bayfield won out. He and his wife, each around 40 years of age, spend their summers kayaking away, leading tourists on trips to the islands, sea caves and shipwrecks, while the off season months bring out Rob’s paintbrush. He led our group in a quick instructional class on how to paddle properly and to exit the kayak if it tips, before we lined up our kayaks on the waters edge.  I sat in the back with Ameya in the front and watched helplessly as he fought to hook his waterproof ‘skirt’ around the mouth of the kayak.  Minutes passed as other paddlers successfully launched while Ameya continued to struggle. Frustration mounted when near Ameya’s breaking point, the elastic of the skirt magically fit over the kayak and we were able to launch. We paddled leisurely while chatting with our guide about the surrounding area and normal non tourist life in Bayfield. We paddled past pretty sailboats, large lakefront houses and over a sunken shipwreck, while being informed by Rob that after years of marriage, he and his wife NEVER share a kayak.

Our departure from Bayfield was made slightly easier since the blue skies and sun that had blissfully marked our entire visit had been replaced on our final day by ominous dark clouds. After a morning visit to a local used bookshop (where I could have easily spent weeks..) we headed back through the rolling hills of the Amish country and raced storms into Steven’s Point where I had mindlessly left my phone days earlier.  a few hours later, upon encountering masses of road construction, we knew that home was near and the dog days of summer were soon to end...