Camino: The Post Mortum

Well, after a week's worth of recovery and perspective, I can finally wrap my mind around the last month of walking that I did. I was commenting to a friend the other day (and I may have mentioned this in a previous post, but my memory fails me right this second) that I feel like the 4 weeks I spent on the Camino were 4 completely separate, yet equally incredible trips. There was such a broad spectrum of landscapes I saw, people I associated with, and events I experienced that it's incredibly difficult to believe that they were all part of the same adventure.

Two nights before I arrived in Santiago, I stayed in an active monastary in Sobrado dos Monxes in the province of A Coruña. After dinner, I found myself huddled around a small table in a small kitchen with 4 other Spaniards discussing the day. We each had our own reasons for doing the Camino - 3 guys each travelling separately from Madrid are all athletic and were trying it as a creative recreational activity. Carmen, the Latin professor from León had a more spiritual, though not overly religious interest in the Camino. One of the the Madrid boys had started a day or two after I had from Irún. We compared stories about the different places we'd stayed, and agreed that we really were just ready to get to Santiago. Carmen interjected at one point and said that she really didn't care if she made it to Santiago, because the real Camino for her was walking every day. The 3 guys and I exchanged glances, and I told Carmen that while I understood her viewpoint, after walking 730km, I was going to need to get to Santiago if I got there crawling on my hands and knees or I just might not be able to live with myself for awhile. The guys agreed with me, and Carmen sort of smiled and shook her head at us with a knowing look that clearly said we young whippersnappers were missing something. Later that night, two of the Madrid boys and I were rehashing the conversation, and we agreed that it would be impossible for us to just stop right that second and feel like we had done the Camino. We'd set a goal for ourselves of arriving to Santiago, and we'd feel like we had cheated ourselves if we didn't get there.

I didn't get much sleep in Sobrado dos Monxes thanks to a near disaster involving me and a top bunk with no railings at 3am, and wine and philosophy in Arca kept me awake the following night. By Sunday, I was still walking to Santiago, but I wasn't coherant. My shin splints had decided that they hated me, my backpack, and Spain and weren't going to stop complaining until I stopped walking. I had acquired a really attractive hitch in my step because of the pain emitting from my mutilated baby toe. And then I got to Monte do Gozo. I have an emotional attachment to this place dating back to the last Camino. It's a high point 5km from the cathedral, and the end of all of the hard work. From here, it's literally all downhill, but gradually so as not to completely destroy pilgrim's knees. From the highest point of the hill, you can see the spires of the cathedral. I have no words to describe the experience of standing on the top of the hill. By the time I made it there, I felt like I was floating. For the first time in 28 days, I was positive I was going to be able to make it all the way to the cathedral - no small detail, considering the fact that two days earlier I was questioning my ability to finish the last 8km of the day's walk. It was the emotional pinnacle of my trip.

The walk through Santiago to the cathedral is mind numbing. You know the cathedral is RIGHT THERE, but it feels like you just can't get there fast enough. Then you take a right turn around a corner, and you can see one of the towers of the church about 500 meters away. And that's it. You know you've arrived. I thought I was going to be more emotional about actually standing in front of the cathedral again. I was excited, don't get me wrong - excited enough to call my mother and wake her out of a dead sleep at 4am Texas time to tell her that I had just walked across a country. But it wasn't the sort of rush that I had thought I'd get.

And then I remembered my conversation with Carmen two nights earlier, and I realized she was right in a way. Getting to Santiago was amazing and validating and all of the fantastic things I knew it would be. But the Camino itself was better. I had the opportunity to really get to know one of my cousins who was an essential stranger to me a year ago. I had a chance to spend time with an old friend who I don't see enough anymore now that she lives on the other side of the world. I remembered what I'm capable of. My faith was restored in the kindness of absolute strangers, and the beauty of the smallest acts of generosity. I have a special connection with new friends that can only come from getting to know each other during a hard 11 hour hike. I have some REALLY tasteless jokes about the Last Supper. I was reminded of the peace and tranquilty a long walk by the beach can offer.

I made it.

28 days, 830 kilometers, 13 blisters, 2 boats, 2 pairs of shoes, 2 sleeping bags (I lost my first one in Santoña), one tick, and so many amazing stories later, I made it. I have walked across Spain and lived to tell.

But telling will have to wait awhile. I haven't slept more than 4 hours total in the last two night, and just finished a week's worth of 40km + days. First order of business - sleep. Next order of business - sangria.

The Home Stretch

Can you believe I've been gone almost a month already?

If all goes as I hope it will (knocking furiously on wood), I will be in Santiago de Compostela this time next week. My first 3 days of Warp Speed to Santiago have gone reasonably well. They're not easy days and I've slept like a dead person every night, but I haven't cut my feet off or cried yet. The nights are as fun as the days are difficult, so that makes a lot of it worthwhile. Last night we sat around a picnic table telling jokes in 4 different languages, with different people translating so everyone could understand. Most jokes invoked the topic of the Last Supper, and I had to leave the table a couple of times because I almost wet my pants from laughing so hard.

I have an inexplicable mental block against walking after 3pm. I don't know what it is, and I totally can't help it. At about 2:55, I start unintentionally dragging ass and can't really get back into the game, regardless of how many café con leches I down. Since I'm walking for about 12 hours each day now, I have to compensate appropriately. This has involved waking up between 4:30 and 5:30am. Not that big of a deal for me, especially since I'm sort of a random sleeper to begin with. The problem lies in then trying to get myself (and my ridiculously large backpack) out of a room filled with no less than 30 other sleeping people. I've refined my technique, but not before a few moments of trial and error. The first morning, my mom called at 6:00am to say hi. Great. Normally an excellent time to take advantage of the 7 hour time difference between Spain and Texas. Except I was trying to move my things out of the maze of a room I was staying in, and in the process left my cell phone sitting on my bottom bunk. With the ringer was turned ALL the way up. And I was all the way out of the door before I heard it. I'm not sure how more people didn't wake up, but I grabbed the phone, my sunglasses, my guidebook and hightailed it out of the albergue before anyone could figure out that I was the one responsible for disturbing their sleep at that ungodly hour of the morning. Fortunately, I've gotten smart. I have started leaving my strategically packed bag in the hallway at night so I can pop my sleeping bag in the next morning and leave without dropping my metal Sigg bottle or smashing into someone's bed in the dark.

Fortunately, I have a room all to myself tonight. Today was a 38km hike that started at 5am. 32km involved varying levels of really cold rain. If anyone saw me at the Radiohead concert in May, I sort of looked like that again by the time I got to the albergue. I was that happy, too. I was dying for a shower, my warm clothes, and my sleeping bag, but before I could even make it back to the bunk beds, I was greeted by a swarm of flies. They were everywhere. I couldn't count them all, and I couldn't keep them off of me. I can handle a lot of things - cold showers, snoring, wearing not clean socks because I had no means by which to wash and dry clothing the night before... but I cannot handle flies. They freak me out. So I walked 2km to the next town and happily forked over 15€ to spend the night in a pensión housed in a gorgeous old mansion. I have two beds to choose from in a room with no men emitting various disturbing noises throughout the night, and I can turn the lights on while I'm packing to leave at 4:30 tomorrow morning.

I know this all sounds incredibly appealing - soaking wet uphill hikes in cold rain, vermin, blisters... but believe it or not, I'm still having an amazing time. Two days ago I had a really rough hike up a 400m high mountain. It was a steep slope that went almost straight up, and I though I might actually fall over dead halfway up the hill. But I didn't die. I made it all the way up to the top of the uphill climb that just wouldn't quit. When I turned around to see where I had come from, I got the most euphoric rush I've had in years. Not only was the view incredible, but I'd gotten up there all by myself, even though I wasn't sure I could do it. Even after the hardest day, as cranky and tired as I might be when I first set my pack down at an albergue, I still feel happy about what I've done. It's like I've conquered something by not giving in and taking a bus when I'm so tired of walking that I want to throw something at someone.

Dear Nike, Thanks for saving my trip.

She lives!

Thanks to Nike and a long suffering hospitalera in San Vicente de la Barquera, my feet are healed, and I'm over halfway to Santiago. This is the first day I've been near a computer since last week, so despite my urge to give you a second by second rundown on the last 7 days, I'll try to keep this to the point.

This time last week, I thought I was going to have to cash in my chips and go back to Madrid. My feet weren't getting any better, and if anything, my boots seemed to be making my situation even worse. My first day back on the road after my day of rest was a disaster. I only made it 17km, and the last 7 were done in flip flops because my boots were making me cry. Literally. Not only were they making my blisters hurt worse, but they were also making me walk funny, which was hurting a tendon in my right foot. A cold shower and long talk with myself made me decide to take the train back to Santander (20 minute train ride... that took me 8 hours to walk) and buy a pair of running shoes. It was a last ditch effort, and thankfully it worked. Life has been like night and day since, and I'd like to thank Nike for sending Nike Airs to Europe. Since the exchange rate sucks, they were easily the most expensive shoes I've ever purchased, but they were worth every penny.

Thanks to the new shoes and my healing feet, I started having fun again. Stefan (my new German friend from Cologne) and I kept a similar pace for the next several days and had a great time in between. We stayed in some adorable towns - historic Santillana del Mar, Cóbreces, San Vicente de la Barquera, Colombres and Llanes. Some of the sleeping arrangements were nicer than others, but our favorite was in Colombres. The "albergue" involved mats in between exercise equipment in a gymnasium where an indoor soccer tournament was being held... until 11pm. We opted to stay in a pensión apartment where (for 10€ each) we had our own bedrooms, a bathroom that didn't require flip flops for bathing, a kitchen, couches and a television. We felt guilty for about 5 seconds as we ate the dinner we had cooked while crashed out on couches watching Spanish trash tv, but let's face it - we're pilgrims, not martyrs. I needed my sleep that night. After a rambunctious Tuesday night involving several bottles of Asturian cider, I reluctantly said goodbye to my new friend. He's currently recovering on a beach in San Sebastian before heading back to Cologne.

I've met SO many interesting people along the way. I usually find myself surrounded either by Germans or Spaniards, although I met my first American yesterday. He's a 23 year old college kid from Northern Arizona, and he doesn't know a lick of Spanish. He started the Camino from Amsterdam (which may or may not explain his tendancy to be a bit dippy), doesn't have hardly any money, and generally either sleeps outside or in churches. He has really long hair and a Grizzly Adams beard, so everyone calls him "El Hippy". It's sort of hilarious. He's a well intentioned guy, and seems to be enjoying his unorthodox approach Summer 2008.

It's going to be an intense next 10 days. I have just enough time to get to Santiago before I'll have to head back to Madrid to catch my flight to Tunisia for the real vacation part of my trip. I've walked over 30km per day for the last 3 days, and will have my first of several really long walks tomorrow - a 44km hike from Villaviciosa to Avilés. I'm about to stick my feet in the coldest water I can find to prep them for the abuse they're about to endure. Provided that my body parts and the weather cooperate, I'm estimating that I'll be in Santiago on the 27th or 28th.

As a postscript to my girlfriends... I was horrified to find that I have missed out on important American gossip. Madonna was having an affair with A-Rod?!? WTF? I had no idea that I needed to book a flight to England to console Guy Ritchie! Please remember that I'm removed from the real world and forget to check People.com on the rare occassions I am able to hijack a computer. I could use a bullet point list of pertinent updates every few days.

Sangria, Sangre, Santander

Well, the wheels finally came off. I overdid it yesterday, and am spending today recuperating in Santander. I can probably pinpoint about 6 or 7 different reasons yesterday was unsuccessful. Each error committed alone wouldn't have dented the day, but combined, caused some problems.

Among my errors - shorts. They seemed like a good idea so I could get a little color on my pasty white legs, but I was obviously not thinking properly. 2 hours into the hike, we had to scale El Brusco, an insanely steep hill full of dense brush. The hill was only 90 meters high, but it was like walking up a flight of steep stairs, sans the stairs. Everyone who knows me knows that I'm not the world's most coordinated person. As a child, my dad used to jokingly call me Grace because I had none. I'm still not quite sure how I didn't fall off the mountain, or fall in a briar patch, because I definitely slipped several times.

Once I got off the mountain, I thought things were going to be okay. The view from the top was gorgeous, despite my harrowing climb up, and beach on the other side was even better. I slowed down a little as I walked along the shoreline - it was nice to just enjoy the sound of the ocean and the heat of the sun. I soon lost my little yellow arrows, though. I stopped in a pharmacy to ask, and one of the employees looked at me like I was completely out of my mind (which I probably am). She said I shouldn't have come to Noja in the first place if I was following the Camino. I pulled out my book and showed her the map I was using, and how it indicated that the actual official Camino went through Noja. She told me I was using a bad map and to take the highway to Güemes because it was faster and easier. I thanked her, despite the fact that I was completely aggravated that she completely missed the point of a)my question and b)what I was doing, and walked towards the highway. The Camino followed to the right of the highway, so I figured I had to see an arrow somewhere, sometime. 2 hours later, I FINALLY saw my first arrow. I was so happy I took a picture of it. I was 8km from Güemes, where I planned to stop for lunch and assess the general pain I was feeling in my feet. I would decide there if I would stay the night or try and continue on to Santander.

I should have stayed in Güemes. After finishing a sandwich and some lemonade, I felt better about life and thought I could handle the last 11km to Santander. I couldn't. 5km into it, I wanted to cut off my feet and walk on my hands because my blisters hurt so badly. I was tempted to stop and take off my boots to assess the damage, but I knew that would just make things worse since I'd have to walk at least 5km to civilization regardless of what was going on down there. I decided to keep going, though at a much slower pace. 4km later, I felt like everything and everyone was staring at my sad, limping self - cows, motorists, children. I started to lose it a little and was talking to myself, "Angie, of course your feet hurt. You're walking across an effing country. What did you think was going to happen?" Pretty sure everyone thought I was a crazy homeless person, which again, I sort of am. I'm still not sure how I made it to the dock to get on the ferry from Soma to Santander, but I did it. I knew something tragic was going on in my right boot, but since I just couldn't deal with it at that point, I bribed my inner 5 year old with some ice cream and quietly waited for the ferry to get there.

At 7:30pm, 12 hours after I started, I hobbled off the ferry in Santander and started the 4 block walk to the albergue. It took me 25 minutes. I gingerly climbed the flight of stairs to the door of the lobby, and was greeted by a closed door with a sign that said "COMPLETO, COMPLETE, FULL". Ugh.

I pushed open the door and was greeted with pitying looks from 3 older gentlemen manning the intake desk. We exchanged pleasantries in Spanish, and then I asked for a suggestion of an inexpensive place nearby where I could stay. One of the men made a phone call and said that a woman would be by for me shortly. She ran a pensión down the street and would only charge me 15€ for the night. I asked if any of my friends had made it in time to get a bed, and found that the only one accounted for was Àngel, who somehow managed to snag the last available spot... two hours earlier.

Once settled in the pensión, I assessed the damage and decided I had to take today off. My feet were a complete disaster, and I had a raging heat rash/sunburn on the backs of both legs. It was past 10pm by now and I was exhausted. I had hurt myself trying to do too much, and was pretty bummed about getting separated from the people I'd become used to seeing daily. I decided to just go to bed and deal with the fallout of my wounds in the morning when I could think a little clearer. As I lulled myself to sleep with self denounciations for being so stubborn, I heard a familiar voice in the hallway. I poked my head out of the door and was greeted by Stefan, who was hashing out details with the pensionera. He seemed as happy to see a friend as I was, and we immediately started yammering about our awful, awful day. We stayed up for another hour or so commiserating, which seemed to make both of us feel better. He was fortunate to have made the very last ferry to Santander from Soma, and had also decided to stay an extra day to nurse a pretty bad sunburn. By the time I went to sleep, I had made peace with losing a day. I'll probably make it to Santiago on the 27th, which isn't exactly what I was aiming for, but fine nonetheless.

And now here I am. I've done all of the gross things you have to do to blisters to take care of them, and did quite well not to scream when I doused my injuries with iodine. I've used up half a bottle of aloe vera, and can safely say I'm on the road to recovery. After gingerly walking around the part of downtown Santander where I'm staying, I'm happy to have an opportunity to see some of the historic buildings, including the cathedral, which really is beautiful. It feels good to be a real tourist today.

Lost in Santoña

I literally don't know what day it is. The only reason I know the date is because of the timestamps on the emails I'm getting. I've been deprived of internet for the past few days, so this could get sort of long and drawn out - I'm suffering from computer withdrawals.

I've adjusted to walking alone, and it's not as bad as I thought it would be. To clarify for my mother who is probably freaking out at home at the idea of me walking across Spain by myself, I'm not TECHNICALLY alone. Annie, Carrie and I didn't really walk together much after the first day because we kept different paces. My marathon running cousin was usually a few miles ahead of us leading the pack. Carrie could keep a faster pace than me and was generally just around a bend or something. I usually brought up the rear because I'd get distracted taking pictures or would have to take an asthma/bum knee/snack break. Also, it's a little hard to walk with other people. It's nice to be able to enjoy the quiet of the scenery or my iPod without worrying about keeping up conversation, or being able to breathe, talk and walk at the same time. Most of our socializing occurred in the evenings after we arrived at the albergue. I knew in advance that this would be when I'd miss my companions the most. Fortunately, I'm adjusting, and I've made new friends.

It hasn't stopped the fascinated comments of "¿Sola? ¿Andas a Santiago SOLA?" Yeah. I'm by myself.

On Sunday, I walked out of a heavily wooded area coming off a pretty steep mountain. To my left, a middle aged man was gardening in his front yard. He stood up when he saw me walking down the road, and as I passed he said, "¿A Santiago?". I get this about 13 times a day. It still amuses me to no end. I said yes, and he said, in Spanish, that he has never seen a girl come out of the mountain by herself. I told him there's a first for everything.

Sunday night - after my first day walking alone - I happened upon a party crowd in the albergue in Pobeña. When I arrived, I was greeted by Valerie, a Parisian who I've seen at albergues and on the Camino since we started in Irún, Ana the hospitalera, and her hysterical friend Baume, who is incredibly intelligent, witty and is employed as a streetsweeper. At some point in the night, someone asked her why she decided to be a streetsweeper instead of something else. She responded "¡Porque me gusta, claro!" Pretty great. After I had a chance to wash the last 32km off of myself, we went to a bar for a couple of drinks. A new face joined the mix - Stefan, an economist from Cologne had just begun his Camino that morning from Bilbao. The 5 of us sat on a patio for a couple of hours chatting in English, Spanish, French and German about our backgrounds, our trip thus far, politics, Mexico and alcohol. I was clearly only participating in the English and Spanish conversations, but I was sort of impressed that I understand a French word here and there. Two more pilgrims stopped in, Ignacio from Zumaia - who incidentally is really good friends with Jose Fran, the hospitalero we met and adored in Zumaia - and Ángel, a teacher from La Mancha who we've seen on the trails for the last few days. We moved the party to another bar for dinner and a bottle of Crianza and made it just in time to catch the last half hour of the Nadal v. Federer match. The bar went completely nuts at the end of the game, and I loved being there for it. We were probably out a little later than we should have been, but since the entirety of the albergue was all there, it didn't matter. We all slept in a little the next morning and got a little later start than usual, but it was worth it.

Yesterday was the first genuinely sketchy albergue experience that I've had to date. We've stayed in some rather... basic... accomodations, but this one took the cake. We stopped in El Pontarrón for the night, and knew we were staying at the Albergue Municipal. What we didn't know was that the front door hadn't been opened since the last guest stayed there on June 28th, and it probably hasn't been cleaned since 2006. There was a shower and hot water, but it smelled AWFUL. We had bunk beds like in most other albergues. Unlike other albergues, however, I was sort of scared of touching the bed with my bare skin. The blanket I stole from Continental Airlines came in handy, and I used it to cover the areas around my sleep sack that could potentially come in contact with any body parts during the night. We couldn't handle being in the room because of the stench, so we opened all the windows and walked up the highway to the bar for dinner, drinks and television. Stefan isn't a morning person and doesn't like waking up early, but this morning all 4 of us were up and out the door by 7am because we couldn't handle the thought of being there a moment longer than necessary.

Today has been great. We didn't walk very far because we're planning a 36km hike to Santander tomorrow. There was a stretch of highway involved in today's walk that made me feel like I was in a bad game of Frogger again, but that didn't last long. The highlight of the afternoon was a trip on a tour boat from Laredo to Santoña. There were two boat options to get across the bay, and I think I picked the better of the two. After a short walk through the center of Laredo, an excursion boat to the right of the harbor offered trips to Santoña for 4€. 5km down the beach, a ferry offered a short ride across the water for 1.70€. I took the excursion boat, and Valerie, Ángel and Stefan took the ferry. I got here an hour before Valerie and Ángel, and 4 hours before Stefan. I'm okay with that.

We have a washing machine at the albergue tonight, and it was impeccible timing. I was down to a bathing suit, and I don't think anyone wants me walking 36km in that tomorrow. Santoña is the anchovy capital of Spain, if not the world. They have phenomenal seafood here, which made for a pretty awesome lunch along with my half liter glass of sangria. I had an interesting walk back to the albergue, but at least I couldn't feel the 4 blisters I'm getting on my heels and baby toes. But I digress. Spain doesn't believe in dryers, so after our clothes finished washing, they went up on the clothesline. Our albergue is right off of the bay. I can actually see fish in the water right over the fence. It's awesome. The only downside is that it also smells like it's right off the bay in the anchovy capital of Spain. I have concerns that my clothes might smell like Santoña until I make it to the next washing machine. Unfortunately, there's not much I can do about that.

The days have gotten much, much easier. There are still hills here and there, but there hasn't been a huge mountain to scale or cliff to ski down in a few days. I hope it stays that way, as does my right knee. With the pace I'm keeping, I'm hoping I can make it to Santiago by July 25th, the saint day of St. James. If I can make it to the end by then, not only am I guaranteed an awesome party in Santiago, but I may even have time to make it to Finesterre, a finishing village on the Western coast of Spain that, until 1492, was considered the end of the earth.

The Independence Day Tales

To all of my friends back home - Happy Independence Day!! Eat a hamburger for me:)

Today ended well, but it was an interesting road getting there. This morning we awoke in Markina-Xemein and made more noise than we ever intended to getting packed up. There's a set of Germans somewhere around Gernika probably cursing us right now. We patched up wounded feet and bruised backs (please wait for the picture to end all pictures - our hospitalero athletic taping a feminine product to my cousin Annie in an attempt to shield her already bruised back from further damage from her backpack. It's awesome) and started to hike. Carrie was attempting day two in size 11 flip flops. To her credit, she made it about 3 km through mud and a couple of rivers before it became inevitable for her to go back to her boots. We lost the war at that point. Her pressure wound hasn't gotten better, she has new blisters, and the tops of her feet are shredded. It was time to give in. After directions from a bartender in a taverna, we found our way to the three buses that took us to Gernika where we waited for Annie. Little did we know the trechery that awaited on today's trail. It was badly marked with few fountains or towns available for refilling water, etc. Annie ended up getting lost for a frustrating hour before finding her way back to the path and finishing the hike to Gernika. When she arrived, we looked classic. Carrie and I had spent the last couple of hours channelling the DC homeless scene: sleeping on park benches, scaring small children with our stench, eating day old bread... we were a sight to behold.

The day wasn't a wash, though. Gernika, the site of one of the worst experiments in total war of the 20th century, is home to a peace museum that I've wanted to see. We found the museum across the street from the tourist office where we stopped to snack. The permanent exhibit is so moving, and we even had the chance to see a temporary exhibit on South African Apartheid. I thought it was an entirely appropriate sidetrip for July 4th. Gernika itself is a phenomenal town. Founded in the 1000s, Over 75% of the original village was destroyed in a German bombing spearheaded by Spanish forces supportive of Francisco Franco on April 26, 1937. While few original buildings remain, the traditional architecture of the new additions do nothing but add to Gernika's charm. I'm so glad I had a chance to finally see the town I've read so much about about.

We decided to take a bus to Bilbao to give everyone's wounds a chance to recover from the grueling week. We've now eaten fresh food, showered, and are about to call it a night. Unfortunately, Carrie's feet are beyond repair at this point, and since she doesn't have realistic options for comfortably and safely continuing the Camino, she has decided to return to Madrid tomorrow. I'm so sad to see her go, but given the current state of affairs, it's the best decision. Annie's week with us is also over tomorrow, so come Sunday morning, I'll be hiking to Portugalete on my own. I'm okay with it, though. I'll definitely miss the company, but I've already met some incredibly interesting people in the last week. I'll catch up to them on Sunday, and will no doubt have plenty more stories before I'm through.