5/30/15: Dublin to St. Jean Pied de
Porte
Georgia and I were traveling to Spain
separately. She was flying directly to Santiago via Aer Lingus while I was flying
to Biarritz on cheapskate Ryan Air.
Every
thing
on Ryan Air costs extra. He wanted to charge us for bathroom privileges but the
FAA wouldn’t let him. If he could have found a way, he would have charged us
for the oxygen we were breathing! As it was, we needed a shoehorn to get into
our extremely
un
generous seats. I was
wedged in between a trim lady-pilgrim from Dublin and a haphazardly shaved
French Basque. The Basque informed me that both the Spanish Basques and the French
Basques think of themselves primarily as Basques, but doubted there would ever
be a united homeland. The French Basques have no realistic path to secession,
and the Spanish Basques are little different from those other regions of Spain chasing the illusive dream of independence.
But like a dog chasing a car, you have to wonder what they would do with it if
they ever got it.
The fellow-pilgrim introduced
herself as Anne, and said that she was traveling to Spain to walk the Camino
with her friend “Phil,” (short for Philomena) who was also on the plane. They
were both probably in their early 60s. I offered to trade places with her
friend so they could sit together. “No thanks,” she said smiling, “Phil and I
will be seeing plenty of each other
over the next couple of weeks.” It was going to be a two-week Camino for them—Anne
was getting a hip replacement and wanted to walk some now, in case the
operation didn’t go so well. “What did your doctor say about that plan?”I
asked. “He said I should carry a lot of
pain meds with me,” she laughed.
She was the first Pilgrim I met. I would
eventually meet hundreds of them, but she was, in some ways, typical. We
instantly formed a bond. I would come to find that when you walk 20 kilometers
a day, 12 to 14 miles, day after day, and spend the rest of your time eating
and talking with a constantly shifting constellation of fellow pilgrims you
have lots of time to share the things that are on your mind—especially the
important things, like why in the world you are out there walking hour after
hour!
Most of the pilgrims I met were at some
juncture in their life, some crossroads. Just finishing high-school and
preparing to enter college, or just finishing college and preparing to enter
the work-force. Or perhaps contemplating getting married, or getting divorced,
or grieving the death of a loved one, or trying to get over a failed
relationship. A turning point in life. The end of one chapter and the
anticipation of another. Me, if I live to be 100, then I would turn 66 and 8
months on camino—exactly 2/3 of my life. I wanted the opportunity to look back,
and look ahead to see if a “course correction” was needed. In addition to this,
I planned to pursue my deacon’s vocation, and make myself useful to the other pilgrims. That was my intention—to help those I
met. It didn’t work out that way, and Anne was the first person who showed me
what my pilgrimage was really going to be like.
“How are you going to get from
Biarritz to St. Jean Pied du Porte?” she asked. I had no
clue: “I think there is supposed to be a train or a bus or something,” I
ventured. I was planning to ask when I got to Biarritz. She snorted. “We’ve
made a reservation for a taxi to carry us. Perhaps it’s not full yet and you
could join us.” I quickly accepted. Anne was the personal assistant to some big businessman orpolitician in Ireland. She was a definitely a take-charge
person.
In the tiny airport I met Philomena,
and Anne’s other friends: Bobby and Rosheen, Rita, and Bryan. All were from
Ireland. Rita sent a text to the taxi driver saying they needed one more space.
She got no reply. And when the taxi arrived Rita asked the driver if they had
room for one more. The driver said “No.” So Anne took me by the arm and started
frog-marching me to the place where I would catch the bus that would take me to the train
that would take me to St Jean. Before we could get there, however, Rita came
running up to say that there had been a mixup. The driver had gotten her text, so when we’d asked at the terminal if there
was room for another passenger the
driver thought she needed two additional
seats. She only had one, so I was in!
What a fun ride. Bobby and Rosheen
were a young couple. Rosheen always took a retreat in June, and this year she
decided to walk part of the Camino. She persuaded Bobby to come along. He was
dubious but it was obvious that he was completely smitten and would have walked
across the sands of Hell if Rosheen had asked him. They were lovely together.
Philomena was also charming. She and
Anne had been friends for years and often traveled together. She was a teacher
in Northern Ireland and her face bore the lingering sadness of all that she had
seen during the “troubles.”
Bryan was also a teacher—a teacher of
14-year-olds in Dublin. Perfect. Portly, red-haired, and with a friendly open
face. The perfect personality for teaching kids that age. Funny, and completely
uninhibited in his speech, but rock solid in his love for kids and his belief
in the value of what he was doing—helping them become the people they were
meant to be.
I expected to go off by myself when
we arrived in St Jean, but the Camino always supplies us with what we need. I
was caught up in this gaggle of Irishmen and swept along up a very steep street
to my first Albergue: Beilari. Joxeim
(“Joseph” in Basque) welcomed us, took our names, and told us to come back
after we had picked up our passports from the tourist office, which was just
across the narrow street. It, of course, was closed since it was after 2pm and
siesta had begun. We used the time to take a little tour of the village, to the
castle at the top of the street, to the church at the bottom of the street, and to the bridge over that lovely babbling
brook prominent in every single picture of St Jean. Someone had chalked
footprints on the bridge overlooking the water, with the words: “Tenez-vous ici, Profitez de la vue.”
(Stand here, enjoy the view!) Someone had put a line through “Vue,” and changed it to “Vie,” life.
The tourist office was bright and
clean, with a collection of scallop shells in baskets and on the wall opposite
the door. Down the center of the room from the door to the back wall there was
a low counter with 6 or 7 people sitting in chairs facing the open part of the
room. A friendly-looking 70- or 80-year old man motioned for me to sit. He
asked me if I spoke English. I admitted that I did. He apologized for his English but said that his name was
Paul and that he would register me. And the rudimentary questions began. “What
is your name?” “What country are you from?” “Your address?” “Your passport
number?” “Are you traveling on foot, on
bicycle, or on horseback?” And then one that wasn’t quite so simple. “Why are
you making this pilgrimage?” Indeed. Even before I’d begun: the big question:
“Why?”
Anne had said on the plane that she
had been intrigued by the Camino for years and had recently met a Spanish
waiter who said “Everyone starts the Camino as a tourist, and finishes as a
pilgrim.” She, too, was evidently at some crossroads and wanted some time away
from her everyday world. She needed to slip into something like Shakespeare’s
“green world,” for some time apart. She said it wasn’t a “religious” pilgrimage for her,
but it was “spiritual.”
I certainly didn’t feel like a
tourist, and “spiritual” felt too “Shirley-Maclainey” for me. I’m not her. I’m
very Catholic, and the Camino is a very Catholic
walk through very Catholic parts of
Spain, visiting hundreds of ancient Catholic
churches and Catholic cathedrals. So
I told Paul that mine was a “religious” pilgrimage. He smiled. He started to
tell me about how to call ahead to make reservations or call for a taxi. I told
him I didn’t have a phone and wasn’t planning on using anything but my feet to
get to Santiago. If I took a motor vehicle, it would have to be an ambulance. He
smiled again.
He took
out photocopies of tomorrow’s walk to Roncesvalles, up and over the Pyrenees and into Spain. It had little photos of landmarks I should look for. He
emphasized that it was a difficult walk, especially if I was not in shape (he glanced
at my doughnut-shaped middle) and that there are some especially dangerous
parts—especially if a fog comes up. It was easy to miss the signs, and that
would be dangerous. If I had any doubts I should turn back and double-check.
But he was also reassuring: thousands of pilgrims just like me had started out
from here, and made it all the way to Santiago—800 kilometers away. He said
that even if I walked slowly, I should get to Roncesvalles in 8 hours. I
thanked him, and asked him to autograph my shell. He smiled, and using a
mechanical pencil, printed “Paul” in a very small and precise hand on the
inside of my shell. We shook hands. “Buen Camino,” he said. I found there was
something wrong with my voice. I couldn’t speak.
We all met
again outside and went to register at the albergue. That would become the norm.
First thing to do when you arrive somewhere is to “find a bed.” Since I hadn’t
been walking and wasn’t yet sweaty, I skipped over step number two “taking a
shower and changing your clothes.” We moved directly to step three, “Finding
somewhere to get a little ‘smackeral.’”
Some of
our number didn’t feel like they yet had enough stuff to carry and wanted to go
do some shopping. I just wandered, taking some photographs. Then shopping over,
we all gathered around a long outdoor table sampling the local beer-on-tap: Cervaza!
It flowed freely, and life-histories were freely exchanged as well. I learned
that in Ireland, America is called “Punckony,” and I learned that you
can tell what part of Ireland someone comes from by how they toast each other:
“Slainte,” Cheers! It could be “Sloynte” or “Slansha” or “Slawnta.”
I laughed and laughed at the stories from the trenches of the Irish education
system. A perfect start. It was Camino time. Which means no time passed at all
until we were supposed to be back at the albergue for supper.
We sat
around the dinner table and played silly games to break the ice. We threw
imaginary balls from one to another. When you caught the ball you needed to introduce yourself with a personal story then throw the ball to someone else. There
was Anne and Phil from Ireland, Kevin and Cerys, from Wales but now living in
the south of Spain. Kevin was short and intense, and Cerys tall and mellow. There
was Steven, their tall and slender friend with the comic face and sky-blue eyes,
who’d come because they had praised the Camino so highly. There was Lars and
Gitte, another Mutt and Jeff couple from Denmark, and several others. The world
was well-represented at our little table. Throwing the imaginary ball, we were told to tell say why we were on Camino. There was no getting
away from that question. Joxeim, told us that we were forming our first Camino-family
that night, and we needed to prepare ourselves, both physically and spiritually
for what was ahead. The Camino was not just a physical journey; the more
difficult journey would be the interior one. We needed to start that one
tonight.
Max, from
Brazil, arrived late. He’d taken a train from Madrid to Pamplona, then had a hard time getting from Pamploma to St
Jean. He arrived just as supper was beginning. He said that he was 47,
approaching the halfway point in his life, and “between jobs.” He needed some
time away to discern what lay ahead. Like my situation.
Supper itself
was vegetarian. We started with a clear broth made with leeks and onions. an ensalada
mixta, the first of many that I would have, though Joxeu provided some
shredded ham for those carnivores among us. And we had brown rice with beans.
Large white beans, cooked until they were very soft. And a tomato sauce that
made everything taste good. Delicious crusty bread, of course. And wine, of
course! How could one have a meal without wine?
After supper
we helped clear the table and do the dishes. I decided to take a shower after
all, and hit the sack. There was a co-ed room for the showers with 3 or 4 curtained
cubicles. It was sort of hard to keep your clothes from getting wet but there
was a little shelf in the shower-cubby where you could put things while you
washed and dried. I used my handy-dandy microfiber towel for the first time. It
worked! About the size of a large postage stamp it nevertheless soaked up most
of the water on my body—leaving me just a little bit damp. Just enough for my
tee-shirt to stick to my back as I tried to put it on. I put on clean undies
and my Walmart-special “exercise silks.” I was planning to use three sets of
clothes. One for lounging around in the evenings and sleeping in, and two for
walking—alternating each day.
Joxiem,
taking pity on my poor elderly feet, had assigned me a bottom bunk. There were
8 of us in the small room: four bunk beds. I think there were 3 or 4 other
rooms. I thought I’d have a hard time falling asleep, but with my earplugs and
facemask I was sound asleep before anyone even had a chance to snore. (to be
continued)