Camino de Santiago Day 1: France!

St. Jean-Pied-de-Port, France, start of the Camino Frances through Spain

Today, I left Stuttgart in a mild snowstorm (after visiting my brother, who's studying abroad in Germany.) I landed in Bilbao, Spain, to sunlight glinting off the ocean and palm trees.  It's my first time traveling alone. 

I was terrified. 

First, public transportation: I love to walk, so the Camino will likely be a good fit, but public transportation terrifies me (it's out of my control!  What if I get on the wrong bus!  What if I misread the schedule!  Ah!) and to reach the classic starting point of the Camino Frances all the way up at the French border, in St. Jean, France, there is... really no easy way.  I found other blog posts.  I fretted.  I suspected I'd need to find three separate buses, none of which could be pre-ordered online, and did not see how this wouldn't end in disaster.   And then - as is usually the case - everything worked out... fine.  The Bilbao airport has buses straight to San Sebastian, and from there another bus to Pamplona (or, alternately, to Bayonne, France, but I didn't realize this in time) and from there, a hellish, winding, nearly vomit-ridden ride across the Pyrenees to St. Jean, France. 

I had a two-hour layover waiting for that last bus through the Pyrenees.  And, as if to teach me to relax and that all my worrying had been for naught, the Pamplona station was the prettiest bus station I'd ever seen: all underground, with escalators rising up to emerge from this glassy cube beside the most amazing public park:

Old fortified ruins, in the middle of Pamplona.  There were teenagers climbing the walls.  Mothers pushing strollers.  Numerous dogs, and strolling couples, and a general Spanish enjoyment which shattered my German punctuality.  After the plane flight, I was actually quite tired.  I mixed instant coffee under a cold bathroom sink (the bathrooms in a tunnel of this old fortress were also beautiful) and learned that yes, in dire situations and with enough shaking-up, instant coffee can indeed be dissolved in cold water. 

The drive through the Pyrenees was one of the worst 1 1/2 hours of my life.  I came within inches of vomiting, but managed to hold it in by both plugging my nose and deep breathing.  So many switchbacks!  Up one mountain vale and down another, and now starting tomorrow we get to walk it and climb all those switchbacks on foot, but thank goodness because at least it won't be in a bus!  I'm getting carsick again just thinking about it, so on to:
 

The town of St Jean!  Really, really beautiful.  I'd heard the south of France was beautiful, but man, if it all looks like this!  Full of rolling hills and terraces and switchbacking roads.  For some reason I'd imagined myself arriving alone, this early in April, but our bus unloaded after other buses, and I joined a long line of pilgrims with backpacks:
 

That's a trail of fellow backpackers, as we all wandered in bewildered circles trying to find where we registered and got our seashells.  When one hostel filled, they ushered me up the road to the next hostel, run by an extremely assertive frenchwoman who has ten adopted cats, two dogs, and does not allow shoes inside, declaring that anyone who wears shoes inside will be thrown out back with the chickens (she can say this in at least four languages).  (I later learned this was a rule in every hostel, to reduce the stench of hundreds of hiking boots: she got us well trained.)  On this first night I met: 3 friendly Americans,  1 Portuguese, 2 Italians, 3 Spanish men, 1 Spanish girl, 1 Czech woman, 1 German girl, and several Koreans. 

Amount spent on buses: 17 euros + 7 + 20 (GROAN!  20 euros for that hellish switchbacking near-puke-fest!  These people KNOW there's no other way for us to get to the start and we'll pay anything for the last leg of the journey!  Though, maybe it was just more expensive to pay for all the brake pads they run through on that bus line.  Our brakes definitely smelled like burning rubber.)

Amount spent on hostel: 10 euros (yes!)

Amount spent on food: 0, thanks to my brother's incredible bag of super-gorp, mixed with peanut butter, raisins, and granola before I left Germany:
 

The sheep were really wearing bells.  Also, that is a gallon size bag filled with high-calorie gorp; we'll see how many kilometers of walking it fuels. 

And lastly:
 

The official camino entry sign through the archway: the seashell we'll be following all across Spain to Santiago de Compostela, 800 km down the trail, and a figure of slightly hunchbacked-looking old pilgrim.   (My backpack feels light now.  But I have a feeling I'll be wanting to abandon belongings... to type on I bought an older version of this Logitech keyboard, which weighs ounces and connects via bluetooth to my old iPhone 4s phone; no laptop or ipad to carry.  Nothing heavy, and nothing valuable to steal.  This first trial - typing late at night on my phone - is perfect.  An Italian guy is snoring above me, I just heard a cowbell pass in the street outside, and this keyboard is almost silent, typing in the dark with 8 other people sleeping around me.)

Tomorrow: on foot to Roncesvailles!

Buen camino,

-mlj

The Pilgrim's Tale

the view from a hilltop 'wanderweg' trail in Germany: thE GerMANs hAVE walking trails... everywhere.

First, the story of the old German pilgrim.

Years ago, a friend and I were sitting on a bench in Lucca, Italy (or someplace similar) and an old gentleman walked up and asked if he could sit down beside us.  Of course, being young females at night, we started inching immediately toward the opposite side of the bench.  A healthy caution, to be sure, but as he sat and talked - just visiting with fellow foreigners, because he was traveling alone - he told us the most amazing tale, and if we'd left we would have missed it.  

He loved to walk.  He’d always loved to walk, alone most of all.  His favorite way to see places was on foot.  He didn’t have much money, but on occasion he’d leave his wife at home in Germany (“She,” he said, “does not so much like the walking”) and he’d take off on one of the old pilgrim’s trails criss-crossing Europe, which are still used today.  As a pilgrim, he said, you get a pilgrimage card, collect stamps at each church you stay at, and even sometimes stay there for free. 

“Old Catholic trails,” he said. “For pilgrims on their way to visit holy relics.”  

I told him that sounded amazing.  Unfortunately, I was not Catholic.  Though hearing of these pilgrim trails, I almost wished I was.  

Then he gave us the most conspiring smile.  He pulled out his card, already stamped by a dozen Catholic churches.  “Ssh," he whispered, glancing around the piazza, which babbled obliviously on in Italian.  "Do not tell anyone.  But, I am not Catholic either.  I am Protestant.”  

And with that, as my friend and I grinned in helpless delight, he got up and winked and strode away.  After a few paces he turned back to say:

"One thing.  One thing you must remember, when traveling alone.  Wherever you stop, always look back to be sure you haven’t left anything.”

He surveyed the bench where he’d sat, checked the ground with great flourish, then gave us a bow and wandered happily away across the plaza.  His pants were worn.  His shoes were dusty.  His face looked at once solemn and mirthful.  I remember he seemed both wise and on the verge of laughter - the same way I always feel when walking alone.  When I come untethered, and I’m reacting to no one, and the slightest startling bird song makes me burst into a grin.  

As he walked - ironically - something fell from his pocket, and he did not look back or notice.  He left it behind.  

A pencil.

I picked it up from the cobbles, in the lamplight: short, wood-colored, sharpened down to only a few inches long.  I remember keeping that pencil, tucking it away.  I stashed it safely in my toiletries bag, where it sits to this day.  I’ve carried it everywhere.  Though now,  reading the pencil’s label, I almost doubt it was his, because the writing is in English.  Shouldn’t his pencil be in German?  Am I misremembering?  Was this pencil really his?  And yet, it’s the pencil I remember being his, worn and short and dusty, and I’ve carried it ever since.

As the man walked away I remember gazing after him, and thinking: I love to walk.  

Of course, back then, I still didn’t know quite how much I loved to walk… but even then I knew it.  I knew walking stirred stories in my head, and cemented directions in my mind, and that I’d never feel at home in a place until I’d walked it alone.  And I'd just met someone else who felt the same.

I remember thinking: I, too, have very little money.  I felt guilty buying anything.  I always felt inadequate, especially then, on that summer abroad in Italy, like no matter how hard I worked I didn’t deserve to be there, couldn’t afford it.  I really couldn’t.  I’m still paying off the loan, and will be for the next ten years.  But that summer abroad in Rome - among the ancient monuments and myths and ruins, along worn cobblestones so many millions of heroes and villains had walked - was like a summons, the sort of longing that comes along infrequently, and turns you illogical.  

Perhaps it’s a longing for the life you want to have, or the person you want to be.   

It happened when I watched that pilgrim walk away.  A deep yearning, though I didn’t know it at the time.

He became one of those visions: of who I wanted to be.  I didn’t dare, I couldn’t imagine, but I think in that moment I started dreaming, and as so often happens when we encounter a person we admire, the whole world readjusted to accommodate this new vision of what I could be.  I’ve had that feeling several times since.  Once was in my fifth year of architecture school, nearing graduation, a year after meeting this pilgrim.  It happened when I started reading writer’s blogs, and learning famous writers were also insecure and filled with self-doubt and good humor and years of trials and failures just like me.  Laini Taylor.  Marissa Meyer.  Kristin Cashore.  I devoured all their blog posts on writing and I felt galvanized, like I’d met them, and now that I’d met them and seen what they’d done it seemed possible.  To have writing as a career, instead of a practical office job, like architecture.  I’d been writing for years and always felt selfish for doing it, like something I loved this much ought not to be legal.  

That became the reason for writing this blog.  I imagine these posts going unread for years, but still, I ought to start writing them now.  Because somewhere down the line two decades from now, a young writer may read these after reading my books, and see that I, too, was filled with self-doubt and ran out of money and felt selfish for choosing writing over an ordinary career, but I did it anyway.  Even though it was hard.  Even though I felt I wasn’t good at it, not good at all, that writing must be easier for everyone else, but still, in the quiet hours before I fell asleep, when I daydreamed about the sort of person I'd want to be, they were always daydreams about a brave woman who wrote wild and unruly stories for teens, and traveled alone, and went on pilgrimage treks and talked to strangers in the piazzas of foreign countries at night.  I imagined myself writing blog posts that inspired young writers who doubted themselves, blog posts made them say yes.  

I imagined myself at the end of the road, instead of the beginning.

Now, this Wednesday, I'll be in Spain starting the 500-mile Camino de Santiago: my first pilgrimage trek.  I'll be following the yellow seashell symbol all across Spain.

It's a well-worn trail from France across Galicia all the way to the sea.  Pilgrims walk with only packs on their backs, just like the bards of old, in the fantasy novels I always loved to read.  Pilgrims stay in cheap municipal hostels or churches and do it for all sorts of reason: religious or otherwise, spiritual or transitional, or just plain gratitude and a desire to marvel at the world. 

Mostly, I just love rituals.

I'm scared and excited and anxious.  Years ago, when I daydreamed about traveling and walking alone I never daydreamed that I'd be scared. 

But maybe the people we admire were always scared when they started. 

Happy scribbling.

- mlj

Prague, and heraldry, and beasts, and finding your style of travel

Some people travel for food.  

They eat local dishes, in local restaurants, and feel like they know a place.  Some people travel for pubs.  Some people travel for museums.  Some people travel for selfie shots.

I think I travel for stories, and for words.

I love guided tours, and broken conversations with local shopkeepers, and spying on locals’ lives, but more than that, I love learning the stories layered in old spaces, and collecting the myths of a place, and walking where legends once walked.  If I learn the story of some past tragedy or some local’s hopes and dreams, I’ll remember that place forever.  Stories make it real.  

And I love using real places in stories.  

Especially real places in fantasy stories.  Especially gritty, specific details that I know will make a fantasy story seem real.  In Prague, I’ve been deliriously recording statues that show part-humans part-beasts, and recording all the shield-symbols of medieval heraldry I can find, scurrying about the city’s old town like  a delighted sketchbook-clutching crab.  I don’t have money, but this doesn’t cost any; I love finding pastimes that give me an excuse to go weaving around an old historic city, anything that lets me look busy for free.  Imagining histories for characters.  Imagining how particular old symbols or etchings or cobblestone patterns could be clues to some archaic magic system.  I’m imagining all these underground cellars used by characters in hiding, and the heraldry shields painted on ceilings identifying ancestors of old.

Whoever you are, wherever you are, I hope you find the style  of travel that suits you best, and don’t worry if it’s a strange one.  

Happy scribbling.

-mlj