Today got off to a fabulous start. There is no breakfast to be had in Larrasoana, nor was there dinner last night. There are about six full-time inhabitants here, so there is no restaurant, no shop, no nothing, and it is 10km to Arre, where we might hit pay dirt. In addition to my grumbling stomach, as I exited the albergue I decided to take a picture of our little crew: Eddie, Gunthar, Sonjia, y Elena, but I slipped on the wet slicked steps and busted my camera and I now have a fabulous six inch violently purple bruise on my arm.
The night before last, in Roncesvalles, before bed and dinner there was a mass for pilgrims in the 13th century church. The chants of the somber priest and his deacons echoing hauntingly off the stone walls. I took communion (I haven´t in a long, long time and miraculously I didn´t spontaneously combust), and at the end of the mass the priest invited the eight of us lowly peregrinos to the alter to receive the traditional pilgrim´s blessing. It was a touching, somber and sincere affair, only a little of which I understood. But it isn´t hard to figure out that their wish was for us all to have a ¨Buen Camino.¨
Breaking your camera three days in is not part of a ¨Buen Camino,¨ but meeting well wishers and supporters on the street, most of whom say or shout ¨Buen Camino!¨ to us as we pass, is. They know immediately who we are at a glance. I think we must have an unmistakable look to us. Even without the telltale backpacks there is the general air of the unwashed, weary, wanderer about us. They ask us ¨eres un peregrino?¨ (are you a pilgrim?), and ¨vas a ir a Santiago?¨ (are you going to Santiago?). And then they wish us ¨Buen Camino.¨
I spent the morning thinking about being a pilgrim, what it means to be on a journey like this. I truthfully can´t imagine doing this in the year 1156, with no hot showers and no soap, no bandaids and no iodine. It must have taken months then, months to walk from Germany or France or Italy to western Spain. The Camino was almost as popular a pilgrimage in the middle ages as walking to Rome or Jerusalem. I cannot fathom it. Many died along the route before they ever reached Santiago, their last desire in life - to see the spires of the cathedral and pay their respects to Saint James and their God - left unmet. I have come across pilgrim burial grounds and hospitals, where sick and poor pilgrims were tended by priests or nuns or benevolent townspeople. It kind of makes my aching feet seem petty.
But as with pilgrims in 1156, the feet dictate everything. From how many km you walk in a day to how comfortably you walk them, the feet rule, and mine are in trouble. My goal for today is simply to make it to Pamplona around noon, check into a hotel, shower and change shoes, then explore the city to the extent my rebelling hoofs will allow.
Pamplona is like a really expensive hooker. She is highly painted and beautiful, but there is a dodgy edge to her. I saw the cathedral with it´s off-the-hook cloisters (I am a sucker for a good cloister), and I walked the streets where the bulls run in July, I took picture after picture of the colorful tall houses in the colorful narrow streets, and I shopped for a postcard to send my niece.
Later:
Today was about housekeeping as much as sightseeing. I did laundry and washed my stinking clothes. I broke down and bought some 20 Euro silicone inserts for my evil boots (about $40). I mailed my postcard to my niece. I sampled platas (small plates) in a bar for dinner (cenas) and ate my first octopus. Yes you do eat the suckers. I liked it. No different than calamari really. I wrote some drafts for my blog. I went back to my hotel. I went to bed.
But even though I did make it to Pamplona a little after noon, and I walked around the city in my other pair of shoes (the relief pair), my feet were screaming in protest. At night in my hotel I had trouble falling asleep the pain was so bad. When I got up in the middle of the night to pee, I was limping to the bathroom on both feet, if that´s possible. ¨Holy shit, I can´t walk. What am I supposed to do if I can´t walk?¨ I thought. And for the first time I began to doubt whether or not I could do this. All night long I worried: ¨I don´t know if I can make it.¨
5 comments:
I am so proud of you, and your poor feet!
You can do anything, this included.
of course you can do it!!!!!!!
"their last desire in life to see the spires of the cathedral and pay their respects to their God, a desire left unmet."
perhaps only unmet in a way. perhaps their pilgrimage led them to the ultimate cathedral, to pay their respects in the fulness of His glory, in the throne room itself-- that place that our most gorgeous cathedrals can only hope to imitate the shadows of....
you'll make it.
Dear Kristin from Pops, Your description of your beginnings evokes memories of my experience in Officer Candidate School in 1966I had been in the Army about 5 mos when I entered the infantry school. I remember the very first night when we were verbally and violently rousted out of our "sweet dreams" at 3 a.m., marched double time several miles to a local creek where we were ordered to "low crawl" o n all fours through the smelly, slimy creek for a hundred ft. or so. Not a fun start for OCS. This form of physical and mental stress continued and after the first week of so I felt like "screw this" I'm out of here. Every day I vowed to quit, but something kept me in the game day to day. The days turned into weeks and before I realized it I was 75% through the program and knew that I ws going to make it physically. Academics was altogether a different question. As far as I can see there is a definate physical mountain top you must conquer if you are foing to finish this journey. (I just received your phone call this minute) All I can say Kris is that I am super proud of you for undertaking this challenge and I know ou will use your own wise council to see you through this difficult time! When you were young you were my "tryer girl" A arisk taker you are. That is a good thing as long as yhou don't take reckless or unsound risks. Knowing the difference is the hallmark of a wise person! I love you too! Keep bloggin and don't hesitate to call when you need to hear voices from home.
um, i officially love your pops. what a great post.
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