In the summer of 2012, Jamie and I were blessed with
the opportunity to walk the Camino De Santiago – a traditional pilgrimage
across Northern Spain. 500 miles in 35 days – and we’re not even
Catholic. An incredible adventure. A time to walk with God. A time to share with Jamie. A time to reflect upon one’s self. With sidebars in architecture, communal
living, food, culture, religion, art,
language, food, perseverance, nature, exercise, commerce, international
relations, interpersonal relations, sports medicine, and food.
While
there are dozens of routes that one can
take on the Way of Saint James, our journey took us from St. John Pied de Port
in Southern France, across the Pyrenees Mountains into Northern Spain, and then
westerly through Pamplona, Burgos, and Leon until we reached our destination in
Santiago de Compostela.
Each
day of the journey was unique and a challenge.
At first, I feared we would get lost and envisioned us wandering the
bowels of Spain
never-ending. But needless to say those
fears were ill founded. For while we did
take a few unintentional detours, each was corrected within a couple hundred
yards. That’s because along the whole
length of the Way there were markers indicating the route. Each town and city had their own unique
design and it became our custom to point them out and comment on their features.
The
terrain and the climate were another matter.
They would change daily and dictated how far we could progress. So, while our guide book indicated what to
expect “down the road”, we never really knew exactly where we would be “down
the road” at any given time. All
conspired to make eating routines unpredictable and sleeping accommodations an
uncertainty. Then, there was the constant challenge of communication. For as soon as we became accustomed to one
dialect (read rudimentary at best) we would progress into another region where
Spanish was practiced just a wee bit differently. Needless to say that rapidly sent my quick
wits into a state of total confusion but Jamie always managed. But probably the biggest challenge was our
feet. Blisters early on, followed by a
slow, progressive ache. When I got home,
I promised my feet that I would never put wool socks on them again. And to this day, they remind me of that
promise every morning as I get out of bed.
I think they’re still mad at me.
However,
those things were to be expected. And in
some perverse sort of way, actually add to the memory rather than detract from
it.
Along
the way, each town and village seemed to be centered on its own church. Some of
the churches were massive, with amazing architecture and almost garish. Some simply humble.
Whenever
we could, we would stop and go in. Our
purpose being threefold. First and foremost,
give our feet a rest. Secondly, marvel
at the opulent ornamentation and stained glass that resided in most of the churches – even those
that were modest outside. And finally,
stamp our Camino “passports”. Each
church and albergue (pilgrim’s hostel) would have a unique stamp unto itself.
The
albergue experience can best be described as just that – an “experience”. Most were minimal – communal showers, lots of
bunk beds in one big room, and sometimes dinner included. Most were clean although some of the folks we
met along the way had some really nasty bites from bed bugs.
With
such close quarters, I’m surprised that we never witnessed any fisticuffs. Not even a single argument. But then again, these were “pilgrims”. Or maybe the cordial attitude can be
attributed to the fact that there were no rules, save one universal, absolute
edict – all shoes off at the door.
What
we did witness were varying degrees of modesty.
I still blush. I came to admire
people who are just plain comfortable in their own skin – literally and
figuratively. Although there can definitely be a disconnect between outward beauty and inward esteem. Nonetheless, in such an atmosphere it was
impossible not to meet many wonderful people of all nationalities. It was always a bonding experience when everyone
wanted (make that needed) a shower but the facilities were unbeknownst because nobody
could understand anyone else.
Anyway,
we finally reached Santiago
and presented our passports to the Church as proof of our journey. A small room in the back corner of the
cathedral. We were presented with a
Compostela – a certificate of accomplishment given to pilgrims who complete the
Way. When Jamie received hers, she began
crying. Tears of relief mixed with joy
and fulfillment. And being the tough guy
that I am, I followed suit. She could
only blubber out, “It was sooo hard!”
Link to: The Pilgrim (God Moments)
Link to: The Pilgrim (God Moments)
