June 13: Finisterre to Santiago to Paris and June 14 - Paris - Chicago - Tucson
June 13: Finisterre:
Uli redux
This morning in Finisterre I find my way down the narrow street to the square where the scheduled bus deposited us the previous day. I get there early to be certain to get a seat on the bus leaving Finisterre. I find the ticketing odd. My paid ticket was for round trip, but without a specific date or seat assignment. I board. Guess who sits beside me? Uli chats all the way back to Santiago.
Arriving at the bus station I find the correct window for purchasing another bus ticket. This one to the airport. I briefly considered walking to the airport. It would be an easy walk, since I had passed it a few days ago as a pilgrim heading toward Santiago.
Santiago Airport: I arrive at the airport in plenty of time. Three hours ahead. I could have used this time for more sightseeing, although now I’m in the mode of returning home. Passage through security does not begin until one hour before departure. I read, eat, pace like a caged lion in the small airport (for a city this size) and unpack my backpack and throw away bits of papers that have accumulated and toiletries that won’t be allowed. I repack with the collapsible hiking poles tightly Criss-crossed hoping they might look like part of the frame in the backpack. It worked it Tucson. I’m hoping to save time at the Paris airport by not having to go through baggage claim.
Hiking Poles must be checked
It’s time to check in. I’m issued a boarding pass with no questions asked about my lack of checked baggage, or backpack, or its contents. I move toward security. I remove my boots like I’m accustomed to doing in the U.S. Nobody else does. I have toiletries neatly tucked into a quart size baggie. The x-ray machine detects the hiking poles. I’m busted. In broken English the security officer says, “Must be checked. No charge. No charge,” she smiles.
I have plenty of time, get out of line, leave the secured area, and go back to ticketing check-in. No worries. Until… the stern clerk tells me, “50 euros to check backpack.” What! That’s five nights at an albergue. I say, “She, at security, told me I could check at no charge.”
“Who’s she?
“I didn’t get her name.”
“You have to pay.”
“But, but, but.”
Arguing back and forth. Now my stomach is churning. Can’t she see I’m a humble pilgrim? It finally occurs to me something that was hinted at before I left home. With the economy of Spain being in shambles even the employed locals are a bit fed up with foreigners who have the time and money to take 30 or more days off to walk the Camino. Finally, the one in control offered in a snooty tone, “You can check the poles at no charge.”
Why didn’t she tell me that in the beginning? All is well. I get back in line for Security. I don’t bother taking my boots off this time. With a sigh of relief it’s time to board.
“Pardon me, I have the window seat.”
I don’t like window seats. I don’t like being trapped in case I need to use the toilet. But that's what I've been assigned. It’s a short flight. I’m cool. I find my row. Two hefty women are already seated in my row.
They both struggle to get unbuckled and out of their seats. “I know you!” declares one who speaks English.
“No, I don't think so,” I nod and smile. I’m far away from home. Who would know me here?
“You are 66 years old. You walked the Camino. We met you yesterday.”
It’s a small world. Of all the passengers on that airplane how is it that we are seated together? If that 60 year-old Polish woman wouldn’t have spoken to me on the hill walking to the top of the End of the World at Finisterre. Well. Another small miracle. Or at least a coincidence.
All the while flying over Spain and into France we talk about the Cathedral at Santiago. The mass they attended did not show the swinging butofumerio. I whip out my IPhone and show them photos and the video I captured of the incense burner. The woman who did not speak English asked her friend if I would email that photo to her. Her son is a priest. I tell her my brother is also a priest. I show them my pilgrims’ passport – credencial – and the Compostela. They are overjoyed and ask to take photos of both.
The two women tell me their story: They have been friends since childhood. As young schoolgirls they made a promise they would visit Santiago together when they were older. The married women are Polish, both living in London, but grew up in Lourdes, France where they will go to visit relatives after touring Paris.
I tell them I planned to take the 6-hour bus to Fatima, Portugal two days ago, but the bus was full. Of course, the women thought the area surrounding Fatima was more barren then their childhood home of Lourdes. “Lourdes has a lot of trees and greenery. It’s very pretty,” the English speaker said with pride.
Paris Airport:
It’s raining cats and dogs when we touch down at Paris CDG airport. I toss on the rain jacket and pull up the hood. Passengers scurry in the rain on the tarmac to the terminal.
Inside I wait and wait and wait while others claim their baggage. No hiking poles. Then I remember that in the U.S, sporting goods often come through another conveyer belt. I move over to that area. Still nothing. I locate a representative from Veulo Airlines. She looks. Nothing. Then thrushes her ample body into the conveyor belt opening. She pulls out a baby stroller, and other hung up baggage, and my poles. I’m on my way.
I planned to walk from the Paris/CDG airport to the hotel, but I could not receive e-mail reception and never received directions from my husband. I figured I’d walked this far, five miles or so would be nothing. In the meantime my husband had been in contact with Francoise Epzstein, a French friend who now lives in the Boston area. She told my husband it is illegal to walk along highways in France and I could have been arrested. Oh, what a story that would have been!
Need a Cab, lady?
At the airport I locate the taxi stand and get in line. I have the name and address of the Hotel written in a notebook and show it to the taxi captain. The next taxi in line pulls up. The driver is not happy with the taxi captain when he sees the address and gives him an earful, and me the cold shoulder. It seems my hotel is a short ride away, and after dropping me off with a small fare, he will have to wait at the end of the long line for his next fare. The taxi captain shrugs.
I sense there is going to be trouble and carefully watch the meter ticking away. I have 12 euros in coins, and a 50 euro bill. My fare is 16 euros. I hand him the 50. He fusses with me, and then digs into his money pouch. He gives me back 25 euros saying he has no more change. He has given himself a very hefty tip.
After checking into the 1-star hotel I try to follow directions for using the Internet. That’s another long story, and it gives me a headache just thinking about it. The desk clerk on duty is rude and not at all helpful. When I cannot access the Internet with the code he gives me he turns me away in disgust and says to ask one of the hotel guests for help. I never do get access.
I have no appetite. I go to bed without eating. In the room there is a sound like dripping water from above. Like Chinese water torture. I pull out my iPhone and ear buds and listen to one of the books I’ve now heard four times until I’m lulled to sleep. I awake in the middle of the night to continued dripping. I hit the play button again for the next chapter. Finally it’s daylight. I’ve awakened long before the alarm.
Paris to Tucson 27 hours later
I've prepaid for breakfast at the hotel. Mounds of pain - French bread. Tea. Yogurt. It’s early but I don’t like to be late. Besides, I’d rather spend time at the Paris-CDG airport then at this unfriendly hotel. I also prepaid for the bus to the airport. No more surly taxi drivers for me.
Due to airport construction the shuttle bus stops us off about two blocks from the entry. No problem. I’m used to walking. I’m early. I have plenty of time.
Looking at the monitor I see my scheduled plane to Chicago is delayed by what… three hours. I check with a ticket agent to see if I can get an earlier flight via another mid-point such as Dallas, Miami or Philadelphia. He is helpful and spends a considerable amount of time with me. Those connections do not work either.
He does look askance when he sees I have been gone a month and do not have bags to check. I tell him I am a pilgrim. Confirming the original flight he gives me a 15 euro voucher that is probably standard issue as a courtesy when flights are delayed over a certain number of hours. I am hoping to use the voucher to buy a book, since books at the Paris airport are very expensive. Alas, it’s only good for food. Just four hours ago I had already eaten a hearty petit- déjeuner. I eat again. Boxed pasta heated in a microwave cost 14 euros. It's worth 3 euros. But then those are airport prices.
Did I mention I have plenty of time? I take photos of the ladies room. Check out the pink photo at the top. It’s so French.
Finally it’s time to go through security. Once inside that secured area I window shop. I pace. I sit down to read the expensive novel I purchased. A woman sits next to me and pours out her heart. Is this another Uli?
Before long I know her story. Woman #1 and a friend #2 planned to rent a car and drive throughout France and around Paris. After the tickets were purchased #2 told #1 that #2 had recently been diagnosed with early stages of dementia. The friend #2 was anything but friendly and was sarcastic, belittling, and grumpy during the entire trip. Woman #1 had to do all the driving, with #2 second guessing and criticizing all decisions. Woman #1was on the verge of a nervous breakdown right before my eyes. I had my own experience with these verges on the Camino. After an hour of this, I pleaded that I needed to go to the ladies room.
The night before I try my luck and repack the backpack with the collapsible hiking poles inside. It worked. At the gate check I am asked who checked my bags, etc. She looks askance. “You have no other baggage. You’ve been gone a month?”Another gate check agent sees my backpack and scallop shells. “Oh, you’ve walked the Camino.” Finally, someone understands me. I show my boarding pass. We are off, but the Ambien doesn't work since I still have a stomach-full of undigested pasta.
June 14: The Joys of Chicago O'Hare Airport
Arriving three hours late into Chicago I scramble toward customs. I would safely guess there were over a thousand people in line going down and around three corridors. I’m sure to miss this connection. I asked if there wasn’t a separate line for passengers with connections. “You have plenty of time,” employee tried to reassure me.
On the customs form I have nothing to declare. I didn't purchase anything to bring home. The customs agent looks at me askance and probably is thinking - standing before me is a woman saying she has not purchased one single thing during her time in France. No, I'm not missing the X chromosome. I just didn't have room in my backpack.
A line on the customs form asks to declare if one has walked through farms. Dare I lie? My vision for small print isn’t that good. Later, a friend told me about a similar incident. The friend of the friend gave a flip answer to a customs official and both were detained, required to wash their boots in front of a customs agent, and missed their flight. ‘Nuff said.
By time I arrive at my departure gate in Chicago headed to Tucson I have less than 10 minutes to spare. That kind of scheduling ties my stomach in knots. On the other hand, my cool-minded husband would have said, "I have time for a shoe shine."
Tucson or Bust
What? No welcome home banner to greet me in the baggage area of the airport? But then I don't have baggage. Once outside breathing in the desert air I telephone my husband who is sitting outside in his car in the remote waiting-lane. He drives up to the arrivals lane. I have been awake more then 24 hours and Randy wants to take a photo of this bedraggled but smiling pilgrim. You've got to be kidding! On the bright side I'm seven pounds lighter.
June 13: Finisterre:
Uli redux
This morning in Finisterre I find my way down the narrow street to the square where the scheduled bus deposited us the previous day. I get there early to be certain to get a seat on the bus leaving Finisterre. I find the ticketing odd. My paid ticket was for round trip, but without a specific date or seat assignment. I board. Guess who sits beside me? Uli chats all the way back to Santiago.
Arriving at the bus station I find the correct window for purchasing another bus ticket. This one to the airport. I briefly considered walking to the airport. It would be an easy walk, since I had passed it a few days ago as a pilgrim heading toward Santiago.
Santiago Airport: I arrive at the airport in plenty of time. Three hours ahead. I could have used this time for more sightseeing, although now I’m in the mode of returning home. Passage through security does not begin until one hour before departure. I read, eat, pace like a caged lion in the small airport (for a city this size) and unpack my backpack and throw away bits of papers that have accumulated and toiletries that won’t be allowed. I repack with the collapsible hiking poles tightly Criss-crossed hoping they might look like part of the frame in the backpack. It worked it Tucson. I’m hoping to save time at the Paris airport by not having to go through baggage claim.
Hiking Poles must be checked
It’s time to check in. I’m issued a boarding pass with no questions asked about my lack of checked baggage, or backpack, or its contents. I move toward security. I remove my boots like I’m accustomed to doing in the U.S. Nobody else does. I have toiletries neatly tucked into a quart size baggie. The x-ray machine detects the hiking poles. I’m busted. In broken English the security officer says, “Must be checked. No charge. No charge,” she smiles.
I have plenty of time, get out of line, leave the secured area, and go back to ticketing check-in. No worries. Until… the stern clerk tells me, “50 euros to check backpack.” What! That’s five nights at an albergue. I say, “She, at security, told me I could check at no charge.”
“Who’s she?
“I didn’t get her name.”
“You have to pay.”
“But, but, but.”
Arguing back and forth. Now my stomach is churning. Can’t she see I’m a humble pilgrim? It finally occurs to me something that was hinted at before I left home. With the economy of Spain being in shambles even the employed locals are a bit fed up with foreigners who have the time and money to take 30 or more days off to walk the Camino. Finally, the one in control offered in a snooty tone, “You can check the poles at no charge.”
Why didn’t she tell me that in the beginning? All is well. I get back in line for Security. I don’t bother taking my boots off this time. With a sigh of relief it’s time to board.
“Pardon me, I have the window seat.”
I don’t like window seats. I don’t like being trapped in case I need to use the toilet. But that's what I've been assigned. It’s a short flight. I’m cool. I find my row. Two hefty women are already seated in my row.
They both struggle to get unbuckled and out of their seats. “I know you!” declares one who speaks English.
“No, I don't think so,” I nod and smile. I’m far away from home. Who would know me here?
“You are 66 years old. You walked the Camino. We met you yesterday.”
It’s a small world. Of all the passengers on that airplane how is it that we are seated together? If that 60 year-old Polish woman wouldn’t have spoken to me on the hill walking to the top of the End of the World at Finisterre. Well. Another small miracle. Or at least a coincidence.
All the while flying over Spain and into France we talk about the Cathedral at Santiago. The mass they attended did not show the swinging butofumerio. I whip out my IPhone and show them photos and the video I captured of the incense burner. The woman who did not speak English asked her friend if I would email that photo to her. Her son is a priest. I tell her my brother is also a priest. I show them my pilgrims’ passport – credencial – and the Compostela. They are overjoyed and ask to take photos of both.
The two women tell me their story: They have been friends since childhood. As young schoolgirls they made a promise they would visit Santiago together when they were older. The married women are Polish, both living in London, but grew up in Lourdes, France where they will go to visit relatives after touring Paris.
I tell them I planned to take the 6-hour bus to Fatima, Portugal two days ago, but the bus was full. Of course, the women thought the area surrounding Fatima was more barren then their childhood home of Lourdes. “Lourdes has a lot of trees and greenery. It’s very pretty,” the English speaker said with pride.
Paris Airport:
It’s raining cats and dogs when we touch down at Paris CDG airport. I toss on the rain jacket and pull up the hood. Passengers scurry in the rain on the tarmac to the terminal.
Inside I wait and wait and wait while others claim their baggage. No hiking poles. Then I remember that in the U.S, sporting goods often come through another conveyer belt. I move over to that area. Still nothing. I locate a representative from Veulo Airlines. She looks. Nothing. Then thrushes her ample body into the conveyor belt opening. She pulls out a baby stroller, and other hung up baggage, and my poles. I’m on my way.
I planned to walk from the Paris/CDG airport to the hotel, but I could not receive e-mail reception and never received directions from my husband. I figured I’d walked this far, five miles or so would be nothing. In the meantime my husband had been in contact with Francoise Epzstein, a French friend who now lives in the Boston area. She told my husband it is illegal to walk along highways in France and I could have been arrested. Oh, what a story that would have been!
Need a Cab, lady?
At the airport I locate the taxi stand and get in line. I have the name and address of the Hotel written in a notebook and show it to the taxi captain. The next taxi in line pulls up. The driver is not happy with the taxi captain when he sees the address and gives him an earful, and me the cold shoulder. It seems my hotel is a short ride away, and after dropping me off with a small fare, he will have to wait at the end of the long line for his next fare. The taxi captain shrugs.
I sense there is going to be trouble and carefully watch the meter ticking away. I have 12 euros in coins, and a 50 euro bill. My fare is 16 euros. I hand him the 50. He fusses with me, and then digs into his money pouch. He gives me back 25 euros saying he has no more change. He has given himself a very hefty tip.
After checking into the 1-star hotel I try to follow directions for using the Internet. That’s another long story, and it gives me a headache just thinking about it. The desk clerk on duty is rude and not at all helpful. When I cannot access the Internet with the code he gives me he turns me away in disgust and says to ask one of the hotel guests for help. I never do get access.
I have no appetite. I go to bed without eating. In the room there is a sound like dripping water from above. Like Chinese water torture. I pull out my iPhone and ear buds and listen to one of the books I’ve now heard four times until I’m lulled to sleep. I awake in the middle of the night to continued dripping. I hit the play button again for the next chapter. Finally it’s daylight. I’ve awakened long before the alarm.
Paris to Tucson 27 hours later
I've prepaid for breakfast at the hotel. Mounds of pain - French bread. Tea. Yogurt. It’s early but I don’t like to be late. Besides, I’d rather spend time at the Paris-CDG airport then at this unfriendly hotel. I also prepaid for the bus to the airport. No more surly taxi drivers for me.
Due to airport construction the shuttle bus stops us off about two blocks from the entry. No problem. I’m used to walking. I’m early. I have plenty of time.
Looking at the monitor I see my scheduled plane to Chicago is delayed by what… three hours. I check with a ticket agent to see if I can get an earlier flight via another mid-point such as Dallas, Miami or Philadelphia. He is helpful and spends a considerable amount of time with me. Those connections do not work either.
He does look askance when he sees I have been gone a month and do not have bags to check. I tell him I am a pilgrim. Confirming the original flight he gives me a 15 euro voucher that is probably standard issue as a courtesy when flights are delayed over a certain number of hours. I am hoping to use the voucher to buy a book, since books at the Paris airport are very expensive. Alas, it’s only good for food. Just four hours ago I had already eaten a hearty petit- déjeuner. I eat again. Boxed pasta heated in a microwave cost 14 euros. It's worth 3 euros. But then those are airport prices.
Did I mention I have plenty of time? I take photos of the ladies room. Check out the pink photo at the top. It’s so French.
Finally it’s time to go through security. Once inside that secured area I window shop. I pace. I sit down to read the expensive novel I purchased. A woman sits next to me and pours out her heart. Is this another Uli?
Before long I know her story. Woman #1 and a friend #2 planned to rent a car and drive throughout France and around Paris. After the tickets were purchased #2 told #1 that #2 had recently been diagnosed with early stages of dementia. The friend #2 was anything but friendly and was sarcastic, belittling, and grumpy during the entire trip. Woman #1 had to do all the driving, with #2 second guessing and criticizing all decisions. Woman #1was on the verge of a nervous breakdown right before my eyes. I had my own experience with these verges on the Camino. After an hour of this, I pleaded that I needed to go to the ladies room.
The night before I try my luck and repack the backpack with the collapsible hiking poles inside. It worked. At the gate check I am asked who checked my bags, etc. She looks askance. “You have no other baggage. You’ve been gone a month?”Another gate check agent sees my backpack and scallop shells. “Oh, you’ve walked the Camino.” Finally, someone understands me. I show my boarding pass. We are off, but the Ambien doesn't work since I still have a stomach-full of undigested pasta.
June 14: The Joys of Chicago O'Hare Airport
Arriving three hours late into Chicago I scramble toward customs. I would safely guess there were over a thousand people in line going down and around three corridors. I’m sure to miss this connection. I asked if there wasn’t a separate line for passengers with connections. “You have plenty of time,” employee tried to reassure me.
On the customs form I have nothing to declare. I didn't purchase anything to bring home. The customs agent looks at me askance and probably is thinking - standing before me is a woman saying she has not purchased one single thing during her time in France. No, I'm not missing the X chromosome. I just didn't have room in my backpack.
A line on the customs form asks to declare if one has walked through farms. Dare I lie? My vision for small print isn’t that good. Later, a friend told me about a similar incident. The friend of the friend gave a flip answer to a customs official and both were detained, required to wash their boots in front of a customs agent, and missed their flight. ‘Nuff said.
By time I arrive at my departure gate in Chicago headed to Tucson I have less than 10 minutes to spare. That kind of scheduling ties my stomach in knots. On the other hand, my cool-minded husband would have said, "I have time for a shoe shine."
Tucson or Bust
What? No welcome home banner to greet me in the baggage area of the airport? But then I don't have baggage. Once outside breathing in the desert air I telephone my husband who is sitting outside in his car in the remote waiting-lane. He drives up to the arrivals lane. I have been awake more then 24 hours and Randy wants to take a photo of this bedraggled but smiling pilgrim. You've got to be kidding! On the bright side I'm seven pounds lighter.
Once home at my front door I see a brightly colored sign, “Welcome Home.” It’s from Jeremy Kahn, the husband of my late neighbor Deborah, who would have been my fitness trainer had she not died suddenly just months earlier. Live your dreams indeed! I thought of my friend of a few months many times on the journey.
It's past midnight, but I stay up for the next three hours reading the emails sent from my friends, via Randy, wishing me well on my journey. I was grateful to be safely returned home and lifted up on eagle’s wings by the love sent my way.
Eagle's Wings
Refrain:
And he will lift you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of his hand.
In the days before and after I walked the Camino de Santiago friends and strangers often commented how brave and courageous I was to walk the Camino alone. Months later I continue to ponder the observation. I had the choice to walk alone. It wasn't forced upon me. First I was inspired then courage and confidence built over time. My determination became my passion and that fueled the learning and training needed for the journey. I came to realize that not everyone can walk the Camino due to physical ailments, but everyone can be brave and courageous in other ways. It's conquering the unknown, the uncomfortable that we grow. It's also important to know our limits... and know how much we can push. While it's easy to write on paper that our abilities are limitless, in reality that's just a metaphor. Although some people do push ahead full throttle until the wheels come off. Perhaps they need the adrenaline rush and willing to pay the price.
The anxiety I felt after my first day on the mountain never went away during the Camino, but I got up each day putting one foot in front of the other. And that's the way life is. Having hope and faith that all will turn out well. And if not, there is another tomorrow. I'm humble enough to know that things can go wrong and we have to face the consequences. We learn to be courageous with our failures. We survive and move forward. Knowing what I know now would I walk alone again? Yes, because from that failure from a foot injury and anxiety that first day, I know that I could have walked the entire 500 miles. Perhaps I'm even more courageous then ever. We have physical and spiritual break downs, and sometimes emotional break downs, but we learn from these experiences and realize there is a higher power that wants us to achieve, to be courageous and move beyond our fears and limitations.
Buen camino
It's past midnight, but I stay up for the next three hours reading the emails sent from my friends, via Randy, wishing me well on my journey. I was grateful to be safely returned home and lifted up on eagle’s wings by the love sent my way.
Eagle's Wings
Refrain:
And he will lift you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of his hand.
In the days before and after I walked the Camino de Santiago friends and strangers often commented how brave and courageous I was to walk the Camino alone. Months later I continue to ponder the observation. I had the choice to walk alone. It wasn't forced upon me. First I was inspired then courage and confidence built over time. My determination became my passion and that fueled the learning and training needed for the journey. I came to realize that not everyone can walk the Camino due to physical ailments, but everyone can be brave and courageous in other ways. It's conquering the unknown, the uncomfortable that we grow. It's also important to know our limits... and know how much we can push. While it's easy to write on paper that our abilities are limitless, in reality that's just a metaphor. Although some people do push ahead full throttle until the wheels come off. Perhaps they need the adrenaline rush and willing to pay the price.
The anxiety I felt after my first day on the mountain never went away during the Camino, but I got up each day putting one foot in front of the other. And that's the way life is. Having hope and faith that all will turn out well. And if not, there is another tomorrow. I'm humble enough to know that things can go wrong and we have to face the consequences. We learn to be courageous with our failures. We survive and move forward. Knowing what I know now would I walk alone again? Yes, because from that failure from a foot injury and anxiety that first day, I know that I could have walked the entire 500 miles. Perhaps I'm even more courageous then ever. We have physical and spiritual break downs, and sometimes emotional break downs, but we learn from these experiences and realize there is a higher power that wants us to achieve, to be courageous and move beyond our fears and limitations.
Buen camino