May 18: Roncesvalles to Pamplona
Navarra is the first of five regions I walk through. The others are La Rioja, Castilla Y Leon, Galicia, and Cabo Fisterra. The first three are known for their wines.
Of all the albergues (hostels/refugios/dorm-like housing) this one in Roncesvalles is the largest of the many in which I will stay throughout the course of the Camino.
I wore a Timex watch that had an illuminated dial so I know it was 4 a.m. when I first awoke this morning. I awoke again at 5:45 to a ringing cell phone. I dig around half asleep and locate my Apple IPhone, and realize it's not mine that's ringing. (Surprisingly, it still has juice.) I realize someone else has the same marimba-ring tone as mine. Their phone rings for another 2-3 minutes. Now pilgrims begin to stir. Some rise and dress. The lights are finally turned on at 7 a.m. and by now, everyone is moving about.
There was no extra room in my backpack for a nightgown. Sleeping nude among a hundred pilgrims? Are you crazy? The previous night I slept in my clothes and black hoodie jacket. I notice a few others do the same. I'm still chilled from yesterday's misery and challenges and process the fact that yesterday I faced a very dark moment. So soon in the journey. What is in store for the rest of the Way? Will there be an equally dark, or darker hour?
On the other hand during that steep climb the day before I was reminded of the lesson of the body's need for water. And constant temperature. Humans cannot easily survive without water or with wild swings of heat and cold. A walk on the Camino quickly makes one, if not an environmentalist then surely, a survivalist with mental and physical challenges. Although putting myself in the role of the current pop reality T.V. program "Sole Survivor" is not for me. (As a side note and after returning from this journey I read Hillenbrand's "Unbroken" a story of survival, resilience, and redemption and once again I'm in awe of the power of the human spirit.) I have yet to read "Wild," or see the movie.
For me I see the Camino as a quiet place to think about what matters in life. It's a mystical journey separate from the busy, but only occasionally chaotic day-to-day life that I lead. Already I see these fellow pilgrims as a brotherhood. We and thousands... no, millions before ... have walked these same paths since the 12th Century for many the same reasons. We relate to the Almighty and nature in much the same way. We carry sticks and wear the same costumes protecting us against the forces of nature.
Last evening I draped my costumes - my extra clothes - over the bed railing to dry. Out of necessity this morning I wear the same zip-off hiking pants and shirts I had on the previous 24 hours, changing only socks and underwear. The previous evening I discover my only two changes of clothes in the backpack are wet. During the day I had not properly locked down the Platypus - the water-holding device in my backpack and it leaked. You would think I would learn from this experience. Similar episodes in the days ahead show I had much to learn.
Downstairs in the kitchen other pilgrims appear fully prepared with their breakfasts of fruit and bread. I only have protein bars brought from home. But these are enough for now.
Navarra is the first of five regions I walk through. The others are La Rioja, Castilla Y Leon, Galicia, and Cabo Fisterra. The first three are known for their wines.
Of all the albergues (hostels/refugios/dorm-like housing) this one in Roncesvalles is the largest of the many in which I will stay throughout the course of the Camino.
I wore a Timex watch that had an illuminated dial so I know it was 4 a.m. when I first awoke this morning. I awoke again at 5:45 to a ringing cell phone. I dig around half asleep and locate my Apple IPhone, and realize it's not mine that's ringing. (Surprisingly, it still has juice.) I realize someone else has the same marimba-ring tone as mine. Their phone rings for another 2-3 minutes. Now pilgrims begin to stir. Some rise and dress. The lights are finally turned on at 7 a.m. and by now, everyone is moving about.
There was no extra room in my backpack for a nightgown. Sleeping nude among a hundred pilgrims? Are you crazy? The previous night I slept in my clothes and black hoodie jacket. I notice a few others do the same. I'm still chilled from yesterday's misery and challenges and process the fact that yesterday I faced a very dark moment. So soon in the journey. What is in store for the rest of the Way? Will there be an equally dark, or darker hour?
On the other hand during that steep climb the day before I was reminded of the lesson of the body's need for water. And constant temperature. Humans cannot easily survive without water or with wild swings of heat and cold. A walk on the Camino quickly makes one, if not an environmentalist then surely, a survivalist with mental and physical challenges. Although putting myself in the role of the current pop reality T.V. program "Sole Survivor" is not for me. (As a side note and after returning from this journey I read Hillenbrand's "Unbroken" a story of survival, resilience, and redemption and once again I'm in awe of the power of the human spirit.) I have yet to read "Wild," or see the movie.
For me I see the Camino as a quiet place to think about what matters in life. It's a mystical journey separate from the busy, but only occasionally chaotic day-to-day life that I lead. Already I see these fellow pilgrims as a brotherhood. We and thousands... no, millions before ... have walked these same paths since the 12th Century for many the same reasons. We relate to the Almighty and nature in much the same way. We carry sticks and wear the same costumes protecting us against the forces of nature.
Last evening I draped my costumes - my extra clothes - over the bed railing to dry. Out of necessity this morning I wear the same zip-off hiking pants and shirts I had on the previous 24 hours, changing only socks and underwear. The previous evening I discover my only two changes of clothes in the backpack are wet. During the day I had not properly locked down the Platypus - the water-holding device in my backpack and it leaked. You would think I would learn from this experience. Similar episodes in the days ahead show I had much to learn.
Downstairs in the kitchen other pilgrims appear fully prepared with their breakfasts of fruit and bread. I only have protein bars brought from home. But these are enough for now.
Many hearty Europeans trekked off early that morning into fog and a steady drizzle dressed in sturdy rain gear. They must have thicker blood. I've lived in the arid Arizona desert for 15 years now and I don't easily tolerate the cold. Or perhaps they have better clothing than mine. I’ve never worn rain pants before, or a poncho. I tested the second-hand rain jacket one time before I left home to know it didn’t leak.
The steady stream of pilgrims leaving through open doors tells me it's more than chilly outside. I ponder while standing watch from inside. The drizzle turns into rain and doesn’t let up after fifteen minutes of procrastination. I’ve been cold since Paris. I'm not certain when I made the decision to not walk that morning.
After a short distance to the village café (called bars) I order the first of many hot tea and croissant combinations, and inquire about the autobus to Pamplona. Six euros. About $7.50. Coming along in 40 minutes.
Are you getting on the bus, Senora?
I listen for signs from my body, heart and soul. I lick my wounds. With my ego safely tucked aside back where it belongs I chose to take the bus. It would save a 30-mile trek. I try to see the bright side. I will be two days ahead of schedule. Instead my spirit is still shaky from yesterday’s ordeal. If I came to the Camino to seek my bliss I was not feeling blissful. Already I feel a failure as I board the bus. My imperfections and humanness are showing. I must reclaim my center before walking the Camino any further. This feeling of failure is mostly foreign to me. This sacred ground seems to have spiritual powers. A place to meditate. I had been put down in the past with the rhetorical, "Who do you think you are?" Now it was time to reach deep inside and ask "Who am I?"
The steady stream of pilgrims leaving through open doors tells me it's more than chilly outside. I ponder while standing watch from inside. The drizzle turns into rain and doesn’t let up after fifteen minutes of procrastination. I’ve been cold since Paris. I'm not certain when I made the decision to not walk that morning.
After a short distance to the village café (called bars) I order the first of many hot tea and croissant combinations, and inquire about the autobus to Pamplona. Six euros. About $7.50. Coming along in 40 minutes.
Are you getting on the bus, Senora?
I listen for signs from my body, heart and soul. I lick my wounds. With my ego safely tucked aside back where it belongs I chose to take the bus. It would save a 30-mile trek. I try to see the bright side. I will be two days ahead of schedule. Instead my spirit is still shaky from yesterday’s ordeal. If I came to the Camino to seek my bliss I was not feeling blissful. Already I feel a failure as I board the bus. My imperfections and humanness are showing. I must reclaim my center before walking the Camino any further. This feeling of failure is mostly foreign to me. This sacred ground seems to have spiritual powers. A place to meditate. I had been put down in the past with the rhetorical, "Who do you think you are?" Now it was time to reach deep inside and ask "Who am I?"
Within less than two miles, I see Hemingway’s “Sun Also Rises” village of Burguete where the author use to stay. The bus passes it on N-135. The highway parallels the Camino. Seeing these pilgrims braving the elements I’m certain the woodland paths are soggy and glad I'm not them. Hunkered down against the rain with ponchos draped over backpacks they look like a herd of upright turtles. Are they having fun?
I think of those few back home who looked at me askance asking, “Are you sure you can walk 500 miles?” How would I know? I've never done it. The real question is: Is that what they really think? Are they dumping their internal insecurities and doubts onto me? I know better then to listen to negative remarks. Still I feel guilty for taking the bus and disappointed in myself. I've trained for a year and am now facing one of my life's biggest physical challenges with doubt.
My injured Angel
The bus is clean and modern and arrives at the industrial center at Pamplona's estation autobus on time. I discover I'm not the only pilgrim on board. Among the many was the young woman I met walking yesterday in the windstorm. In relief, I rush to give my angel a hug. I said I worried about her and asked what happened after I hitched a ride.
My young angel from Denmark was limping. “I sprained my ankle on the way down. I’m going to be laid up for a long while. I’m checking into a nice hotel - with a big bed - and a bathtub,” she said. I never saw her again. Perhaps her Camino ended on the first day. But by the grace of God...
So perhaps my decision to turn back before reaching the crest of the Pyrenees wasn’t so chicken-hearted after all. This is just the beginning of my soul's emotional roller-coaster ride as I fight the demons within. On this day I no longer faced death, although I fearfully admit yesterday it was a possibility. More importantly, I feared that if I would have died yesterday it would have been a reflection on a poor choice I might have taken. Finally I take a deep breath and applaud my sensibility. I am a practical sort, after all.
My right foot aches. The walk from the bus station into the center of Old Town takes me longer than I expect. I am turned around several times, but keep asking the direction toward the Cathedral of Santa Maria la Real. Locals point and I walk in that direction for a while, then I stop and ask again.
This looks like THE alberque for me:
I anticipate finding the Albergue Jesus y Maria near the cathedral. From that day on I develop a habit of heading for large albergues because I believe this increases my odds of finding an available bed. This is a wise decision, but not very adventuresome. But then I will have plenty of adventure without being in a panic of not finding a place to sleep. As I draw near I see the square full of pilgrims and know I have arrived.
I think of those few back home who looked at me askance asking, “Are you sure you can walk 500 miles?” How would I know? I've never done it. The real question is: Is that what they really think? Are they dumping their internal insecurities and doubts onto me? I know better then to listen to negative remarks. Still I feel guilty for taking the bus and disappointed in myself. I've trained for a year and am now facing one of my life's biggest physical challenges with doubt.
My injured Angel
The bus is clean and modern and arrives at the industrial center at Pamplona's estation autobus on time. I discover I'm not the only pilgrim on board. Among the many was the young woman I met walking yesterday in the windstorm. In relief, I rush to give my angel a hug. I said I worried about her and asked what happened after I hitched a ride.
My young angel from Denmark was limping. “I sprained my ankle on the way down. I’m going to be laid up for a long while. I’m checking into a nice hotel - with a big bed - and a bathtub,” she said. I never saw her again. Perhaps her Camino ended on the first day. But by the grace of God...
So perhaps my decision to turn back before reaching the crest of the Pyrenees wasn’t so chicken-hearted after all. This is just the beginning of my soul's emotional roller-coaster ride as I fight the demons within. On this day I no longer faced death, although I fearfully admit yesterday it was a possibility. More importantly, I feared that if I would have died yesterday it would have been a reflection on a poor choice I might have taken. Finally I take a deep breath and applaud my sensibility. I am a practical sort, after all.
My right foot aches. The walk from the bus station into the center of Old Town takes me longer than I expect. I am turned around several times, but keep asking the direction toward the Cathedral of Santa Maria la Real. Locals point and I walk in that direction for a while, then I stop and ask again.
This looks like THE alberque for me:
I anticipate finding the Albergue Jesus y Maria near the cathedral. From that day on I develop a habit of heading for large albergues because I believe this increases my odds of finding an available bed. This is a wise decision, but not very adventuresome. But then I will have plenty of adventure without being in a panic of not finding a place to sleep. As I draw near I see the square full of pilgrims and know I have arrived.
This albergue, on two floors, has 114 beds and in a good location to explore the Old Town. By time I arrive there is a long line waiting to get in. For a deposit of 3 euros I rent a blanket and get two euros back the next morning. That was a good investment.
Beds are assigned regardless of age or sex. I am surprised to find my top bunk surrounded by a large number of young Koreans. Later I learned that by the end of last year, 2011, Paulo Coelho’s book “The Alchemist” had been translated into 71 languages. The Brazilian writer also authored, “The Pilgrimage,” and is often credited with introducing the Camino and its spread of popularity among Asians.
Before striking out I make certain I can find my way back to the Jesus y Maria Albergue, although the Cathedral is within blocks. Getting lost is stressful, whereas I was to learn it's part of the exciting adventure for others.
Beds are assigned regardless of age or sex. I am surprised to find my top bunk surrounded by a large number of young Koreans. Later I learned that by the end of last year, 2011, Paulo Coelho’s book “The Alchemist” had been translated into 71 languages. The Brazilian writer also authored, “The Pilgrimage,” and is often credited with introducing the Camino and its spread of popularity among Asians.
Before striking out I make certain I can find my way back to the Jesus y Maria Albergue, although the Cathedral is within blocks. Getting lost is stressful, whereas I was to learn it's part of the exciting adventure for others.
Above are among the many stained glass windows, tombs and statues.
I spend several hours at the Cathedral and could have spent several more days there reading, studying and photographing. The richness of the interior - including the elaborately carved tombs - the alabaster mausoleums of King Carlos III El Noble and his wife, Queen Leonora - do not match the plain Greco-Roman exterior. I appreciate my digital camera since I later deleted half of my mundane photos, although one of my favorites is of the stone arches and the gracious and intricate work of the cloisters.
When in Pamplona
A lifetime ago, before I met my husband of twenty-nine years, I visited Pamplona with a crazy man I dated for four years, and who ran with the bulls here in early July, 1977 during its world-famous festival of San Fermin. The word feria originated to mean the day or days when slaves are not obligated to work. In Pamplona the festival takes place July 6th-14th each year. The attire for runners is white shirt and trousers, red scarf and sash. There were cries from the spectators, myself included, as over 30 were injured and a 17-year old local boy died that morning in 1977, as he and other runners jammed the narrow passage into the bull ring causing a pile up of bodies. Although there are some years when there are no deaths.
Had I studied the pilgrim’s guidebook more carefully, I would have learned that I was within a few blocks of the Plaza de Toros where long ago I stood high in the arena seats nervously taking photos at my friend's request as he ran into the bull ring. Today I'm simply a pilgrim and not tempted to retrace my steps from long ago, nor visit the shops that sold “bull” paraphernalia.
Now the main square looks different, without the throngs of drunks, from long ago where I found a red beret made by Boinas Elosegui, Tolosa. At that time I was sandwiched in the crowd and could only sway with the thousand or so in the street until I was able to inch my way out from the middle. Now I realize I suffer a bit from claustrophobia and have tried to avoid large crowds ever since. (Update: however I did go to Rio for Carnevale in 2015.)
I also have no desire to be in Santiago de Compostela when St. James day, July 25 falling on a Sunday, is considered a 'Holy Year' and the Camino is swarming with more pilgrims and visitors then usual. The next time that occurs will be in 2020 and I will be 74. But never say never.
In the popular square in Pamplona I'm too late for the menu de dia that ends around two o’clock and I don't want to wait until seven to eat, so I graze first on dessert. Mango sorbet. Back at the albergue I listen to State of Wonder on my iPhone since I volunteered to be the book club discussion leader a few months later in September.
Later that afternoon I sample the first of many bocadillos made of crusty bread sliced in half lengthwise stuffed with nothing but salty, thinly sliced Iberico ham, which is considered the finest ham in the world having been cured for 12 to 48 months. I was hooked.
Next I find a convenience-type market catering to tourists. I buy a small canister of Pringles - one of the very few American-comfort-junk foods I consume on my journey.
When in Pamplona
A lifetime ago, before I met my husband of twenty-nine years, I visited Pamplona with a crazy man I dated for four years, and who ran with the bulls here in early July, 1977 during its world-famous festival of San Fermin. The word feria originated to mean the day or days when slaves are not obligated to work. In Pamplona the festival takes place July 6th-14th each year. The attire for runners is white shirt and trousers, red scarf and sash. There were cries from the spectators, myself included, as over 30 were injured and a 17-year old local boy died that morning in 1977, as he and other runners jammed the narrow passage into the bull ring causing a pile up of bodies. Although there are some years when there are no deaths.
Had I studied the pilgrim’s guidebook more carefully, I would have learned that I was within a few blocks of the Plaza de Toros where long ago I stood high in the arena seats nervously taking photos at my friend's request as he ran into the bull ring. Today I'm simply a pilgrim and not tempted to retrace my steps from long ago, nor visit the shops that sold “bull” paraphernalia.
Now the main square looks different, without the throngs of drunks, from long ago where I found a red beret made by Boinas Elosegui, Tolosa. At that time I was sandwiched in the crowd and could only sway with the thousand or so in the street until I was able to inch my way out from the middle. Now I realize I suffer a bit from claustrophobia and have tried to avoid large crowds ever since. (Update: however I did go to Rio for Carnevale in 2015.)
I also have no desire to be in Santiago de Compostela when St. James day, July 25 falling on a Sunday, is considered a 'Holy Year' and the Camino is swarming with more pilgrims and visitors then usual. The next time that occurs will be in 2020 and I will be 74. But never say never.
In the popular square in Pamplona I'm too late for the menu de dia that ends around two o’clock and I don't want to wait until seven to eat, so I graze first on dessert. Mango sorbet. Back at the albergue I listen to State of Wonder on my iPhone since I volunteered to be the book club discussion leader a few months later in September.
Later that afternoon I sample the first of many bocadillos made of crusty bread sliced in half lengthwise stuffed with nothing but salty, thinly sliced Iberico ham, which is considered the finest ham in the world having been cured for 12 to 48 months. I was hooked.
Next I find a convenience-type market catering to tourists. I buy a small canister of Pringles - one of the very few American-comfort-junk foods I consume on my journey.
One of the many restaurants where Hemingway must have hung out, including the Iruna at Plaza del Castillo, is around the corner. Other well-known Americans, Orson Welles and Darryl Zanuck, were also aficionados of the bull fight. I stroll to another square with playground equipment and watch parents leading their everyday normal life while pushing their young children on swing sets.
This ends a restful and uneventful day that I've spent in quiet reflection. Now I'm back to being grounded and up mentally and physically to what the 'morrow holds in store.
This ends a restful and uneventful day that I've spent in quiet reflection. Now I'm back to being grounded and up mentally and physically to what the 'morrow holds in store.