May 19: Pamplona - Puente la Reina
Walk On
Permission to use lyrics: Juan Jose Aguirre www.juanjoseaguirre.com
Walk on through the stormy night
Stand tall through the bitter lightening
Rise up in the morning light
And sing your song
Hold on through the blowing wind
No day has a perfect ending
Reach out when you need a friend
You gotta stand strong
And walk on
Bad days have come your way
The tears stream down your face
You're overwhelmed with a worried mind
But failure has no shame
You learn to run again
Can't top a mountain without a fight
You gotta past through the river
And you won't be swept away
You gotta walk through the fire
And you won't be set ablaze
You gotta pass through the waters
While others lose their way.
Refrain
Walk On
Permission to use lyrics: Juan Jose Aguirre www.juanjoseaguirre.com
Walk on through the stormy night
Stand tall through the bitter lightening
Rise up in the morning light
And sing your song
Hold on through the blowing wind
No day has a perfect ending
Reach out when you need a friend
You gotta stand strong
And walk on
Bad days have come your way
The tears stream down your face
You're overwhelmed with a worried mind
But failure has no shame
You learn to run again
Can't top a mountain without a fight
You gotta past through the river
And you won't be swept away
You gotta walk through the fire
And you won't be set ablaze
You gotta pass through the waters
While others lose their way.
Refrain
Pamplona to Puente la Reina -
Today offers a fresh start after a couple of difficult days due to one sore foot, high winds and general doubting my ability, mission and goals.
The routine of stuffing the backpack the night before, to get an early morning start on the Camino, works well for me. Since I walk slower, those pilgrims waking an hour later will easily pass me by within a few hours.
Feet, don't fail me now -
It’s still dark at 6:45 a.m. Leaving the albergue I'm turned around, which I continue to do in the large cities along the Camino. Even though I walked to Pamplona from the bus station I don’t know if the yellow arrows are leading from the albergue into town, or out of town. After all, parade routes seldom say "start here".
In doubt, I pause for a few minutes. Along comes Roberto, a pilgrim from Italy, and together we find our way asking directions how to get through the parque. Past the university campus, and across the stone bridge over the river, Roberto becomes chatty and says he was born in, and still lives in one of the exquisite villages surrounding Lake Como. It's one of the top ten best places in the world to shop. He suggests I add this heavenly spot to my bucket list… or something like that in his broken English.
The Italian identifies himself as a pensioner. That’s European speak for retired. Roberto was formerly in the textile business, and provided fabrics to the House of Balenciaga. I know enough about haute couture to be impressed with this unlikely name dropper. Eighty (80) percent of Europe's silk comes from his corner of paradise. He tries teaching me Italian. I’m a terrible language student.
On the outskirts of Pamplona an organized group stops for readings at various points followed by praying the Our Father. This group from Germany was led by a priest who, I learn, does this every year.
At the time I didnt realize the next town of Cizur Menor - obviously affluent - will be in sharp contrast to the many ancient and humble villages beyond. This is well-trod land. Moorish armies crossed the Mediterranean Sea (probably from Damascus) into Spain in 711 where they destroyed the Visigothic Kingdom before crossing the Pyrenees into central Gaul (France). My world history lessons are lacking so I research to learn that Visigoths were Germanic nomad tribes who sacked Rome in 410 A.D. and settled in Spain and Portugal.
This is the same ground where Christians, in Charlemange’s era, conquered the Muslims in the 8th Century. Rulers pushed back the Muslims invading Spain to protect pilgrims. It's difficult to comprehend as ahead I see pilgrims safely snaking through tall grass following ancient footsteps heading for the tomb of St. James now for 800 years.
The area has few trees, and little shade, as I face a steep climb ahead with an additional elevation of about 340 meters. In the distance is another horizon of mountain ranges and a skyline of the first of many wind turbines, which seems an oddity and somewhat incongruent along this ancient path.
Today offers a fresh start after a couple of difficult days due to one sore foot, high winds and general doubting my ability, mission and goals.
The routine of stuffing the backpack the night before, to get an early morning start on the Camino, works well for me. Since I walk slower, those pilgrims waking an hour later will easily pass me by within a few hours.
Feet, don't fail me now -
It’s still dark at 6:45 a.m. Leaving the albergue I'm turned around, which I continue to do in the large cities along the Camino. Even though I walked to Pamplona from the bus station I don’t know if the yellow arrows are leading from the albergue into town, or out of town. After all, parade routes seldom say "start here".
In doubt, I pause for a few minutes. Along comes Roberto, a pilgrim from Italy, and together we find our way asking directions how to get through the parque. Past the university campus, and across the stone bridge over the river, Roberto becomes chatty and says he was born in, and still lives in one of the exquisite villages surrounding Lake Como. It's one of the top ten best places in the world to shop. He suggests I add this heavenly spot to my bucket list… or something like that in his broken English.
The Italian identifies himself as a pensioner. That’s European speak for retired. Roberto was formerly in the textile business, and provided fabrics to the House of Balenciaga. I know enough about haute couture to be impressed with this unlikely name dropper. Eighty (80) percent of Europe's silk comes from his corner of paradise. He tries teaching me Italian. I’m a terrible language student.
On the outskirts of Pamplona an organized group stops for readings at various points followed by praying the Our Father. This group from Germany was led by a priest who, I learn, does this every year.
At the time I didnt realize the next town of Cizur Menor - obviously affluent - will be in sharp contrast to the many ancient and humble villages beyond. This is well-trod land. Moorish armies crossed the Mediterranean Sea (probably from Damascus) into Spain in 711 where they destroyed the Visigothic Kingdom before crossing the Pyrenees into central Gaul (France). My world history lessons are lacking so I research to learn that Visigoths were Germanic nomad tribes who sacked Rome in 410 A.D. and settled in Spain and Portugal.
This is the same ground where Christians, in Charlemange’s era, conquered the Muslims in the 8th Century. Rulers pushed back the Muslims invading Spain to protect pilgrims. It's difficult to comprehend as ahead I see pilgrims safely snaking through tall grass following ancient footsteps heading for the tomb of St. James now for 800 years.
The area has few trees, and little shade, as I face a steep climb ahead with an additional elevation of about 340 meters. In the distance is another horizon of mountain ranges and a skyline of the first of many wind turbines, which seems an oddity and somewhat incongruent along this ancient path.
Tall grasses ahead are tromped down so as to not obscure the painted yellow arrows, or blue backgrounds with yellow ribs of a scallop shell. Otherwise, we pilgrims would surely lose our way.
Climbing higher I reach Alto del Perdon where over-sized wrought iron cutouts of medieval pilgrims appear to fight against the wind. I fit right in and lean forward demonstrating my own fight with el windo.
On the steep trail downhill I’m careful to watch my step. I remember my angel from the first day and I don’t need a twisted ankle to go along with my other malady. Traipsing downhill from the Hill of Pardon requires careful footing as the path is littered with large, loose stones. The brush becomes thicker upon reaching Zariquiegui - a village so small I can’t find a place to purchase food.
It's difficult to not eavesdrop on the Camino since I'm alone....except for all of my thoughts...mostly good. I overhear two college-age boys. I wonder why these two Asians are speaking English. Later it occurs to me perhaps one is Korean, and the other Japanese, and English is their mutual second or third spoken language.
One asks why the other is on the Camino. I can tell it's difficult as the young man stumbles to find the correct words to express love for his mother - and to forgive his father for his alcoholism, which brought on a divorce and broke up the family. Perhaps the struggle is not with the words, but instead with holding down the emotion the Camino seems to bring on for not only me.
In the days ahead there will be more painful stories from fellow pilgrims, although many choose not to disclose their reason for walking the Way of St. James. I later learn asking the question of fellow pilgrims is off limits. I'm still looking for my own deeper reason on this sacred pilgrimage. What could it be? Pay a debt? Ask a favor? Give thanks? Seek the More that life offers and promises to hold in store? Allow the Holy Spirit to indwell and guide? Understand the 'holy longing'? Sit quietly and process without distraction? Experience the present?
In Joseph Campbell's "Power of Myth" we learn the need to tell and understand our story. To cope and understand death. We need for life to signify, to touch the eternal, to understand the mysterious, to find out who we are.
Heading toward Puente la Reina the uneven path is filled with large stones that can easily cause an ankle to twist. I’m glad not to have on sandals.
Why did I think I wanted to make this pilgrimage into a silent retreat? Everyone else seems to have a walking partner. I miss the camaraderie, but the solitude, and time for reflection, is the experience I am after. Aloneness allows an inward journey and perhaps prepares for a spiritual transformation. It is written there is nothing in the world that resembles God so much as silence.
It's difficult to not eavesdrop on the Camino since I'm alone....except for all of my thoughts...mostly good. I overhear two college-age boys. I wonder why these two Asians are speaking English. Later it occurs to me perhaps one is Korean, and the other Japanese, and English is their mutual second or third spoken language.
One asks why the other is on the Camino. I can tell it's difficult as the young man stumbles to find the correct words to express love for his mother - and to forgive his father for his alcoholism, which brought on a divorce and broke up the family. Perhaps the struggle is not with the words, but instead with holding down the emotion the Camino seems to bring on for not only me.
In the days ahead there will be more painful stories from fellow pilgrims, although many choose not to disclose their reason for walking the Way of St. James. I later learn asking the question of fellow pilgrims is off limits. I'm still looking for my own deeper reason on this sacred pilgrimage. What could it be? Pay a debt? Ask a favor? Give thanks? Seek the More that life offers and promises to hold in store? Allow the Holy Spirit to indwell and guide? Understand the 'holy longing'? Sit quietly and process without distraction? Experience the present?
In Joseph Campbell's "Power of Myth" we learn the need to tell and understand our story. To cope and understand death. We need for life to signify, to touch the eternal, to understand the mysterious, to find out who we are.
Heading toward Puente la Reina the uneven path is filled with large stones that can easily cause an ankle to twist. I’m glad not to have on sandals.
Why did I think I wanted to make this pilgrimage into a silent retreat? Everyone else seems to have a walking partner. I miss the camaraderie, but the solitude, and time for reflection, is the experience I am after. Aloneness allows an inward journey and perhaps prepares for a spiritual transformation. It is written there is nothing in the world that resembles God so much as silence.
Another angel on the Camino
Long before we reach our next stop a group of six or so pilgrims are huddled under a tree for shelter from the heavy rain. I stop and prepare to walk in the slosh as the skies open up. I pull out the waterproof rain pants safely tucked into a waterproof sack attached to my not-so-waterproof backpack. One less thing swinging to and fro. I pull the rain pants over my muddy boots. Later, I wonder how the inside got so filthy. A kind man (another angel) sees me struggling to pull on a poncho, which is needed as my backpack cover will not fit since I have these pesky dangling sandals. Now I look like the rest. A hunchback slogging along. The tree provides little shelter from the downpour. We follow each other from under the tree into the river of rain running over the road.
Long before we reach our next stop a group of six or so pilgrims are huddled under a tree for shelter from the heavy rain. I stop and prepare to walk in the slosh as the skies open up. I pull out the waterproof rain pants safely tucked into a waterproof sack attached to my not-so-waterproof backpack. One less thing swinging to and fro. I pull the rain pants over my muddy boots. Later, I wonder how the inside got so filthy. A kind man (another angel) sees me struggling to pull on a poncho, which is needed as my backpack cover will not fit since I have these pesky dangling sandals. Now I look like the rest. A hunchback slogging along. The tree provides little shelter from the downpour. We follow each other from under the tree into the river of rain running over the road.
Senora, we have your top bunk ready for you -
We approach the outskirts of Puente la Reina (Queens Bridge). I’m ready to stop at the first albergue. Jakue it is. Ahead several other pilgrims have the same idea. I stand in line, in a lean-to, to pay for my bed and try to stay out of the rain. I’m asked if I would like to purchase a ticket for the Pilgrim’s Meal that night. 11.5 Euros. That sounds like a lot of money since I'm in pilgrim mode. I ask if I can let her know later. Yes, of course she says graciously to this indecisive pilgrim.
I'm assigned the top bunk – lucky me – in a room with three men. Actually, it was one very large room sectioned off. The screens make it seem like we were in cubicles when in fact, another pilgrim’s bed is smack next to mine and we will be sleeping nose-to-nose divided only by a floor-to-ceiling thin, bamboo screen.
I know the routine. Boots are to be left outside. I do so. Later I see others have brought in their boots. I go back and collect mine. The overhang didn’t protect them. They are wetter than ever.
Repeatedly I try the Internet but the signal is down. That’s an annoyance I will encounter more often than not in the days ahead. I try to nap, but the fellow below me is snoring up a storm. I gingerly climb down from the top bunk, and try to avoid stepping on his outstretched leg or arm, as I place my swollen foot on a rickety chair and hope it doesn’t topple over.
An enticing aroma wafts from the communal kitchen in the basement where I use the clothes dryer. This is the first I’ve been in contact with the Asian groups who stir up the most elegant meals out of vegetables, poached eggs and seasonings. I'm tempted to ask if I can provide something and join them. I don’t know if they would have understood me. I never saw anyone from outside the Asian culture join in.
Interestingly, this albergue is in the basement of Hotel Jakue, a 3-star hotel. Adjoining is El Pergrino: a 4-star hotel, coincidentally where Gale Reich, my new friend from Tucson stayed probably just a few days behind me. I check out the restaurant. It’s the same for the fancy hotels. I go back outside in the drizzling rain to the lean-to and buy a meal ticket from the young woman still out there braving the chill.
A few hours later I discover the meal is a full buffet. What a feast! Hot foods. Two soups. Veggies of all sorts. Salad bar. Grilled shrimp. Trout. The ever-present French fries. Crusty bread. And a bottle of local wine all to myself, Pays de Obanos, which I tried my best to finish. I notice something interesting about drinking wine in Europe. I never feel intoxicated and never have a headache the next day.
Then there is dessert: flan, cakes, ice cream, yogurt and fruit. I resist and take only an orange for my breakfast while walking the next day. Always having an orange ready in my backpack turns into a lovely habit that suits me, since I'm uncomfortable walking on a full stomach.
The experience at this dining hall spoils me so early into the pilgrimage. The chairs are covered with washable, ivory-colored slipcovers. How civilized. Tables of various sizes invite open seating. I take a seat at a table for six thinking someone will join me. Nobody does. Seeing other pilgrimage seated together I feel alone. I should pick up my plate and move to another table. Well, I don't feel that alone... yet. I must remember the Lord gives you what you ask for.
I observe a hefty couple going back for seconds. Thirds. Fourths. I wonder how they can sleep after eating all that food? They don’t look the part of the typical physically-fit pilgrim. "There is nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so," according to Shakespeare. I may judge someone as weak-willed, but I must remember we never know what’s going on in the life of another. "Judge not lest ye be judged."
I'm not the least concerned about anything I eat along the way, but then the pilgrims meals with set price, have always be abundant, nutritious and satisfying. I arrived home having lost at least seven pounds. Most likely I would have lost 15 pounds had I not properly fueled my body. A fellow pilgrimage told me his friend lost 35 pounds on her Camino last year. But then she was on a strict diet.
We approach the outskirts of Puente la Reina (Queens Bridge). I’m ready to stop at the first albergue. Jakue it is. Ahead several other pilgrims have the same idea. I stand in line, in a lean-to, to pay for my bed and try to stay out of the rain. I’m asked if I would like to purchase a ticket for the Pilgrim’s Meal that night. 11.5 Euros. That sounds like a lot of money since I'm in pilgrim mode. I ask if I can let her know later. Yes, of course she says graciously to this indecisive pilgrim.
I'm assigned the top bunk – lucky me – in a room with three men. Actually, it was one very large room sectioned off. The screens make it seem like we were in cubicles when in fact, another pilgrim’s bed is smack next to mine and we will be sleeping nose-to-nose divided only by a floor-to-ceiling thin, bamboo screen.
I know the routine. Boots are to be left outside. I do so. Later I see others have brought in their boots. I go back and collect mine. The overhang didn’t protect them. They are wetter than ever.
Repeatedly I try the Internet but the signal is down. That’s an annoyance I will encounter more often than not in the days ahead. I try to nap, but the fellow below me is snoring up a storm. I gingerly climb down from the top bunk, and try to avoid stepping on his outstretched leg or arm, as I place my swollen foot on a rickety chair and hope it doesn’t topple over.
An enticing aroma wafts from the communal kitchen in the basement where I use the clothes dryer. This is the first I’ve been in contact with the Asian groups who stir up the most elegant meals out of vegetables, poached eggs and seasonings. I'm tempted to ask if I can provide something and join them. I don’t know if they would have understood me. I never saw anyone from outside the Asian culture join in.
Interestingly, this albergue is in the basement of Hotel Jakue, a 3-star hotel. Adjoining is El Pergrino: a 4-star hotel, coincidentally where Gale Reich, my new friend from Tucson stayed probably just a few days behind me. I check out the restaurant. It’s the same for the fancy hotels. I go back outside in the drizzling rain to the lean-to and buy a meal ticket from the young woman still out there braving the chill.
A few hours later I discover the meal is a full buffet. What a feast! Hot foods. Two soups. Veggies of all sorts. Salad bar. Grilled shrimp. Trout. The ever-present French fries. Crusty bread. And a bottle of local wine all to myself, Pays de Obanos, which I tried my best to finish. I notice something interesting about drinking wine in Europe. I never feel intoxicated and never have a headache the next day.
Then there is dessert: flan, cakes, ice cream, yogurt and fruit. I resist and take only an orange for my breakfast while walking the next day. Always having an orange ready in my backpack turns into a lovely habit that suits me, since I'm uncomfortable walking on a full stomach.
The experience at this dining hall spoils me so early into the pilgrimage. The chairs are covered with washable, ivory-colored slipcovers. How civilized. Tables of various sizes invite open seating. I take a seat at a table for six thinking someone will join me. Nobody does. Seeing other pilgrimage seated together I feel alone. I should pick up my plate and move to another table. Well, I don't feel that alone... yet. I must remember the Lord gives you what you ask for.
I observe a hefty couple going back for seconds. Thirds. Fourths. I wonder how they can sleep after eating all that food? They don’t look the part of the typical physically-fit pilgrim. "There is nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so," according to Shakespeare. I may judge someone as weak-willed, but I must remember we never know what’s going on in the life of another. "Judge not lest ye be judged."
I'm not the least concerned about anything I eat along the way, but then the pilgrims meals with set price, have always be abundant, nutritious and satisfying. I arrived home having lost at least seven pounds. Most likely I would have lost 15 pounds had I not properly fueled my body. A fellow pilgrimage told me his friend lost 35 pounds on her Camino last year. But then she was on a strict diet.