THIS SHOULD BE THE THIRD POSTING.....
Ah, Paris in the springtime
I decided to stay overnight in the city of lights. The Seine, lovely cafes, historic streets and places, strolling lovers... Yes; there is that;
But I spent a leisurely afternoon in the baggage receiving area of British Airways at Charles de Gaulle. And I am spending the night in a cozy modern hotel overlooking a construction site not far fro, the airport.
Yes; BA completely lost my pack. They are not sure if it even got to Heathrow; though it did get out of New York. Since I do not have a cell phone or a place of residence, they cannot forward the bag ("on the Chemin de St Jacques" is not adequate). I cannot start a claim until 24 hrs after arrival and I will probably have to send in a claim to customer service in NYC. So it looks like if the pack is not found, I am out some 1000 to 1500 dollars in replacement costs.
Even my jacket was in the pack, along with toothbrush, clothing; camera, sleeping bag and my walking sandals. I do not think I will get a penny from the office here. While the thought of a Parisian shopping spree does have some appeal, it would also mean a trip into Paris, finding an outfitting store as well as a camera shop, and get to Gare de Lyon. The only silver lining is that I remember this really neat bookstore near the Bastille that had some nice postcards.
NOTE: EXPECT TYPOS; THEE FRENCH KEYBOARD IS DISTINCTLY DIFFERENT.
ESPECIALLY POSITION OF A,Q, W, M, and all the punctuation marks.
So I will have a dismal dinner in the Ibis Hotel tonight and dream of rabbit at my favorite restaurant, Monsieur Lapin in Monteparnasse.
Hopefully, all of this will be resolved tomorrow morning one way or another. I will try not to shout out the F word like I did this morning (when they could find no trace of my bag). Maybe a simple merde will do.
Well it could always be worse; though I am not sure how baring cataclysm.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
LE PUY TO AUBRAC: I HEART THE FRENCH
THIS SHOULD BE THE FOURTH POSTING. READ HOUSTON FIRST......
Well obviously the whole business with my luggage got cleared up. I got the bag Friday morn. Will spare you my travails in the Hotel Ibis !!!!!!!Though I did not get the l'eggs du frogge that I so wanted I had some passable duckling with some wonderful fried potatoes--here for 5 days and still have not had any freedom fries.
Got metro to Gare du Lyon, a wonderful comfortable bullet train to st etienneand a local to Le Puy on Friday without trouble. Delightful countryside: Le Puy is fabulous: I found and got into the gite d'etape (these are the places I will be staying. They are kinda of a step below hostals and a step above massive dormitories. In Spain they are called alburgues and resemble rooms you would see in B movies like WOMEN FROM CELL BLOCK D) I soon realized that my nonexistent French was going to problematic. Still did not make too many fo pahs; Walked around the old part of city and did cathedral: Then dinner: jambon crue; spiced pork sausage with local green lentils; 3 kinds of local cheese and some very strange but nice gelato. That was wonderful and would serve as a nice intro to the wonders of French food and cooking.
Slept well and got up early at 6:30 expecting lots of pilgrims to also be getting up for the 7 am mass and pilgrim benediction. NO ONE STIRRING. I trotted off to the cathedral and found it open with only one congregant. I sat and waited. At 7 the other guy turned on a light and went back to the vestry or somewhere: I was thinking that this was going to be interesting. A mass for only ME, in French no less. I was bound to get a lot of indulgences for that.
No one showed up: I left about 7:15. (Turns out they don't do 7am service and benediction as advertised until later in the season but were blessing everyone after the 9am service.) Still no one up at the gite. I packed up, had a few cups of nescafe AND WAS OFF ON MY PILGRIMAGE.....
I realized outside though that I didn't get my stamp for my credencial. I needed this to prove I had started in Le Puy. For some reason this was very important to me. So I went back to the cathedral and found the sacristy which was closed. In the church a woman was lighting candles but soon went to the aisle and put on a back pack. I went up to her and asked if she could speak English and she replied in the affirmative and we have been together ever since. We even sleep together (you know what I mean, of course.) This is Anne Marie who gets her own chapter:
Here is some info on Le Puy's significance that I downloaded earlier and hence why this entry is before HOUSTON and my travails at the airport.
Well obviously the whole business with my luggage got cleared up. I got the bag Friday morn. Will spare you my travails in the Hotel Ibis !!!!!!!Though I did not get the l'eggs du frogge that I so wanted I had some passable duckling with some wonderful fried potatoes--here for 5 days and still have not had any freedom fries.
Got metro to Gare du Lyon, a wonderful comfortable bullet train to st etienneand a local to Le Puy on Friday without trouble. Delightful countryside: Le Puy is fabulous: I found and got into the gite d'etape (these are the places I will be staying. They are kinda of a step below hostals and a step above massive dormitories. In Spain they are called alburgues and resemble rooms you would see in B movies like WOMEN FROM CELL BLOCK D) I soon realized that my nonexistent French was going to problematic. Still did not make too many fo pahs; Walked around the old part of city and did cathedral: Then dinner: jambon crue; spiced pork sausage with local green lentils; 3 kinds of local cheese and some very strange but nice gelato. That was wonderful and would serve as a nice intro to the wonders of French food and cooking.
Slept well and got up early at 6:30 expecting lots of pilgrims to also be getting up for the 7 am mass and pilgrim benediction. NO ONE STIRRING. I trotted off to the cathedral and found it open with only one congregant. I sat and waited. At 7 the other guy turned on a light and went back to the vestry or somewhere: I was thinking that this was going to be interesting. A mass for only ME, in French no less. I was bound to get a lot of indulgences for that.
No one showed up: I left about 7:15. (Turns out they don't do 7am service and benediction as advertised until later in the season but were blessing everyone after the 9am service.) Still no one up at the gite. I packed up, had a few cups of nescafe AND WAS OFF ON MY PILGRIMAGE.....
I realized outside though that I didn't get my stamp for my credencial. I needed this to prove I had started in Le Puy. For some reason this was very important to me. So I went back to the cathedral and found the sacristy which was closed. In the church a woman was lighting candles but soon went to the aisle and put on a back pack. I went up to her and asked if she could speak English and she replied in the affirmative and we have been together ever since. We even sleep together (you know what I mean, of course.) This is Anne Marie who gets her own chapter:
Here is some info on Le Puy's significance that I downloaded earlier and hence why this entry is before HOUSTON and my travails at the airport.
Sometime between the 3rd and 4th centuries AD, a local woman suffering from an incurable disease had visions of Mary. In her visions she received instructions to climb Mt. Corneille, where she would be cured by the simple act of sitting on the great stone. Following this advice, the woman was miraculously cured of her ailment. Appearing to the woman a second time, Mary gave instructions that the local bishop should be contacted and told to build a church on the hill. According to legend, when the bishop climbed the hill, he found the ground covered in deep snow even though it was the middle of July. A lone deer walked through the snow, tracing the ground plan of the cathedral that was to be built.
The statue of Our Lady of Le Puy and the other treasures escaped the pillage of the Middle Ages. The roving banditti were victoriously dispersed, in 1180, by the Confraternity of the Chaperons (Hooded Cloaks) founded at the suggestion of a canon of Le Puy. In 1562 and 1563 Le Puy was successfully defended against the Huguenots by priests and religious armed with cuirasses and arquebusses. But in 1793 the statue was torn from its shrine and burned in the public square. Père de Ravignan, in 1846, and the Abbé Combalot, in 1850, were inspired with the idea of a great monument to the Blessed Virgin on the Rocher Corneille. Napoleon III placed at the disposal of Bishop Morlhon 213 pieces of artillery taken by Pélissier at Sebastopol, and the colossal statue of "Notre-Dame de France" cast from the iron of these guns, amounting in weight to 150,000 kilogrammes, or more than 330,000 lbs. avoirdupois, was dedicated 12 September, 1860.
Known for tanning, lace and green lentils.
Here is a link to some photos of the famous chapel of St Michael that was unfortunately closed.
http://travel.webshots.com/album/555486616UmdXFP?start=12
Well, the route is fantastic. We do about 12-15 miles a day through lovely farm land. It is very mountainous. We pass a little village with a handful of houses ever 2 miles or so. The houses are large, rectangular stone affairs similar to what a child draws as a typical house. Simply lovely; The villages hang off these volcanic cliffs over verdant countryside.
The weather is still chilly though we got some sun today. Snow flurries on Saturday and drizzle on Sunday and wind yesterday. But not too arduous. Mud at a minimum, but that can change.
I think we left the remaining snow drifts behind by now.
Last night we stayed in a governmental gide that was located on a working farm in the middle of nowhere. It was incredible--the "height" of luxury, gite style, for 10 euros. We bought eggs and potatoes from the farm for dinner and raided their larder for wine and butter. Mmmmmm.
Stunning small Romanesque chapels and churches all over. I have seen about 2-3 a day. I have to go back and shower and help with communal meal.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
To MP3 or Not to MP3, That is the Question
Departure day draws near. Most of the planning and even packing are done. I got my pilgrim passport/credential in the mail yesterday from the American Pilgrims of the Camino. I am thankful that they responded so quickly to my query of only last week. But their passport is a plain little affair.
Even went to Paragon for some last minute purchases: Body Glide for possible chafing, polypro cushioned socks and some lightweight hiking sandals. I toyed with buying a new pack. For the past 6 months I have lusted for the Osprey Athos 50 which has a frame that bows away from the back and supposedly cuts down on sweat by 40%. At 200 bucks, it would not be an outlandish purchase--but they did not have a black one in my size. And I was not about to buy a red or electric blue one.
I checked out the running gear out of habit and found out that NIKE not only has brought back their smoke gray and orange running clothes but that Paragon had stock of all manner of shorts, singlets, tees both long and short sleeves and lounge wear. I could have dropped another few hundred and really created a splash on the trail. But common sense (and knowing I am out of work for another 4 months at least) prevailed.
I woke up this morning at 4:30 and was desultorily going through the NY Times Book Review when I finally decided not to take my MP3 player with me on the trip. I spent another 5 minutes in an internal debate on whether or not to do the Frederick thing (he is the French craps dealer who I met last year who travelled with a sheaf of printed songs which he would pull out in moments of relaxation). But that just did not seem very practical either--I mean, how could I limit it to fewer than the 2500 songs I have on my MP3. And I would miss all the Spanish, Portuguese, Italian and Turkish songs anyway. And I still can't carry a tune anyway.
So with time on my hands I started surfing and came up with some disturbing info on Le Puy and the Auvergne region of France. Seems like it is pretty rural and with pretty steep terrain. I read an account of two pilgrims who started in the beginning of May who had rain and snow. They reported 12 days of rain in their first 14 days. And pretty slim pickings on restaurants and lodging.
Though I knew that the way is very steeply hilly, I was sort of envisioning using sunscreen more than than my poncho. Spring flowers and migrating birds were to be the highlights, not deprivation. And it seems like there is very little internet access along the way. So I will not be able to bitch and complain about it here on a daily basis.
I am still holding out for liberal amounts of regional French delicacies, languid walks through rural France, and intruiging companions. We shall see. But maybe gaiters would not be a bad, last minute purchase.
Oh, by the way, there is a comment section in this. You all can add your two cents worth too.
Even went to Paragon for some last minute purchases: Body Glide for possible chafing, polypro cushioned socks and some lightweight hiking sandals. I toyed with buying a new pack. For the past 6 months I have lusted for the Osprey Athos 50 which has a frame that bows away from the back and supposedly cuts down on sweat by 40%. At 200 bucks, it would not be an outlandish purchase--but they did not have a black one in my size. And I was not about to buy a red or electric blue one.
I checked out the running gear out of habit and found out that NIKE not only has brought back their smoke gray and orange running clothes but that Paragon had stock of all manner of shorts, singlets, tees both long and short sleeves and lounge wear. I could have dropped another few hundred and really created a splash on the trail. But common sense (and knowing I am out of work for another 4 months at least) prevailed.
I woke up this morning at 4:30 and was desultorily going through the NY Times Book Review when I finally decided not to take my MP3 player with me on the trip. I spent another 5 minutes in an internal debate on whether or not to do the Frederick thing (he is the French craps dealer who I met last year who travelled with a sheaf of printed songs which he would pull out in moments of relaxation). But that just did not seem very practical either--I mean, how could I limit it to fewer than the 2500 songs I have on my MP3. And I would miss all the Spanish, Portuguese, Italian and Turkish songs anyway. And I still can't carry a tune anyway.
So with time on my hands I started surfing and came up with some disturbing info on Le Puy and the Auvergne region of France. Seems like it is pretty rural and with pretty steep terrain. I read an account of two pilgrims who started in the beginning of May who had rain and snow. They reported 12 days of rain in their first 14 days. And pretty slim pickings on restaurants and lodging.
Though I knew that the way is very steeply hilly, I was sort of envisioning using sunscreen more than than my poncho. Spring flowers and migrating birds were to be the highlights, not deprivation. And it seems like there is very little internet access along the way. So I will not be able to bitch and complain about it here on a daily basis.
I am still holding out for liberal amounts of regional French delicacies, languid walks through rural France, and intruiging companions. We shall see. But maybe gaiters would not be a bad, last minute purchase.
Oh, by the way, there is a comment section in this. You all can add your two cents worth too.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Background Information
Here is some background information from my journal of last years trip. It should explain some stuff.
A pilgrim you ask? How did this come about? I am not so sure of its genesis. I clearly remember studying the children’s crusade in sixth grade and poring over an illustration in a history text that featured a long haired knight on a mighty steed. That certainly stirred some sort of pubescent longing that may not have been purely religious. My quite vivid memory had the knight surrounded by a bunch of ragamuffin children. He was a sort of amalgam of those very lordly men featured in the recent LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy—so surely other forces were at work in my current quest.
Our nun/teacher at the time truthfully pointed out that few if any of those children made it to their heroic destination. Rather most perished ignominiously in Europe. But she left us with the impression that it was a valiant enterprise nonetheless. Since I would also have learned about medieval pilgrimages around the same time, I think I may have conflated the two in my imagination. Walking barefoot for months on end while relying on the kindness of strangers would not have held the same allure as following an intrepid knight into battle, but I think that the seed was planted that at least there was a wider world beyond my little Midwest town.
This little seed was watered and nurtured by one of my first but enduring love affairs in university. That was with medieval architectural history. I learned about itinerant stonemasons, the borrowing and flourishing of building styles around Europe, and even the political and religious background to church building in those years. And I have maintained a long, though faithless, relationship with the Roman Catholic Church that mainly entailed looking at lots of churches in my travels. And there were lots and lots of those along the way I would be going.
There were many ways to do a pilgrimage, essentially a trip for religious purposes. Rome, the Holy Land, and anywhere that the Virgin Mary has made appearances were popular destinations. But ever since the 10th century, untold thousands of people have made Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain their target. The route was generally known as El Camino, Spanish for “the road” or “the way.” And that was where I was headed.
The theological underpinnings of this rested on the fact that Santiago was Spanish for St. James. According the New Testament and augmented by many a legend, before he was crucified Jesus instructed the original apostles to spread the gospel throughout the known world and assigned them different locales. St. James headed off to the Iberian Peninsula. Though he had an ultimately rather unfruitful mission, converting only a few while performing some miracles, he did establish a foothold for Christianity.
He returned to the Holy Land, was promptly beheaded and so became the first martyred apostle. His friends and colleagues ferried his body off to a ship that may or may not have been manned or even had sails. At any rate, that ship made its way to the shores of Galicia in northwest Spain where his somehow-alerted few disciples took his body and buried it nearby. Thus he became the only apostle to be interred in Western Europe outside of Rome.
His grave remained undisturbed and, it seems, unknown for about 750 years as the dreaded Moors took over the land. Then one day a pious hermit heard music and saw either stars above a field or lights emanating from a cave. (Accounts differed.) He dug around and found some bones and had them authenticated as St. James’s. They were reburied thereabouts and the site became the venerated location known as Compostela (campo = field and stela = star).
But James was not yet finished with his work. He was said to have appeared on a white charger leading the soon-to-be-victorious Christians in a decisive battle against those Moors around 852. So James got the sobriquet of “The Moor Slayer.”
After the infidels were finally expelled, the faithful started to come in great numbers. In painting and sculpture James morphed from warrior to the kindler and gentler pilgrim with staff, dried gourd water jug, woolen cloak and scallop shell on his tri-cornered hat and/or breast.
Poor James still could not rest in peace. There was still a lot of jockeying for power in Spain not unlike the current situation in Afghanistan with the warlords and strife until Ferdinand and Isabella united and Christianized most of Spain. Still Spain continued to be embroiled in many wars at home and abroad. Even Napoleon and his men had a nasty stay.
James’s very valuable bones were spirited away for safe keeping numerous times, always returning to their roost—until the day someone messed up and forget where they were stashed. That still did not deter the pilgrims who kept on coming. In 1878-9 a man excavated some bones (I assume near the cathedral) and went temporarily blind. Pope Leo XIII issued a bull verifying that the bones were St. James’. Now they rested in a silver box in the crypt under the main altar. And anyone could go visit the crypt and the bones.
Now wasn’t that explanation enough to trudge 500miles from southern France to Santiago?
Now, as I said, I expected see a lot of churches and villages on the way. In addition, I wanted to eat a lot of good hearty food, learn a bit more Spanish, meet some interesting people and have some fun and adventure. Furthermore, I fully anticipated augmenting my collection of tacky postcards through the travels.
In far off times, people did the camino for many reasons. They did it hoping for a miracle or a wish to be granted. Criminals were able to do it in lieu of spending time in jail. Sometimes the residents of a village suffering a drought or plague would all chip in and send off a representative to Santiago to petition for relief. A rogue’s gallery was always present and took advantage of those for whom the spirit instead of the purse was paramount. Rich and poor, the fit and the infirm, and the good and bad walked the walk, if not talked the talk. I couldn’t help but conclude that some of them, in those pre-Club Med days, were also thinking, “Wow, this sounds like more fun than staying at home. Let’s just do it.”
Nowadays, a lot of people became pilgrims for more, to me, amorphous reasons having to do with human consciousness and self-fulfillment. My local booksellers had shelf loads of spiritual and inspirational books. A number of them advocated the physical journey of a pilgrimage as a way to reach inner peace. Even Shirley MacLaine walked pretty much the same trip I was planning and wrote about it too.
Whatever the motivation, the ongoing mantra along the way was that everyone had to do his or her own camino. This was whether you were starting in far off Muscovy or nearer to Santiago. Whether young or old, fat or thin. Whether doing it on a shoe string budget or going first class. Whether searching for answers to life’s eternal questions or just for the next party. Fellow pilgrims were to respect and help each other. It was a little bit kindergarten, a little bit summer camp, and a lot of “Wizard of Oz.”
So which route? There were many ways to go—just be able to prove that you walked more than 60 miles or 100km (about double that if going by bicycle) and end up in Santiago. One could even do a pilgrimage in stages over a number of years. All were recognized as “official” pilgrimages for which you could receive the “compostela” or certification of completion in Santiago if you met those two requirements.
There were routes from Portugal, Seville, Madrid, and eastern Spain. Major routes went through France from as far away as Russia. Local historians and pilgrimage buffs were establishing paths in their own countries that hooked up with some of the major European ones. All funneled into the ultimate destination.
Probably the most popular was the Camino Frances which started in St. Jean Pied de Port in southwestern France, went quickly over the Pyrenees, and on through northern Spain via Pamplona, Burgos, and Leon. It was well marked and well traveled. It also had an established system of albergues, or hostels, exclusively for the use of pilgrims. They were inexpensive, clean if a bit primitive, and convenient. All had hot showers. Enough were open year round, though lacking in vigorous heating, to enable one to do the camino in the winter.
In fact, the camino had gotten so popular in recent years that non-summer travel was becoming a preferred option to avoid the heat and crowds. The number of pilgrims who arrived in Santiago had been increasing each year to about 70,000 a year. (Although in Holy Years in which the Feast of St. James on July 25 falls on a Sunday, the number swelled. In 2004 it was almost 180,000. The next Holy Year would be 2010.) Now the majority of these finished in July and August—the yearly distribution pretty much follows a classic Bell curve. And most started somewhere in Galicia and walked considerably less than 800 km or 500 miles I was looking at.
The day-to-day guide I took along was John Brierley’s A PILGRIM’S GUIDE TO THE CAMINO DE SANTIAGO. It was subtitled “A Practical and Mystical Manual for the Modern Day Pilgrim.” He emphasized the need to “dive into the mysteries of our individual soul awakenings, without which all journeying is purposeless.” I liked the book because it was compact, had good maps for the daily walks with elevations, included little photos of the buildings you were trying to locate at the end of the day, was recently updated and tough enough for constant handling.
I had a little problem, though, with the sermonettes in each chapter or leg of the journey. These were labeled The Practical Path and The Mystical Path. The former, while giving helpful information, tended to be repetitious screeds against any kind of modern intrusion on the camino. But we modern day pilgrims insisted on having hot water. And we graciously welcomed washers and driers, central heat, microwaves and internet access. And most of us carried an arsenal of synthetic fabrics and highly engineered footwear and backpacks that made the going much easier. I didn’t think you could have the pleasures of modern conveniences while decrying the infrastructure required to support them.
He railed against any section not along pleasant country roads or paths. But in my opinion he did not sufficiently warn of the hazards of taking off cross country, sometimes up to 10 to 20 miles, in the heat of the day without access to water and much shelter. As my fellow travelers and I found out, a crippling stress-induced injury could come on very suddenly. Even more puzzling were those mystical path sections. They would be paeans to the simple life, nature, or the mystical life of the soul. I may have been a jaded New Yorker for whom irony was still not dead. But I found those little homilies to be rather tendentious, sophomoric, or pointless. But they were easy enough to ignore.
I preferred and relied on THE PILGRIMAGE ROAD TO SANTIAGO by David Gitlitz and Linda Davidson. It was aptly subtitled “The Complete Cultural Handbook Including Art, Architecture, Geology, History, Folklore, Saints’ Lives, Flora and Fauna.” It too was broken up into sections that roughly correspond to the daily hikes. But it was written with knowledge, flair, and—most importantly—humor. I really did read parts of it most every day. It was a thick book but not all that heavy. The pleasure and insights it gave me while on the trail more than made up for its bulk and weight in my backpack.
I chose to begin in St. Jean Pied de Port in southwestern France. I liked the idea—if not the reality—of doing 500 miles (officially 496.1 miles but close enough—and that didn’t include the added mileage of going up and down the many hills). The challenges of the route were appealing—I was relishing the thought that I could casually drop an “I crossed the Pyrenees on foot….” like some modern day Hannibal at some future cocktail party.
I certainly wanted to go to Pamplona which I was sure had loads of fabulous postcards featuring bull gorings that would be welcome additions to my collection of tacky cards. And I was easily able to get in a visit to nearby Bilbao prior to starting the camino.
A trip like this, you would think, took a lot of planning and preparation. But I had two weeks advance notice in which to buy and break in a new pair of boots, get all my gear together, book plane tickets, get in a few long hikes and tie up loose ends (like post-camino employment). I had done a lot of the research a few years ago and so had some idea of what to expect. I noticed that a lot of my fellow travelers also were doing this pretty much on the spur of the moment. Maybe it was not a bad thing to be impetuous. Common sense might dictate that such a trip was rather foolhardy otherwise.
A pilgrim you ask? How did this come about? I am not so sure of its genesis. I clearly remember studying the children’s crusade in sixth grade and poring over an illustration in a history text that featured a long haired knight on a mighty steed. That certainly stirred some sort of pubescent longing that may not have been purely religious. My quite vivid memory had the knight surrounded by a bunch of ragamuffin children. He was a sort of amalgam of those very lordly men featured in the recent LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy—so surely other forces were at work in my current quest.
Our nun/teacher at the time truthfully pointed out that few if any of those children made it to their heroic destination. Rather most perished ignominiously in Europe. But she left us with the impression that it was a valiant enterprise nonetheless. Since I would also have learned about medieval pilgrimages around the same time, I think I may have conflated the two in my imagination. Walking barefoot for months on end while relying on the kindness of strangers would not have held the same allure as following an intrepid knight into battle, but I think that the seed was planted that at least there was a wider world beyond my little Midwest town.
This little seed was watered and nurtured by one of my first but enduring love affairs in university. That was with medieval architectural history. I learned about itinerant stonemasons, the borrowing and flourishing of building styles around Europe, and even the political and religious background to church building in those years. And I have maintained a long, though faithless, relationship with the Roman Catholic Church that mainly entailed looking at lots of churches in my travels. And there were lots and lots of those along the way I would be going.
There were many ways to do a pilgrimage, essentially a trip for religious purposes. Rome, the Holy Land, and anywhere that the Virgin Mary has made appearances were popular destinations. But ever since the 10th century, untold thousands of people have made Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain their target. The route was generally known as El Camino, Spanish for “the road” or “the way.” And that was where I was headed.
The theological underpinnings of this rested on the fact that Santiago was Spanish for St. James. According the New Testament and augmented by many a legend, before he was crucified Jesus instructed the original apostles to spread the gospel throughout the known world and assigned them different locales. St. James headed off to the Iberian Peninsula. Though he had an ultimately rather unfruitful mission, converting only a few while performing some miracles, he did establish a foothold for Christianity.
He returned to the Holy Land, was promptly beheaded and so became the first martyred apostle. His friends and colleagues ferried his body off to a ship that may or may not have been manned or even had sails. At any rate, that ship made its way to the shores of Galicia in northwest Spain where his somehow-alerted few disciples took his body and buried it nearby. Thus he became the only apostle to be interred in Western Europe outside of Rome.
His grave remained undisturbed and, it seems, unknown for about 750 years as the dreaded Moors took over the land. Then one day a pious hermit heard music and saw either stars above a field or lights emanating from a cave. (Accounts differed.) He dug around and found some bones and had them authenticated as St. James’s. They were reburied thereabouts and the site became the venerated location known as Compostela (campo = field and stela = star).
But James was not yet finished with his work. He was said to have appeared on a white charger leading the soon-to-be-victorious Christians in a decisive battle against those Moors around 852. So James got the sobriquet of “The Moor Slayer.”
After the infidels were finally expelled, the faithful started to come in great numbers. In painting and sculpture James morphed from warrior to the kindler and gentler pilgrim with staff, dried gourd water jug, woolen cloak and scallop shell on his tri-cornered hat and/or breast.
Poor James still could not rest in peace. There was still a lot of jockeying for power in Spain not unlike the current situation in Afghanistan with the warlords and strife until Ferdinand and Isabella united and Christianized most of Spain. Still Spain continued to be embroiled in many wars at home and abroad. Even Napoleon and his men had a nasty stay.
James’s very valuable bones were spirited away for safe keeping numerous times, always returning to their roost—until the day someone messed up and forget where they were stashed. That still did not deter the pilgrims who kept on coming. In 1878-9 a man excavated some bones (I assume near the cathedral) and went temporarily blind. Pope Leo XIII issued a bull verifying that the bones were St. James’. Now they rested in a silver box in the crypt under the main altar. And anyone could go visit the crypt and the bones.
Now wasn’t that explanation enough to trudge 500miles from southern France to Santiago?
Now, as I said, I expected see a lot of churches and villages on the way. In addition, I wanted to eat a lot of good hearty food, learn a bit more Spanish, meet some interesting people and have some fun and adventure. Furthermore, I fully anticipated augmenting my collection of tacky postcards through the travels.
In far off times, people did the camino for many reasons. They did it hoping for a miracle or a wish to be granted. Criminals were able to do it in lieu of spending time in jail. Sometimes the residents of a village suffering a drought or plague would all chip in and send off a representative to Santiago to petition for relief. A rogue’s gallery was always present and took advantage of those for whom the spirit instead of the purse was paramount. Rich and poor, the fit and the infirm, and the good and bad walked the walk, if not talked the talk. I couldn’t help but conclude that some of them, in those pre-Club Med days, were also thinking, “Wow, this sounds like more fun than staying at home. Let’s just do it.”
Nowadays, a lot of people became pilgrims for more, to me, amorphous reasons having to do with human consciousness and self-fulfillment. My local booksellers had shelf loads of spiritual and inspirational books. A number of them advocated the physical journey of a pilgrimage as a way to reach inner peace. Even Shirley MacLaine walked pretty much the same trip I was planning and wrote about it too.
Whatever the motivation, the ongoing mantra along the way was that everyone had to do his or her own camino. This was whether you were starting in far off Muscovy or nearer to Santiago. Whether young or old, fat or thin. Whether doing it on a shoe string budget or going first class. Whether searching for answers to life’s eternal questions or just for the next party. Fellow pilgrims were to respect and help each other. It was a little bit kindergarten, a little bit summer camp, and a lot of “Wizard of Oz.”
So which route? There were many ways to go—just be able to prove that you walked more than 60 miles or 100km (about double that if going by bicycle) and end up in Santiago. One could even do a pilgrimage in stages over a number of years. All were recognized as “official” pilgrimages for which you could receive the “compostela” or certification of completion in Santiago if you met those two requirements.
There were routes from Portugal, Seville, Madrid, and eastern Spain. Major routes went through France from as far away as Russia. Local historians and pilgrimage buffs were establishing paths in their own countries that hooked up with some of the major European ones. All funneled into the ultimate destination.
Probably the most popular was the Camino Frances which started in St. Jean Pied de Port in southwestern France, went quickly over the Pyrenees, and on through northern Spain via Pamplona, Burgos, and Leon. It was well marked and well traveled. It also had an established system of albergues, or hostels, exclusively for the use of pilgrims. They were inexpensive, clean if a bit primitive, and convenient. All had hot showers. Enough were open year round, though lacking in vigorous heating, to enable one to do the camino in the winter.
In fact, the camino had gotten so popular in recent years that non-summer travel was becoming a preferred option to avoid the heat and crowds. The number of pilgrims who arrived in Santiago had been increasing each year to about 70,000 a year. (Although in Holy Years in which the Feast of St. James on July 25 falls on a Sunday, the number swelled. In 2004 it was almost 180,000. The next Holy Year would be 2010.) Now the majority of these finished in July and August—the yearly distribution pretty much follows a classic Bell curve. And most started somewhere in Galicia and walked considerably less than 800 km or 500 miles I was looking at.
The day-to-day guide I took along was John Brierley’s A PILGRIM’S GUIDE TO THE CAMINO DE SANTIAGO. It was subtitled “A Practical and Mystical Manual for the Modern Day Pilgrim.” He emphasized the need to “dive into the mysteries of our individual soul awakenings, without which all journeying is purposeless.” I liked the book because it was compact, had good maps for the daily walks with elevations, included little photos of the buildings you were trying to locate at the end of the day, was recently updated and tough enough for constant handling.
I had a little problem, though, with the sermonettes in each chapter or leg of the journey. These were labeled The Practical Path and The Mystical Path. The former, while giving helpful information, tended to be repetitious screeds against any kind of modern intrusion on the camino. But we modern day pilgrims insisted on having hot water. And we graciously welcomed washers and driers, central heat, microwaves and internet access. And most of us carried an arsenal of synthetic fabrics and highly engineered footwear and backpacks that made the going much easier. I didn’t think you could have the pleasures of modern conveniences while decrying the infrastructure required to support them.
He railed against any section not along pleasant country roads or paths. But in my opinion he did not sufficiently warn of the hazards of taking off cross country, sometimes up to 10 to 20 miles, in the heat of the day without access to water and much shelter. As my fellow travelers and I found out, a crippling stress-induced injury could come on very suddenly. Even more puzzling were those mystical path sections. They would be paeans to the simple life, nature, or the mystical life of the soul. I may have been a jaded New Yorker for whom irony was still not dead. But I found those little homilies to be rather tendentious, sophomoric, or pointless. But they were easy enough to ignore.
I preferred and relied on THE PILGRIMAGE ROAD TO SANTIAGO by David Gitlitz and Linda Davidson. It was aptly subtitled “The Complete Cultural Handbook Including Art, Architecture, Geology, History, Folklore, Saints’ Lives, Flora and Fauna.” It too was broken up into sections that roughly correspond to the daily hikes. But it was written with knowledge, flair, and—most importantly—humor. I really did read parts of it most every day. It was a thick book but not all that heavy. The pleasure and insights it gave me while on the trail more than made up for its bulk and weight in my backpack.
I chose to begin in St. Jean Pied de Port in southwestern France. I liked the idea—if not the reality—of doing 500 miles (officially 496.1 miles but close enough—and that didn’t include the added mileage of going up and down the many hills). The challenges of the route were appealing—I was relishing the thought that I could casually drop an “I crossed the Pyrenees on foot….” like some modern day Hannibal at some future cocktail party.
I certainly wanted to go to Pamplona which I was sure had loads of fabulous postcards featuring bull gorings that would be welcome additions to my collection of tacky cards. And I was easily able to get in a visit to nearby Bilbao prior to starting the camino.
A trip like this, you would think, took a lot of planning and preparation. But I had two weeks advance notice in which to buy and break in a new pair of boots, get all my gear together, book plane tickets, get in a few long hikes and tie up loose ends (like post-camino employment). I had done a lot of the research a few years ago and so had some idea of what to expect. I noticed that a lot of my fellow travelers also were doing this pretty much on the spur of the moment. Maybe it was not a bad thing to be impetuous. Common sense might dictate that such a trip was rather foolhardy otherwise.
PILGRIM'S PROGRESS
March 22, 2007
Well, a year ago I was awash in the early Spring rains of Gallicia on the way to Santiago de Compostela on foot. I had started on February 17th at the French Spain border. With some great camino mates, I was trudging 500miles through rain, wind, snow and mud. I had shin splits and knee problems. All this led me to wonder why I ever wanted to do a pilgrimage in the first place. I mean I was having fun and seeing a lot of stuff but I was really getting tired. I got into Santiago on March 27 vowing never again to take another step again on anything like a camino.
Well, a year ago I was awash in the early Spring rains of Gallicia on the way to Santiago de Compostela on foot. I had started on February 17th at the French Spain border. With some great camino mates, I was trudging 500miles through rain, wind, snow and mud. I had shin splits and knee problems. All this led me to wonder why I ever wanted to do a pilgrimage in the first place. I mean I was having fun and seeing a lot of stuff but I was really getting tired. I got into Santiago on March 27 vowing never again to take another step again on anything like a camino.
I don't know what happened but I couldn't get the whole experience out of my mind. It was camino-this and camino-that to the despair of those near and dear to me. I guess it was inevitable that I would bedoing another one...or two or three.
This is not unusual, mind you. I ran across a number of people on the road who were doing their 2nd, 3rd, 4th and even 5th camino. Some people walk to Santiago and turn around and walk back. The ones I met were, let us be diplomatic, rather eccentric. Or less diplomatically, pompous, opinionated, obsessive/compulsive, and just plain out weird. I dubbed them the Camino Fascisti. And I am destined to join that group?
So 500 miles was not enough? I plan now to do a thousand or more. This trip will take me from Le Puy in the center of France (it got cut off on this image--sorry I am just getting this blog business down). Le Puy would be on the green line about as far from Cahors as St. Jean is from Cahors. Then I will repeat the route I did last year. Though I have given some thought to going to Sevilla (by bus, train or air) when I get to St. Jean and do the Via de la Plata to Santiago. We shall see. Alas, I won't be with Joseph or Jorge, my camino mates from last year.
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