Buen Camino!

September 16: Sevilla to Guillena, 22km. Only 985 km to go!

The first time I went to Germany I could hardly wait to sneeze. Guzuenthiet! Instead, when I sneezed someone said 'bless you!'. Still nice but...

I've read about the tradition of people calling out 'Buen Camino' and could hardly wait for our first 'blessing' of our journey. It just wouldn't be the same if someone said 'have a good walk'.

We left Sevilla after visiting mass at the Giraldi Cathedral. Felt oddly symbolic that we stood at the back, outside the door, peering in, and then left after a few minutes.

We crossed the Triana bridge and made our way towards Camas when it happened. A man passing by waved and called 'Buen Camino'. I could have stopped walking right then!

After getting slightly lost In Camas, an elderly man set us in the right direction, where upon we got lost again. We were rescued by another elderly man, who then walked behind us for a few blocks. After correcting our direction once more he must have been satisfied that we would be okay (or maybe he thought we were hopeless?) and we were on our own.

Several times just when we were sure we were again lost we would see a yellow arrow, on a fence, a light pole, a large rock. A few more times as people would call out 'buen Camino' we would also know we were walking the right path.

As I walked along a dusty road in the intense heat, I found myself thinking about how, in life, we can make choices that we hope are right and signs will come that confirm or correct the path we have taken...counsel from a friend, teacher, family member or stranger, something you read. A feeling or intuition. Sometimes a yellow arrow.

Buen Camino! (Just have to do what we did today 40 to 50 more times).

Lost in translation...almost.

Jull: Where can we find real Flamenco? Our new friends at El Colmaito De Cai (a restaurant near our home stay) owned by Vincete Ortega Cano (see:elcolmaitodecai.com) insist that Anselma in Triana, the birthplace of Flamenco, is where we must go.

The Flamenco show starts at 00:00. At 11:45 pm we make our way across the Triana bridge, into Triana, passing the tile-faced, daily (except Sunday) market. Turn right at the first street and then left at the first left (passing by a fabulous Triana tile factory store). Walk straight (or as straight as you can at this time of night after a full day of intense sun and maybe a bit too much rioja). At the second 'intersection' (do not think North America intersection...think tiny back street intersection)...volia, there on the left corner is Anselma.

There is no entrance fee, just 5 or so euros for a drink (and yes you must buy a drink!). It is one room, a bar in the corner, the walls covered with art, photos and religious works. It seemed like an oversize living room, personal, and intimate where a variety of chairs have been collected from all over the house for a party.

The assortment of chairs were packed close together forming a semi circle with a small section of floor left clear near the front of the room. We had met up with 3 new friends (Roberto/Italy, Carla/ Brasil, Tassilo/ Germany) from the Spanish school Enforex. There was no room for us to all sit so we stood along the wall which proved to be the perfect place to see, to move to the music, and to catch the occasional breeze of cooler air that wafted through the door.

As soon as I saw the small space left for the show I thought our request for real Flamenco had been misunderstood. We'd missed our chance. No Flamenco dancing tonight. Just guitar.

Once the room was packed as full as possible ('everyone suck in your breath so we can push more bodies into the room!') a woman stood and commanded everyone's attention. I have no idea what she said but it was obvious she was in charge. The room hushed. Instructions were given (blah blah blah si pero blah blah blah) and then the first strums of the guitar began...

I was disappointed about missing the dancing but was soon pulled in to the music, the guitar, the drumming (it looked like someone just slapping their chair with their hands but he may have had a drum), fingers snapping, and 5 men of various ages, and obviously enjoying themselves, the atmosphere, their friendship (and maybe a fair bit of wine) began singing.

From that moment on I was lost in the music. I couldn't understand most of what was said but it was music that makes you smile, makes you think that no matter what, life is wonderful. Several songs had a chorus that included the words noches and mannana. Tonight and tomorrow. Given the energy in the room I guessed that these were old gypsy songs celebrating the moment you have. That night, to celebrate life. We will worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

I was so wrapped up in the experience that I no longer cared about the misunderstanding, that it was Flamenco dancing we had been searching. But after an hour of the men  singing,  the young woman who had been serving drinks with amazing precision (and accuracy) stood in the small gap where the musicians performed. One of the men stood, and together, as the music began, they danced.

At that moment I received my first answer from the Camino. I must learn Flamenco dance!! It is so beautiful, graceful, yet strong. It reminded me of ballet set to a strong beat, with the occasional foot stomp and head-nod for emphasis as though saying 'this is my space. My time. My celebration!'. I felt completely mesmerized.

It was 3 am when we stumbled across the Triana bridge back in to Sevilla. Even if I had been required to buy water for 10 euro (they only charge 3 euro) I would not have missed this experience!

Becoming Sevillian

"your life will be no better than the plans that you make and the action you take. You are the architect and builder of your own life, fortune, destiny."~ Alfred A. Montapert

Juli: It seemed like a good idea, a week in Seville, Spain, time to acclimatize as well as attend a few classes in Spanish language. It is hot. At noon yesterday it was 32, and by 1 pm it was 38. As the afternoon wore on I no longer checked the temperature. I didn't want to know. It has made two things more clear...the importance of a siesta (survival) and clarifies typical Sevillian reaction when hearing we are walking the Via de la plata: "nobody walks from Sevilla!" (It is not true that nobody walks from Sevilla, but the heat does make it less desirable). Still, it is popular enough that there is a pilgrim office here at 82 Caille Castilla in Triana (which we are informed is NOT Sevilla. Triana faces Sevilla, across a canal and linked by bridges).

Stacy was excited to attend the Bullfights last night. Though I attended I found my mind wandering elsewhere...a balloon floating off in the distance, a bird that was sailing by, the shiny instruments of the band, sitting high in the stands, waiting to celebrate victories of the matador and dignity of the toro, with music. When I pulled my attention back to the arena it was to see the matador and the toro in their age old  dance. I don't know why the bull stops when the matador stops, but he does. The matador can turn his back on the bull and the bull stands still, waiting. It is almost like the bull knows that this is his destiny. It is both gruesome and fascinating. Witnessing this once was enough (and maybe even one time too many).

Spanish class at the local Enforex has been a good exercise. My Spanish is so 'good' that I have been paired most of the week with a lovely young woman from Japan. Fortunately she speaks a bit of English and is picking up Spanish quickly. I copy from her notes.

The lifestyle here is hypnotizing. The slower pace, the sites, the heat, the historic centre where we are staying...it is a feast for all the senses. There has been a settlement on this site for 2500 years. I wonder if that is why it feels like there is so much depth, so much to learn? A week is not enough time to uncover the layers of this culture.

The rest in Sevilla is coming to a close and now I must face the reality of my backpack. There was a sprint for the train in Montpellier and a few hours lugging it around Barcelona while waiting for the train to Sevilla. I can't just throw it away and travel with a credit card, but I won't make it very far if I continue carrying my current load. All week I have wrestled with the question...what is essential? What do I really need? If I get rid of any more clothes I will be walking naked. I'm not ready for that. Shampoo, conditioner, skin cream, deluxe first aid kit (when mole skin and a few bandages would suffice)...most of the contents of my pack will only make it as far as Seville. To make it all the way myself, I have to carry less, not just in my backpack, but inside me, as well.

"You Have Feet In Your Shoes"~ Dr Seuss

“Think of the magic of that foot, comparatively small, upon which your whole weight rests. It’s a miracle, and the dance (or the walk)…is a celebration of that miracle.”~ Martha Washington

juli: There is a Buddhist teaching about gratitude for your feet. It made me wonder...How often do we think of our feet? Just when they hurt?

Soon after studying this teaching I began taking the stairs (instead of an elevator or escalator). As my foot lands on the first stair a ‘prayer of gratitude’ is silently spoken, an awareness of the blessing it is to have feet, to have legs, to be healthy.

My father died in November 2011. He did not have feet, nor did he have legs; complications from surgeries during the last 2 decades; surgery that was necessary because of injuries sustained at the age of 23, 5 years before I was born.  I did not know my father in any way except in pain. Not that he complained. In fact when he did say something about pain it was only because it was beyond what he normally dealt with on a daily basis; Pain that thankfully is beyond my comprehension.

So when I feel the step below my feet I also think of my Dad and say a small prayer of gratitude for him and his example. When he had surgery in 2008 to remove his second leg I protested suggesting he might want to think about his decision a bit longer. He responded by saying “I already know what it is like to live without one leg. Having the other removed will just be a little less convenient.”

Choosing boots to walk the Camino made me ever more aware of gratitude for feet, legs, and a body that is healthy. “It will do” is not an acceptable description of footwear chosen to support feet that will walk 1000 km.  I tried 5 pairs of boots, wearing them around my home, up and down the stairs before I found the boots that are worthy of my walk (because they are comfortable all day long!)

The fact that they match my backpack is just a nice coincidence.

stacy: Upon reading Juli's thoughtful insert above on footwear, I have to admit, I saw my black hightop Salomon hiking boots, tried them on, and thought, 'these will do.' Black to match everything, and hightop for both ankle support and relatively stylish with any length of pant. I did, however, put more thought into the purchase of socks. At the local store for runners, I chatted with the helpful salesclerk who educated me on the various types of anti-blister socks they offered. She recommended white for the hot, spanish weather. I quickly informed her that I would need black, being that my hiking boots were black, and I didn't want to be tacky. She looked at me, straight faced and speechless for a moment, then said, 'you don't do a lot of hiking, do you?'

“Walk as if you are blessing the Earth with your feet.”~ Thich Nhat Hahn

                                   

Picture: (left to right) Northface (#4 shoe I tried, comfy but rejected); red pumps (fabulous but maybe only good for walking 2 blocks); Stuart Weitzman (Stacy can wear these all day at the Salon. How long she would last on the Camino is debatable); Salomon (Stacy's final choice). Not pictured, Merrell's, Juli's final choice.

Joining The Pilgrimage

stacy: I was drinking a Starbucks Americano Misto when I decided to do a 1000 kilometre Pilgrimage in Spain. Sitting across from me was Juli, whom I’d met at a writing conference in Paris about a year and a half prior. We’d just reconnected in our mutual hometown of Calgary, AB. Somehow amongst conversation of catching up on each other lives since the conference, she posed the question of whether I had ever considered walking the Camino de Santiago. Having spent time at a Spanish language school in Barcelona, and traveling the Mediterranean Coast of Spain a few years back I had heard stories of the Camino, or the way of St. James, a 1000 year old pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, Galicia, in the Northwest corner of Spain. Legend has it that the remains of St. James were transported by boat from Jerusalem and buried on the site of what is now the city of Santiago de Compostela. Any kind of personal pilgrimage to that site is thought to earn both miracles and plenary indulgence (remission from past sins according to the catholic faith). Juli said she wanted to begin in Seville and walk north to Santiago. I’d always wanted to go to Seville. And it sounded like an adventure. Before I’d finished my Americano Misto that afternoon, I was in. I was walking the Camino de Santiago with Juli.

I wouldn’t consider myself the ‘hiking’ type, and judging by the expressions on the faces of the few people I began telling I was doing this, I gathered that others don’t see me as the outdoorsy type either. I’m a writer by night, a hairstylist by day. I consider going out for tapas and wine with girlfriends a ‘hobby.’ I’m more comfortable in heels than runners. I’m also more comfortable walking a shopping mall than I am in the great outdoors. The first time I walked into the outdoor camping store in downtown Calgary to buy hiking boots and a sleeping bag for the Camino I was so overwhelmed and intimidated (not to mention incredibly hungover, but that’s irrelevant), I left empty handed. So back to the question of why, why did this little trek in Spain appeal to me immediately? In researching the Camino I found a plethora of resources. Blogs. Websites. Books. Youtube. The recent Martin Sheen movie called ‘The Way.’ I even found an app for my iphone specifically designed for our route, the Via De La Plata. I knew basic temperatures we’d face along the route, average kilometres between towns, which parts were more treacherous, more scenic, or more boring than others. I’d learned that the path we’d chosen was heavily littered with Roman Ruins, once the main road in which connected Astorga in the north to Seville to the south. And other fun facts, like that Hannibal’s armies and his elephants must have passed along it. But the one question asked by many that I’d been unable to answer remained. The question of why. Why walk a 1000 kilometer pilgrimage in Spain?

One night over a glass of Spanish Rioja and countless skinny menthols, I decided to look up quotes on traveling to see if I could find some inspiration as to the reasons why we travel. I came across too many to mention that resonated and began to help me find validation as to why I travel. One of my favourites was by Miriam Beard: “Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.” Traveling, no matter the distance from home or the length of the trip, has never failed to open my mind to new ideas, not only about the world but about myself. A very wise woman and dear friend of mine once explained traveling as forcing you to live consciously, out of habit. As though a mirror is held up to you and you are forced to see yourself, your true self, just a little clearer. What better way to do that than a 1000 kilometre pilgrimage? A break. Not only to be disconnected sans distractions from daily life to think and reflect, but to be in the energy of those doing the same. That, and Spanish ham. Manchego cheese. Vino tinto. Vino blanco. And, lest we forget, the fabulous Spanish sparkling wine, cava. A chance to practice my Spanish. Another quote that resonated with me that night was by the late Galician poet Rosalia de Castro: “I see my path, but I don’t know where it leads. Not knowing where I’m going is what inspires me to travel it.” And I realized that the reason I struggled so much with answering the question why was that I didn’t fully know why yet. I just knew I needed to go. Why do we need justified reasons for doing what we feel inspired to do in life? And so, in short, I decided to revert back to my initial reaction when Juli asked if I would consider joining her on the Camino. I’ve always wanted to go to Seville, and it sounded like an adventure. On a side note, upon further reading on the Galician poet mentioned prior, Rosalia de Castro, I came across another quote of hers: “After God, long live wine.” Well said, Rosalia. I think I would have liked this woman.

Scarlett O'Hara Fever

juli: Over the past few months I have developed a severe case of “Scarlet O’Hara” fever. When a concern about the walk on the Camino surfaces (things like…what is the terrain?...is it safe?..bedbugs?!...I have to pee outside?!!!...)I immediately say to myself, like Scarlet O’Hara in Gone With the Wind, “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is here.

All the tasks on my ‘to do’ list as I prepared to leave town, completed. At least I think I addressed everything. Anything I forgot to do will have to be okay.

My house is still for sale. I really thought that would be over, but being in residence hasn’t helped it to sell either.

And peeing outside?

I’ll think about that tomorrow.

“In the beginning you must subject yourself to the influence of nature. You must be able to walk firmly on the ground before you start walking on a tightrope.” ~ Henry Matisse

Walking With A Friend or Alone?

juli: Almost two years ago I thought, maybe, I would walk with the friend who told me about the Camino. It soon became apparent that though he wants to walk it some time, that time has not come.

And so I considered walking alone. As my sense of direction is sometimes challenged I bought a GPS watch. I quickly discovered that a GPS watch doesn’t guide your path; it just records where you’ve been. My kids didn’t laugh when I told them they could use the computer tracking of my watch to find my body. (My children usually appreciate my dark sense of humour and respond with something that makes me laugh. This time, their concern for my safety over-ruled their funny-bone).

I admit, when you're alone and lost, it can feel overwhelming. When you're with a friend, being lost can be an adventure.

But who would walk with me? Who did I know who could also leave everything behind for a time? Someone who would also see the value in walking 1000 km? I’m fortunate to have many friends and family. Each would bring unique gifts to this journey.

In October 2010 (just days before I met the man who planted the idea of the Camino in my mind) I was in Paris for the weekend. (A weekend later christened “The Weekend of the World's Worst Kiss.” An entirely different story but still makes me laugh and shudder at the same time!) I walked to the Left Bank, pausing briefly on Pont Neuf; a moment of silence at the spot where I had tossed my wedding ring in to the Seine a few months before. Just a few steps from the bridge was my destination, a beautiful apartment overlooking the Seine, and a reunion of Students from Wendy Goldman-Rohm’s writing workshops. (http://www.pariswritersretreat.com/Weekend-Writing-Workshops.html)

I attended Wendy's writing class in Paris in 2009 and a few of the people from that class were in attendance at the 2010 Writer’s Retreat. My heart was full seeing these friends again. There were also a few people I did not know. Introductions were made. A beautiful young woman with a bright smile introduced herself: “Stacy, from Calgary.”

It took another year for Stacy and I to get together in Calgary. We met for lunch and discussed each other’s writing as well as our lives and plans. I had randomly brought up the idea of walking the Camino with a few friends and family, though I was still leaning towards walking alone. I was also aware that the timing was not right for most of the people I know. Leaving family, a spouse, a job for several weeks… I am sad about the loss of my marriage; not the way it was, but the way I always believed it could someday be. I also recognize that I am fortunate. As a result of sacrifices and choices my former husband and I made, I now have many opportunities that I am grateful for…like the luxury of taking a few weeks away from day to day responsibilities, and walking across Spain. My youngest child is off to University. My other children each pursue their own paths. My job as ‘mother’ is in transition. This is the time for me to go.

Stacy had just returned from an adventurous holiday and spoke of leaving again soon for an all-female sailing trip.

I didn’t know Stacy very well, but I could see that she was kind, thoughtful, and intelligent…

“Stacy, would you ever consider walking the Camino de Santiago?”

I had posed this question to a few people already. The answer, when yes, included a qualifier: “but I can only take 2 weeks from work.” “ I can’t leave my husband for more than 3 weeks” “Can we run?”…

Stacy was quiet for a moment. Then she simply said, yes.

 I met Stacy October 2, 2010 on what would have been my 30th Wedding Anniversary. Now when I think of October 2, I think of Nuit Blanche (Nuit Blanche - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia) and Stacy being stopped every few feet by yet another young man that just had to talk to her. I’ve teased her that I can’t tolerate a pack of men following her on the Camino and have ordered that she not shower, brush her hair, or wear any make-up. I’m afraid it will do no good. Her beauty is more than skin deep and will shine right through.

   “ Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.” ~ Helen Keller

Shopping trip lessons: You can't travel by air with Bear Spray or Bear Bangers. They are considered weapons. Also, pet stores don't sell dog-repellant. In fact, clerks at pet stores may be offended when this item is requested. Instead, I bought a dog whistle as I've heard rumors of some issues with dogs along the camino. However, it is unclear if a dog whistle calls a dog to you, or sends it away. Oh, and a man standing in line behind me at MEC told me that bear bells are just dinner bells, for bears.