~ wander.essence ~

mesa verde finale: the aramak tour

wanderessence1025 June 20, 2019

Holly was our guide for the Aramak tour at Mesa Verde National Park from 8-12 a.m. Monday morning. The tour only covered Chapin Mesa. We headed straight for the Mesa Top Loop while she told us some of the history of Mesa Verde, which became a National Park in 1906. It became the first World Heritage Site in the U.S. in 1978. The park is not known for its beauty, she said, but for its cultural heritage, with the ancestral homes of 21 modern-day Pueblo groups that trace their ancestry back to these regions. Thus the park preserves a link from the past to the present.

Aramak tour

The flute player clan of the Hopi tribe says they came from Mesa Verde. It is surmised that people left because of overpopulation, drought, or stress on the society. Or it is also likely that this just wasn’t a good place to live anymore.

At the top of Chapin Mesa, we see burnt out skeletons of trees; Holly tells us a wildfire caused by lightning burnt 2,800 acres in 2002.

Our first stop was at the Pithouses and Pueblos (A.D. 700-950). The pitroom was used for ceremonies as well as cooking and sleeping. A hole in the roof allowed smoke to escape the pithouse. However, breathing may have still been difficult in these smoky, subterranean rooms.

Villages of this era had only one or two pitrooms. The slabs and floor cavities are typical of earlier pithouses; some villagers may have moved here in winter, finding the pitroom easier to heat than surface dwellings.

Pithouses

Pithouses

Holly told us about the vegetation on the mesa. She said the Utah junipers were infested by mistletoe, a parasite that kills the junipers. Juniper is absorbent and is used for bandages, diapers and John Wayne toilet paper, the packaging of which says “It’s rough! It’s tough! And it doesn’t take crap off anyone!” Juniper berries flavor gin and game meat, and are used to make ghost beads to protect people from bad dreams.

The pinyon pines have a sticky sap used for sealant. They were used to seal baskets used for carrying water and for healing cream. Needles are used to make tea. Pine nuts from pinyon pines are expensive because they only come out every 4-7 years.

According to Holly, the broad leaf yucca is not a succulent. The fibers were used as paintbrushes to decorate pottery and pre-threaded sewing needles. They were weaved to make sandals and plaited together to make rope and baskets. The root could be used as soap.

The Gamble Oaks in the canyon are only ten feet tall. There are no cottonwoods in the canyon because they need more water than is available.

Juniper

Broad leaf yucca

We saw an Anasazi kiva, or underground religious room. The small, circular hole in the floor is a sipapu, a symbolic entrance into the underworld – the Pueblo place of origin. The kiva had several functions: crafts workshop, social gathering place, and a chamber in which to plan or perform ceremonies.

Ceremonial chamber

Ceremonial chamber

We stood in the courtyard of an early pueblo village. By 850 A.D., most Mesa Verde people were living in surface dwellings instead of pithouses. Adjoining rooms may reflect a greater degree of cooperation required by an expanding population.

The walls were built by setting poles upright and weaving small sticks between them, then plastering the walls with mud – a technique called “wattle and daub.”

Three distinct villages are here; for at least 150 years, a succession of Pueblo farmers occupied this same plot of ground. The mesa top was not the ideal place to live as it had poor drainage and was exposed to harsh weather, with earthen rooms chilled over the winter by deep snow.

village at Mesa Verde

We saw a view of Navajo Canyon from the bus, but we didn’t get off.

Navajo Canyon view

We stopped at views for Cliff Canyon, Oak Tree House Cliff Dwelling, Fire Temple, Sun Temple and Cliff Palace. The cliff dwellings themselves were not built until the final 75-100 years of Mesa Verde’s occupation. For over 600 years, the people lived mostly on the mesa tops.

Cliff Canyon

Oak Tree House Cliff Dwelling

Oak Tree House Cliff Dwelling

Sun Temple atop the canyon

Fire Temple

Fire Temple

Fire Temple

Sadly, I was unable to visit Cliff Palace because it was closed until the following weekend. We were only able to view it from the overlook on the opposite side of the canyon.

Cliff Palace

We visited Sun Temple with its bread loaf stones. From above, the D-shaped symmetry of the temple is remarkable, especially its twin kivas. Such massive construction must have involved a community-wide effort. The structure was never completed; there is no evidence of a roof or roof timbers. Apparently construction stopped when the Anasazi people began to leave the area. Though the structure appears ceremonial, its exact function remains a mystery.

construction of Sun Temple

The natives here used hand and toe holds to carry corn in baskets from farms on the mesa top to the cliff dwellings. There was no evidence of death from falls. Residents here adapted to the environment.

At the end of our tour, we stopped for one final view of Cliff Palace, the largest of Mesa Verde’s cliff dwellings.

Cliff Palace

me with Cliff Palace in the background

Here are my other Mesa Verde posts:
mesa verde overlooks
the step house trail at mesa verde
balcony house at mesa verde

*Monday, May 21, 2018*

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“PHOTOGRAPHY” INVITATION: I invite you to create a photography intention and then create a blog post for a place you have visited. Alternately, you can post a thematic post about a place, photos of whatever you discovered that set your heart afire. You can also do a thematic post of something you have found throughout all your travels: churches, doors, people reading, people hiking, mountains, patterns, all black & white, whatever!

You probably have your own ideas about this, but in case you’d like some ideas, you can visit my page: photography inspiration.

I challenge you to post no more than 20-25 photos and to write less than 1,500 words about any travel-related photography intention you set for yourself. Include the link in the comments below by Wednesday, July 3 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Thursday, July 4, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, every first, second, and third (& 5th, if there is one) Thursday of each month (I’ve now added the second Thursday). Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

the ~ wander.essence ~ community

I invite you all to settle in and read a few posts from our wandering community. I promise, you’ll be inspired!

Jude, of life at the edge, captured some gorgeous sculptures in a serene and inviting setting at Barbara Hepworth Sculpture Garden in St. Ives.
- Finding Magic

Thanks to all of you who shared posts on the “photography” invitation. 🙂

on journey: south korea > dubai > turkey

wanderessence1025 June 19, 2019

Two long days of travel from Daeugu, South Korea to Istanbul, Turkey. My attempt to pack light meets with failure once again. I lug my suitcase five blocks to the Daegu metro on Wednesday morning. On the train, three Korean young ladies chat cozily. One is fingering the long red-dyed hair of another. When I step off metro at Dongdaegu, I am startled by screaming and yelling. The girls are pulling each others’ hair and hitting and slapping each other, screeching like wild monkeys. The Koreans on the platform are shocked into inaction. Finally two Korean men and a woman intervene and break them up. These girls are as dangerously violent as any men I’ve ever seen. I have NEVER seen this kind of behavior here; Koreans are usually so passive and reserved!

Onward. I catch the bus to Incheon. Four and a half hours through tri-color Korea: deep green, beige, and black. Green grass & trees, beige concrete skyscraper apartment buildings, and the black hair of all Koreans (oh, except that red-head and we saw what happened to her!). It hits me that what I so miss while living in Korea is color and diversity. So happy to be escaping, though only briefly.

At Incheon, I immediately catch the airport-free shuttle to Cargo Terminal A, where I am to pick up the package Mike mailed me from home in Virginia. A wild goose chase: hours of traipsing across huge expanses of asphalt from warehouse to warehouse in the middle of nowhere, sun pounding down, me drenched in salty slime. Why, why, why am I doing this?? I pay Customs 72,000 won, stuff the package contents into my already overstuffed suitcase, and catch the shuttle back to the airport where I wait three more hours for my flight at 11:55 pm.

FLY EMIRATES. All through the World Cup games, I was enticed by the Emirates ads on the periphery of the field. I board the double-decker airbus that could only be an Emirates over-the-top offering. Not so great for us bottom-floor economy passengers. The seats are tight and uncomfortable for overnight sleeping. But a surreal experience at first: a perfumed mist blowing into the cabin from above the storage compartments, a mesmerizing tinkling tune playing. Designed to put one into sleep mode, I think. A fitful night of sleeping beside a Korean mother and daughter. We arrive in Dubai at 3:45 a.m. I have 10 hours to kill in Dubai.

10 hours in Dubai… Enough to last a lifetime

At the Dubai airport, I find myself bedraggled and sticky; all attempts to clean myself up meet with failure. I try to exchange my Korean won for Turkish lira but they only have on hand 65 lira. I try to exchange for dinars, which I am able to do at an exorbitant price. I ask about dollars and they want to give me a measly $200 for 380,000 Won!! Should be more like $330. I keep my Korean Won in hopes of getting a better rate in Turkey.

Elevator banks at the Dubai airport

I ask three different people what time metro opens; I get three different answers. The airport is huge and gleaming and empty. Cavernous. Finally, I am standing at the information desk, asking about the Dubai city tour. A Japanese guy is standing beside me. The Arab woman tells us the city tour doesn’t start till noon, but I must be back at the airport by noon for my 2:30 p.m. flight to Turkey. The Japanese guy tells me he must catch the same flight to Turkey. The woman asks if we will see the city together (the Japanese guy and me). We look at each other. I say to him, what do you think? It might be a good idea, unless of course you want to go alone. We both shrug. He says sure, we can go out together. We both agree it will be nice to have some company to venture out into the strange city.

He introduces himself as Tomomi. He’s an architect and lives in Estonia. We get on the metro at 6 a.m. and head for Burj Al Arab, the tallest hotel in the world. As we sit on metro, I ask a bunch of questions and I find out that he went to Estonia for a girlfriend. The relationship didn’t work out over the long-term. He is returning from a month-long vacation in Australia, where he has gone diving and other assorted things with a friend. Now he is going to Turkey for 4 days to visit another friend and attend a wedding. He tells me he has a 5-year-old daughter who he takes to school each day and he sees one day of each weekend. The mother is not the original girlfriend who he followed to Estonia. He shows me an adorable picture of the girl.

Tomomi, a Japanese guy who lives in Estonia

The metro is air-conditioned, but I can feel the heat emanating from outside. We have a clear flat view of the city as we ride above-ground. All desert, sand-color everything. Heat rising. It is apparently 104 degrees Fahrenheit. Or more.

Dubai & Burj al Arab from the metro window

station in Dubai

We take a taxi from Mall of the Emirates metro stop to the Burj Al Arab. It’s a nice setting, palm trees and greenery around, but they won’t allow us in unless we have a reservation at the hotel restaurant. We take our pictures from outside the gate. It looks like a ship, sails filled with wind.

Burj Al Arab

me at Burj Al Arab in 2010

Tomomi, me and Burj Al Arab

grounds at Burj Al Arab

We walk several blocks to Jumeirah Medinat, a modern recreation of a traditional bazaar. It is hot and deserted; it is only 8 a.m. and it doesn’t open till 9:00. Another lovely setting, but a dead place. We wander about in the hot silence. Where is the chaos and the liveliness of a real Arab bazaar? It all seems like a fake version of the real thing. It’s like a person with no substance, no character.

Jumeirah Medinat

lantern at Jumeirah Medinat

Jumeirah Medinat

We take the metro directly to the Dubai Mall, where we see the aquarium, the fountain, and fancy pastries, and try our best cool off.

Aquarium at Dubai Mall

fancy pastries

Also, the entrance to Burj Khalifi, the tallest building in the world is in the mall, but they want 100 dinars to go to the 124th floor and it doesn’t open till 10:00 a.m. We satisfy ourselves by walking back into the street and looking at Burj Khalifi from the outside.

Burj Khalifi

By now, it is only 9:00. I have an iced coffee that costs a fortune and we wander about the mall, checking out the huge aquarium and then wandering into the Gold Souk when it finally opens. All I want to know is: Where are all the people?? There is no one anywhere!

Gold Souk

inside the Gold Souk

We take a taxi then to Bastakiya, where traditional courtyard houses can be found. The heat is unbearable and it is totally deserted. We see only two backpackers walking through. They look as miserable as we are. We happen upon a little courtyard art gallery, air-conditioned (??), or somehow cooler anyway. We linger there, poke around, sit on a bench, take a few photos. We see mainly decorative tiles, tiles with Arabic script, a pretty tree with coral flowers.

Bastakiya

me in the courtyard at Bastakiya

Tomomi & me at Bastakiya

We flag down a taxi to get to metro. We get ripped off, but we’re too tired to argue. Back on metro, back to the airport. Like everyone else, we stay encapsulated in our air-conditioned vehicles, grabbing any iota of cool relief.

The ~4 hour flight to Turkey is dandy. I sit beside a Turkish couple who are living in Johannesburg, South Africa. He works for Coca-Cola and she works for Proctor & Gamble. They are traveling to Turkey for four days for a wedding. They say this is the wedding season in Turkey and if you take a boat down the Bosphorus at night, you can see celebrations and fireworks all along the shore. The guy is keen on the Istanbul Archeological Museum. He says it is full of history, which he elaborates on in great detail. After our chat, I watch the movie Valentine’s Day, but I fall asleep before the end. After my long wild goose chase through the cargo terminals in Seoul and my traipsing through Dubai, I feel filthy. I can’t wait to arrive at the Big Apple Hostel for a shower…. 🙂

I arrive in Istanbul at around 6 p.m. on July 22. The currency exchange windows at Ataturk airport don’t want my Korean won, of which I have brought 380,000, for any amount. This frustrates me beyond belief; I was told by my Korean friends that Korea and Turkey are best of friends because of Turkey’s participation in the Korean War in 1950.

Also, in the 2002 FIFA World Cup in Korea, Turkey and Korea had a friendly soccer match; though Turkey beat Korea in the third place match 3-2, apparently there was a great show of respect by the Turkish team for the Koreans. The Koreans have not forgotten this… have the Turkish people? Or is the Korean won really that worthless? Isn’t Korea, after all, the 13th largest economy in the world now? Oh well, for the rest of my trip, I am forced to carry around my worthless 380,000 won and use my U.S. debit card (because despite Nongyhup Bank’s assurance I would be able to use my Korean debit card ~ with its Cirrus logo ~ in Turkey, no ATM machine would accept it!). Thank God I went to Cargo Terminal A at Incheon to pick up my package from home with my new U.S. debit card!!

This is the first time in my life I am met at the airport by someone holding up a placard with my name on it! I feel so special!! Haha… actually I had arranged with the Big Apple Hostel to have a pickup from the airport. The ride to Sultanahmet is lovely, along the Bosphorus, with views of the heavy cargo ship traffic. I love immediately the colorful homes, all terra-cottas, greens, corals, yellows.

driving into Istanbul from the airport

In the Sultanahmet area, we drive over bumpy cobblestones and I am all agape, looking at the stores and the beautiful things in the windows and on the streets. Colorful lamps, handbags with Ottoman and Byzantine designs, Turkish carpets. Ceramic tiles and plates. The ubiquitous evil eyes.

Up and down steep hills and finally I am dropped at the Big Apple Hostel, where I am to stay for three nights. I check in and go to my room on the second floor, a room with three bunk beds, for six people. Luckily there is no one there, so I am able to shower and lie down for a bit in peace. But eventually two sisters come in from Canada. They are shocked to see me, I can tell; taken aback by my age and maybe worried about sharing a room with me. I try to put them at ease, chit-chat. I ask them about Istanbul, about where they’re from, tell them where I’m from. Then three more girls from Tunisia, Egypt and Austria come in; they are attending an Anatolia Congress for Leadership and Entrepreneurship.

I put on my knit dress that feels like a nightgown(!) and go out to explore.

July 21-22, 2010

{camino day 21} hornillos del camino to castrojeriz & ruminations {week three}

wanderessence1025 June 16, 2019

I started my day at 7:00, climbing a gentle uphill with Karen from New Zealand and Chun-Yu from Taiwan. They had met in St. Jean-Pied-de-Port at the beginning of their Camino. Karen had been worried about walking alone and she asked at her albergue if anyone would like to walk with her. Chun-Yu from Taiwan said he would accompany her. They had stuck together for the whole Camino and even slept in bunks beside each other. Karen was quite a bit older than Chun-Yu, so they were an unusual pair.

I had my headlamps on for a bit, but I didn’t need them for long because there was enough light leaving Hornillos del Camino. It was cold and gusty as we climbed up the Meseta and walked along.

Hornillos del Camino to Arroyo San Bol (5.7 km)

Hornillos del Camino to Castrojeriz

Hornillos del Camino to Arroyo San Bol

Hornillos del Camino to Arroyo San Bol

me on the Camino

cross

Hornillos del Camino to Arroyo San Bol

As we dipped down into San Bol, the light was gorgeous: a sweep of corals, golds, purples and blues. I couldn’t stop marveling over the sunrise, the light on the fields, and the pink color of the clouds. It was truly magnificent.

Hornillos del Camino to Arroyo San Bol

Hornillos del Camino to Arroyo San Bol

Hornillos del Camino to Arroyo San Bol

Hornillos del Camino to Arroyo San Bol

Hornillos del Camino to Arroyo San Bol

long morning shadow

I climbed out of the narrow Sanbol valley back onto the Meseta.

I met 18-year-old Anna from British Columbia doing the Camino because she took some kind of a test that revealed she had no “grit.” She wanted to prove she did in fact have grit, but she had encountered many obstacles. She twisted her ankle and had to rest four days in Logroño. Then she twisted it again. Today, she was grappling with big blisters. She was quite funny telling how she tallied up the people she knew and figured she really liked 40% of people, 40% were okay, and 20% were so annoying she couldn’t stand to be around them. She planned to take a bus the next day from Castrojeriz. She said last night in Hornillos someone stole all her underwear, so she had none at all.

After a long flat track with windmills in the distance under dramatic skies, we caught a glimpse of another classic pilgrim village tucked into a fold of the Meseta, Hontanas.

Arroyo San Bol to Hontanas (4.8 km)

Arroyo San Bol to Hontanas

Arroyo San Bol to Hontanas

Arroyo San Bol to Hontanas

At a café in Hontanas, a neat little town tucked into a dip in the Meseta, I sat with Anna and Karen and Chun-Yu and a Korean girl. I ran into Joan and Harold from Texas who I’d met back in Burgette after that long day over the Pyrenees. I had never learned their names but finally did today. They were also with us at that wonderful dinner in Muruzábal. Harold was dealing with major blisters but Joan had no problems except a pain in her calf. They were both on their second marriages.

I walked past the solid parish church of the 14th century Conception, dominating the tiny village square. It emanated an air of quiet reverence.

parish church of Conception

Santa Brigada

After Hontanas, I walked alone to San Antón where there are ruins of the ancient 14th-century Convento de San Antón. I passed under St. Anthony’s archway, Arco de San Antón, with recessed alcoves where monks left bread for pilgrims of old. Now pilgrims leave sheaves of wheat and messages.The enormous arch once supported a roof. Parts of the apse and the façade of the church, together with some main walls of the central nave, are still standing.

This was the ancient monastery and hospice of the Antonine Order founded in 11th century France and connected to the work of the hermit of St. Anthony of Egypt (San Antón Abad), patron saint of animals usually depicted with a pig at his feet. It was founded to care for those suffering from a disease similar to leprosy, known as St. Anthony’s fire. This was a fungal skin disease when often turned gangrenous and led to death. The members of the community wore a habit bearing the Greek letter tau (Ττ) on the front, which symbolized divine protection against evil and sickness. This symbol was increasingly worn as the Cruz del Peregrino (Pilgrim Cross). The monastery was dissolved at the end of the 18th century.

Hontanas to San Antón (5.6 km)

Hontanas to San Antón

San Antón

San Antón

San Antón

Just past San Antón, I stopped for some orange juice and watermelon at an outdoor cafe where a breeze sprinkled the air with notes of mellow classical music.

After my lovely stop at the café, I walked the rest of the way into Castrojeriz, a sleepy town with a declining population of 500. The residents of Castrojeriz boast of having the longest urban crossing on the whole Way. Ignoring the major cities, that might be the case. In fact the town is laid out along one long 2km winding road from start to finish. It has streets of imposing civil buildings and the Plaza Mayor, while the houses on Calle Mayor are examples of Castilian architecture.

Walking through Castrojeriz, I could see the 9th century Castillo, with Roman and Visigothic remains, and a scene of much fighting. These castle ruins sit on a hill overlooking the village. Castrojeriz rose to prominence during the reconquista and as a major stop on the medieval Camino with no less than eight pilgrim hospitals.

San Antón to Castrojeriz (Iglesia Santa María) (2.5 km)

San Antón to Castrojeriz

San Antón to Castrojeriz

At the entrance to the town, I stopped in the 14th-century Colegiata de La Virgen del Manzano, or Iglesia Santa María (collegiate church of Our Lady of the Apple). The church has a statue of St. James in pilgrim regalia festooned with scallop shells and a lovely statue of Our Lady. It has been renovated as a museum of sacred art.

Iglesia Santa María

Iglesia Santa María

Castrojeriz (Iglesia Santa María) to Castrojeriz (Plaza Mayor) (1.5 km)

castillo in Castrojeriz

I checked into the lovely albergue, Albergue Rosalía. It had single beds laid out under a tall ceiling with large wooden beams. It was a charming place, one of the better albergues on the Camino.

Albergue Rosalía

After my regular routine of shower and laundry, I walked up around the Iglesia de San Juan.

Castrojeriz

At a café in Castrojeriz, I had lunch with Rainer, a guy from Germany who had been walking around in his underwear when I checked into Albergue Rosalía. His bed was across from mine. He was quite the talker, but I honestly can’t remember what we talked about.

cafe in Castrojeriz

Rainer from Germany

In the evening, we enjoyed a lovely pilgrim meal at Albergue Rosalía, a kind of paella but with noodles rather than rice, accompanied by hummus, salad, wine and chocolate mousse with sprinkles. I enjoyed the company of Marianne and Mette from Denmark, Karen and Chun-Yu, Leli from Denver, Preethi from Canada, Kit from Toronto, and Rainer from Germany.

At the front, left to right, Rainer, Marianne & Mette, Chun-Yu and Karen

pilgrims at Albergue Rosalía

It was a stunning day all around, one of my top days on the Camino. I thanked God for the many small blessings: Mike’s text about our older son, the sunrise, the cold weather, the light, the windmills, the wind, the gorgeous convent ruins and the mystical music at the cafe near San Antón. I also asked God for forgiveness for my bitterness and anger over my youngest son. I was feeling nothing but love for the world by the end of the day.

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*Day 21: Monday, September 24, 2018*

*31,166 steps, or 13.21 miles: Hornillos del Camino to Castrojeriz (20.1 km)*

You can find everything I’ve written so far on the Camino de Santiago here:

Camino de Santiago 2018

Ruminations {week three}

The third week was by far the most difficult of my whole Camino. Though I found “angels” to direct me along the path, I was dealing with some major problems back home with my loved one, and felt demoralized and devastated by the whole situation. I felt much like the forlorn black-faced sunflowers I passed along the way.

We passed into Castilla y León, leaving the La Rioja region behind. We were heading into the dreaded Meseta. I was still struggling with the pilgrim stink, on myself and on other pilgrims, because of the relentless heat. I almost got run over by a truck in the town of Villafranca de Montes de Oca, a kind of truck thoroughfare. I walked in fog and in darkness, attending to haystacks, wildflowers, violet berries, patches of heather and ferns, small pine trees laced with spider webs, and fields of derelict sunflowers. I passed through unsightly industrial areas. I fell in love with early morning light, building-like haystacks, a rest area filled with totem poles, and Albergue Rosalía; I loved its single beds laid out under a tall ceiling with large wooden beams.

I had crazy times in the albergue in Atapuerca in a coed shower, laughing as I came out of the shower, bumping into the Aussies, Ray and Tony, in only their underwear.

I was disappointed that I accidentally missed a 4.9 km stretch of the Camino when I stayed at a hotel off the Camino and then got a ride with a fellow pilgrim that took me right past the town of Villamayor del Río, where I expected to be dropped off.

I continued to love stopping in churches, kneeling, and offering prayers for family, friends, fellow pilgrims, my country and the world.

As I walked and shared my struggles with other pilgrims, they shared intimately with me, about sons who were bipolar and had been repeatedly “locked up;” about lost sons and struggling sons; about the meaning of “grit;” about what was true and what wasn’t.

My third week, I connected with pilgrims with whom I shared a spirit of fellowship and laughter: Richard and Paul from Quebec; Tony and Ray from Australia; Simon and Karen from Britain; Anne from France, who was fearless about sleeping outdoors; Ingrid my old friend from Minnesota, who had fallen behind after pushing herself too hard; Glauco from Brazil who was walking for his two deceased sons and his wife’s ongoing pregnancy; Ludwig, who prayed in all the churches for Trump to have a stroke; David and Michelle, who believed that astronauts didn’t land on the moon, that the whole thing was staged. I met two Danish middle-school teachers, Marianne and Mette, who brought me much needed laughter. I met Karen and Chun-Yu, who had paired up for the duration of their Camino despite only meeting early on the Camino. I met Anne who was trying to prove she had “grit” but was confounded at every turn with twisted ankles and huge blisters. I met Joan and Harold from Texas, after not having seen them since Burgette.

I was ditched by some Virginians, Dick and his wife, for a planned dinner date in Burgos. A music festival pounded with loud music right outside my Burgos hotel. My whole time in Burgos, I felt devastated by horrible things my loved one said about me, and by his blocking of me from all social media. In Burgos, I lost my heart for my Camino and for life in general.

Darina from Slovakia had stopped off at Navarette for a week with some teaching colleagues and wrote to me periodically, but I didn’t see her during my third week. I found out through Instagram that the newlyweds, Claire and Matt, would be going to South Korea to teach with the English Program in Korea (EPIK).

I continued to be obsessed with collecting sellos (stamps) in my pilgrim credenciale. I loved the pilgrim meals where people shared their reasons for doing the Camino and where fellowship evolved among pilgrims. It continued to feel like life in microcosm, parallel yet removed from my actual daily life.

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On Sundays, I post about hikes or walks that I have taken in my travels; I may also post on other unrelated subjects. I will use these posts to participate in Jo’s Monday Walks or any other challenges that catch my fancy.

This post is in response to Jo’s Monday Walk.

the dramatic coast of peniche, portugal

wanderessence1025 June 13, 2019

The coastal city of Peniche is a working port with expansive beaches used for surfing, diving, and kitesurfing. On a brief stop on our way to Sintra, we found a scenic harbor, white windmills, a lighthouse, chapels, rocky cliffs, long sandy beaches, surfers, beach goers, dunes with fences and grasses, and dramatic clouds. We also found expansive areas covered in Hottentot fig, an invasive plant native to South Africa but introduced into coastal areas to hinder dune-shifting and control soil erosion.

Peniche

Peniche

Peniche

lighthouse at Peniche

Peniche

Hottentot fig groundcover

Hottentot fig groundcover

cross at Peniche

strange rock formations

Hottentot fig groundcover

Peniche

Peniche

Mike in Peniche

me in Peniche

The beaches and dunes of Peniche were particularly beautiful because of the strong breezes and dramatic clouds.

Peniche dunes

Peniche dunes

Peniche beaches

Peniche dunes

Peniche dunes

*Thursday, November 1, 2018*

*********************

You probably have your own ideas about this, but in case you’d like some ideas, you can visit my page: photography inspiration.

I challenge you to post no more than 20-25 photos and to write less than 1,500 words about any travel-related photography intention you set for yourself. Include the link in the comments below by Wednesday, June 19 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Thursday, June 20, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, every first, second, and third (& 5th, if there is one) Thursday of each month (I’ve now added the second Thursday). Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

the ~ wander.essence ~ community

I invite you all to settle in and read a few posts from our wandering community. I promise, you’ll be inspired!

Ulli, of Suburban Tracks, wrote a post with black & white photographs from his 1985 trip to Cairo, Egypt.
- CAIRO – BEACON OF THE ORIENT

Thanks to all of you who shared posts on the “photography” invitation. 🙂

portugal: the charming óbidos

wanderessence1025 June 11, 2019

We arrived in Óbidos during a cold, rainy, and gloomy Wednesday afternoon in late October. Before settling into the medieval town, we drove outside of the town’s crenelated walls to explore Our Lord Jesus of the Stone Sanctuary, inaugurated in 1747, which loomed on the plain beneath the hilltop town. King João V commissioned the unusual hexagonal Baroque sanctuary in thanksgiving for his escape from an accident during which he invoked Our Lord Jesus of the Stone. Though the church seemed closed and quite deserted, we found the door open and went inside to explore.

Back inside the town’s walls, we wandered through the labyrinth of cobblestone streets and bougainvillea-adorned, whitewashed houses spiffed up with splashes of vivid yellow and blue paint. We stopped into several churches looking for the Igreja de Santa Maria Óbidos, but instead found ourselves in one that had been converted to a library.

The Moors had laid out the pretty streets of Óbidos, but they had abandoned the town by the time Dom Dinis (1261–1325) first showed the town to his wife, Dona Isabel, in 1288. When she fell in love with the town, the king handed it to her as a wedding gift.

To warm our bodies and souls, we dipped into a dark and cozy bar called Ibn Errik Rex. We sipped beers amidst arches and domes hand-painted on the walls and chatted with two Californians who had recently hiked to Machu Picchu. I told them I’d just completed the Camino de Santiago. We met a New Jersey guy who traveled often to visit his Brazilian girlfriend; they were vacationing together in Portugal. Mike had a long conversation with the owner about Portuguese history. The owner encouraged Mike to lift a wall flap on the wall to reveal a nude woman underneath. We used our iPhones not to telephone anyone, but to take photos of the atmospheric place.

At the restaurant, First of December, we enjoyed typical Portuguese food: sardines for Mike and Portuguese sausage for me.

Our Lord Jesus of the Stone Sanctuary

ruins near the sanctuary

Óbidos

cobbled streets of Óbidos

bouganvillea in Óbidos

Mike in Óbidos

Óbidos

church converted to a library

Castelo in Óbidos

Óbidos

Ibn Errik Rex

inside of Ibn Errik Rex

me inside Ibn Errik Rex

inside Ibn Errik Rex

Mike reveals a secret

Ibn Errik Rex

Mike’s sardines

my Portuguese sausage

After we woke Thursday morning, we enjoyed a huge breakfast spread in our Airbnb. The sun was starting to peek out, so we strolled around the unprotected muro (castle wall) for sweeping views over the town and surrounding countryside. The Moors created the walls, but they’ve since been restored. The castelo (castle), with its foreboding edifice, towers, battlements and large gates, was created by Dom Dinis in the 13th century.

Strolling through the cobbled streets of the town, we admired rose-bordered windows, ivy-filled bearded-man-pots, and shops selling vintage toy vehicles, bags made of cork, and all manner of enticing souvenirs. A sign advised: “Be a unicorn in a field of horses.” We sampled bright red Ginjinha d’Obidos, a sweet alcoholic liqueur in little dark chocolate cups that we ate after gulping.

On our way out of town, we stopped to admire the 16th-century 3km-long aqueduct, used to transport water into town. The project was funded by the Queen of Portugal, Queen Catherine. She sold her lands that surrounded Óbidos to pay for the construction.

With our visit to Óbidos complete, we left the town behind to head south down the coast toward Sintra, with a planned stop in Peniche along the coast.

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

Walk around the muro

streets of Óbidos

streets of Óbidos

streets of Óbidos

streets of Óbidos

toy vehicles in Óbidos

streets of Óbidos

chocolate shop

bouganvillea in Óbidos

Mike in Óbidos

Óbidos aqueduct

Óbidos aqueduct

*Wednesday, October 31 – Thursday, November 1, 2018*

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“PROSE” INVITATION: I invite you to write up to a post on your own blog about a recently visited particular destination (not journeys in general). Concentrate on any intention you set for your prose. In this case, one of my intentions for my trip to Portugal was to pick five random verbs each day and use them in my travel essay: 1) ~~close~~, 2) ~~wake~~, 3) ~~telephone~~, 4) ~~hand~~, 5) ~~complete~~. √

It doesn’t matter whether you write fiction or non-fiction for this invitation. You can either set your own writing intentions, or use one of the prompts I’ve listed on this page: writing prompts: prose. (This page is a work in process.) You can also include photos, of course.

Include the link in the comments below by Monday, June 24 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this invitation on Tuesday, June 25, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

{camino day 20} burgos to hornillos del camino

wanderessence1025 June 9, 2019

I got a late start this morning because outside my hotel some drunk hooligans were playing loud pulsing music at 5:45 and seemed to be messing with parked cars on the street. The music suddenly quieted as they ran off; a policeman walked by, shining lights into the cars. Two drunk revelers stumbled by in wedding attire. I didn’t feel comfortable leaving in the dark with so much crazy action going on, so I waited until 7:15, still dark.

It was a long walk out of Burgos. I made my way out of the city in the dark, trying to keep to the convoluted path indicated by the yellow arrows. The route out of Burgos was more pleasant than the stretch into the city, absent any disagreeable industrial complexes or blighted suburban landscapes.

I would begin the Meseta and its endless crop fields in earnest today, and I was preparing myself for long hot days ahead.

Burgos to Puente de Malatos (1.4km)

Still within the city limits, I fell into step with with Glauco from Brazil. He didn’t speak much English, but as we walked out of the city he told me he was walking the Camino for his two dead sons. The first died at four days old; he was premature. The other died after ten months. He said that son was very strong. His wife was now five months pregnant. He had tattoos on each arm for each son and a tiny little baby onesie he carried with him. He and I cried together and I told him I’d pray for him, his wife and his new baby. We then walked companionably in silence out of the city.

leaving Burgos in the dark

leaving Burgos

church on the way out of Burgos

We walked through the cobbled streets past the Jacobean church of San Pedro de la Fuente and then crossed the río Arlanzón over the Puente de Malatos, or Bridge of Maladies.

Glauco and me – our elongated shadows

We continued through the parque El Parral and out a gate at the far end past a tiny chapel dedicated to the humble pilgrim saint from France, San Amaro de peregrino, who, on his return from Santiago, settled here and dedicated his life to the welfare of other pilgrims. He left a legacy of healing miracles. We passed through the King’s Gate, Puerta del Rey, and past the campus of Burgos University.

At some point along the way, Glauco and I parted ways as it was difficult for us to communicate beyond mere basics. I continued along a poplar plantation and noted the state prison’s watch towers on the far side of the river. I walked on a road over the río Arlanzón and then through a tunnel under a railway, and then crossed a bridge over the new autopista.

Puente de Malatos to Camino to Puente autopista (6.1 km)

Graffiti

The track wended its way under the A-231 and over the N-120 and río Arlanzón via the puente del Arzobispo. The track continued along the N-120 to a roadside cross (Cruceiro) at the entrance to Tardajos.

Puente autopista to Tardajos Cruceiro (3.1 km)

Fiat 500

The path, which passed close by the river, was bordered by poplars, alders and some ashes.

poplars along the river

When I reached Tardajos, I had a patata tortilla, orange juice and cafe con leche, my normal second breakfast. I was still feeling raw over the last three days’s struggles, but I felt like I wasn’t alone in my struggles. Everyone struggles with something, as I realized when walking with Glauco.

Tardajos

Tardajos

On leaving Tardajos on a local road, I finally had a conversation with Ludwig, who I’d met at Beilari in St-Jean-Pied-de-Port at the beginning of the Camino. He lived in California and was retired. I’d crossed paths with him many times, but we’d never chatted before. I always assumed he disliked me for some reason. He said he left Prague in 1966 and it was the best thing he ever did. He said in every church, he prayed that Trump would have a stroke so that he couldn’t tweet or talk and would sh*t all over himself. He found it unbelievable that so many people voted for him.

I parted ways with Ludwig in Rabé de las Calzadas, and we would never chat again. I was happy to have connected with him finally. After a couple more towns, I never saw him again. I don’t know if he gave up on his Camino, lagged behind me (unlikely) or passed me somewhere along the line.

Tardajos to Rabé de las Calzadas (2.4 km)

I passed quickly through Rabé de las Calzadas, which was simply one long street punctuated by a fountain with iron jets decorated with scallop shells.

fountain in Rabé de las Calzadas

I walked past the 13th century Iglesia de Santa Mariña, a church in Rabé de las Calzadas.

Rabé de las Calzadas

Rabé de las Calzadas to Fuente de Praotorre to Hornillos del Camino (8 km)

On the way out of town, I passed the tiny Ermita de Nuestra Señora de Monasterio, where a service was in progress, before heading up onto the Meseta.

Small church in Rabé de las Calzadas

Rabé de las Calzadas to Fuente de Praotorre

Along the broad treeless plain to Hornillos del Camino, which included two steep inclines, I ran into David and Michelle from England, who I’d also met in St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. I was glad I wasn’t way behind everyone I’d started with.

I continued through the landscape of the Meseta with its sacred stones (piedras santos) and cereal fields stretching to the horizon. I smiled as I passed a bare-chested shepherd with his flock of sheep.

sacred stones (piedras santos) on the Meseta

neat haystacks

neat haystacks

shepherd & his flock

As we walked along the long hot trail, an Irish lady drove by in her car to promote her business, The Green Tree, at the far end of Hornillos del Camino, by handing out huge cold grapes to pilgrims. Those grapes were such a welcome and refreshing treat.

Fuente de Praotorre to Hornillos del Camino

I finally reached the high point on the Meseta. At the crest of the hill going into Hornillos was a guy playing guitar and singing. I gave him a couple of euros before descending steeply down what is known as the Mule-Killer Slope (Cuesta Matamulas).

Mule-Killer Slope (Cuesta Matamulas)

At the bottom of the descent, I walked along a quiet road that ran alongside the río Hormazuela.

Fuente de Praotorre to Hornillos del Camino

I continued on to Hornillos del Camino, checked into my albergue, Meeting Point, showered and did laundry. I found that I got my first blister on my left pinky toe. I was bummed because I’d been blister-free so far.

Then I walked to the far end of town to The Green Tree. The Irish lady’s self-promotion persuaded me to try out her café!

Meeting Point

Hornillos del Camino

On the way to The Green Tree, I stopped into the Gothic Church of San Román Plaza de la Iglesia.

San Román Plaza de Iglesia

The church was stunning inside. As always, I prayed for my Camino, my serenity, and my family.

Interior of San Román Plaza de Iglesia

I strolled through the quiet town of Hornillos del Camino with its small population of 60 people.

Hornillos del Camino

At The Green Tree, I enjoyed a goat cheese salad, hummus and pita, and a rosé spritzer. It wasn’t often we could find such healthy options on the Camino.

I ran into Michelle and David, who couldn’t find a room in town and were waiting for a taxi to take them two more towns along. David and Michelle joined me for lunch and David told me a long story. Glauco was there and joined us as well. David’s mother and father had him out of wedlock, so his mother’s sister and her husband adopted him. His biological mother and father later got married, but they didn’t want much to do with him. After many years of trying to have a relationship with his biological mother, he finally decided to cut them off. Later, when his mother was dying, she wanted to see him. He refused and she died. His biological father started writing to him with kindness, so he made an attempt to have a relationship with him despite not really caring one way or another about him. He was trying to do the kind thing because he could, and he and Michelle planned to visit his biological father on the Costa del Sol after their Camino.

I told them about my loved one and his “flat earth” thoughts and conspiracy theories, and they weren’t that shocked. David said many young people these days express these same concerns. Michelle said she believed that astronauts didn’t really land on the moon, that it was all staged. I felt somehow calmed by their sharing. I also found serenity in a poem I found in the café by John O’Donohue.

goat cheese salad, hummus, pita and rose spritzer

Wise words from John O’Donohue

Irish owner of The Green Tree and Michelle

Michelle and David

At the Meeting Point, we shared a pilgrim meal prepared by the owner, Omar, and his sister. They made delicious paella, salad, and lemon custard, accompanied by wine. I sat next to two Danish ladies, Marianne and Mette, who worked together as teachers in a middle school. I said, “Oh, you’re like Rita!” (from the Danish TV series of the same name). We had a lovely time all around.

paella

pilgrim meal at The Meeting Point

Mike sent me photos of the last two daily readings from One Day at a Time in Al-Anon. They somehow gave me peace about the situation with our loved one. I determined that I would keep walking and sharing and listening and learning. This was, after all, my Camino, my lessons to learn, my life, and I needed to simply keep walking my path and figuring out how to negotiate life’s challenges as they arose.

pages from One Day at a Time in Al-Anon

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*Day 20: Sunday, September 23, 2018*

*32,169 steps, or 13.91 miles: Burgos to Hornillos del Camino (20.5 km)*

You can find everything I’ve written so far on the Camino de Santiago here:

Camino de Santiago 2018

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This post is in response to Jo’s Monday Walk: Mértola’s 10th Islamic Festival.

poetic journeys: awakening

wanderessence1025 June 7, 2019

Awakening

Morning would come soon enough, but blackness
still wrapped around me as I shuffled out of Arzúa. Overhead,
the trees yawned and stretched. The eucalyptus forest sighed
a fragrant hallelujah to the sequestered sun.

Oak leaves skittered away underfoot. Gently, the swishing treetops
brushed the sleep from the fluttering eyelids of stars.
Along the fence line, a pale horse emerged
from the dark, exhaling a deep quivering breath.

My greatest delusion was believing I was alone. But there,
under those whispering trees and canopy of stars, that ghostly
apparition awakened me to uncertainty, invited me
into the embrace of my improbably unfolding life.

June 1, 2019

a white horse in the dark forest outside of Arzúa

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“POETRY” Invitation: I invite you to write a poem of any poetic form on your own blog about a particular travel destination. Or you can write about travel in general. Concentrate on any intention you set for your poetry.

One of my intentions for my Camino was this: Write several poems that use personification in a straightforward yet unexpected way: “I walked abroad, / And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge / Like a red-faced farmer.” In an interview with Anselm Berrigan at Literary Hub, John Yau, winner of the 2018 Jackson Poetry Prize, talks about puzzling over the personification in these lines from T. E. Hulme’s 1909 poem “Autumn.” In what way does personification affect imagery in poetry? How does this kind of description enhance not only the perception of the object being personified, but also the idea of personhood and the narrator’s idiosyncratic perspective? (poetry prompt from Poets & Writers: Week 31 – August 3, 2018)

Personification is a type of figurative language where non-humans are given human characteristics.

You can either set your own poetic intentions, or use one of the prompts I’ve listed on this page: writing prompts: poetry. (This page is a work in process). You can also include photos, of course.

Include the link in the comments below by Thursday, July 4 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Friday, July 5, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, on the first Friday of each month. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

the stunning catedral de santa maría in burgos

wanderessence1025 June 6, 2019

The 13th-century Catedral de Santa María in Burgos is among the most beautiful of Spain’s many cathedrals, and one of its largest after The Giralda at Sevilla. Begun in 1221, it was modified in the 15th and 16th centuries. Mostly Gothic, it actually combines many styles, having been embellished over the centuries with Renaissance and Baroque elements by different master builders and architects. It has a magnificent edifice, graceful spires, and sits in the midst of the grand city’s medieval streets.

Catedral de Santa María in Burgos

Designated a World Heritage Site, it is filled with art treasures and artifacts. There are 21 outstanding chapels, including St. Thecla, St. John, and St. James. Behind the high altar is a statue of St. James the Moor-slayer, Santiago Matamoros.

interior of Catedral de Santa María

interior of Catedral de Santa María

interior of Catedral de Santa María

interior of Catedral de Santa María

interior of Catedral de Santa María

interior of Catedral de Santa María

interior of Catedral de Santa María

The altarpiece of the Chapel of St. Anne is exquisitely detailed.

Altarpiece of the Chapel of St. Anne

The impressive Renaissance Golden Staircase, Escalera Dorada, was designed by Diego de Siloe.

Renaissance Golden Staircase, Escalera Dorada

interior of Catedral de Santa María

Inside the center of the Chapel of the Condestables (the Constables) are the recumbent statues of the founders, Pedro Fernández de Velasco and Mencía de Mendoza. These marble statues display exquisite and realistic detail in the features, hair, clothing and jewelry.

the Condestables

interior of Catedral de Santa María in Burgos

interior of Catedral de Santa María

Directly under the star lantern at the heart of the cathedral, lies El Cid, or Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar (c. 1043 – 10 July 1099), a Castilian nobleman and military leader in medieval Spain. His wife Jimena lies by his side. El Cid was a Muslim title of respect; he is the great legendary son of Burgos. He died in Valencia in 1099 after having recovered the city from the Moors. I didn’t take a photo of the tomb, but below is the Cofre (chest) of El Cid.

Cofre (chest) of El Cid

cloister at Catedral de Santa María

Catedral de Santa María

Catedral de Santa María in Burgos

interior of Catedral de Santa María

*September 22, 2018*

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You probably have your own ideas about this, but in case you’d like some ideas, you can visit my page: photography inspiration.

I challenge you to post no more than 20-25 photos (or more, as I did here!) and to write less than 1,500 words about any travel-related photography intention you set for yourself. Include the link in the comments below by Wednesday, June 12 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Thursday, June 13, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, every first, second, and third (& 5th, if there is one) Thursday of each month (I’ve now added the second Thursday). Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

on returning home from coeur d’alene, idaho

wanderessence1025 June 3, 2019

For just over four years, we called Coeur d’Alene, Idaho our home. The city is named after the Coeur d’Alene People, a tribe of Native Americans who lived along the rivers and lakes of the region. They were first encountered by French fur traders in the late 18th and early 19th century, who referred to them as Cœur d’Alêne, meaning “heart of an awl,” reflecting the Frenchmen’s experience of the tribal traders as tough businessmen, “sharp-hearted” or “shrewd.”

In the first month, my first husband, Bill, and I lived temporarily in a brick rambler. One dark night while Bill was at work and I was alone, someone knocked at our front door and then disappeared; heart pounding, I picked up a large butcher knife and stole out the back door. I was terrified of being trapped in the house with a violent intruder. I figured if I was outdoors, I could scream, or run to a neighbor’s, or just run like hell. I remember holding that huge knife in the freezing wind of a starless Idaho night with my back up against the rough brick wall of that rambler. I stole around the entire house, pausing to peek around every corner in case I came face-to-face with the perpetrator. Luckily, I never encountered a soul.

For some reason, Idaho seemed scary to me in those early days. Maybe it was because in those days I was afraid of everything.

Four years, and during the remaining winter months of that first year, we lived in an A-frame near Hayden Lake, less than seven miles from Coeur d’Alene. That A-frame was freezing cold and I sat bundled up much of the time in front of an oil furnace making up grocery lists.

For four years, we lived in a tiny house in a run-down part of Coeur d’Alene. Renovated by some builder, it cost $26,000. It was a perfect price for our first home as Bill had spent most of his inheritance from his mother’s death on his trip across country with his college roommate Andy, and I helped him spend much of the rest. Brown carpet was throughout; everything was new, but every room was claustrophobic.

For these four of the first five years of my newly married life, I felt I was failing miserably at the marriage thing. I tried to be domestic. I experimented with recipes out of cookbooks and magazines, expanding past my limited childhood menus: I made soups, hamburger Stroganoff, casseroles of every kind. Bill planted a garden in the backyard and I did a lot of quilting. I felt a bit like a prairie girl, because I certainly wasn’t a mature woman yet. I was 24-28 years old during those years.

me with Bill

my mom and me

me with a quilt creation

For four years we stayed, but only five months after we arrived, on May 18, 1980, a wall of ash marched across the sky on a blue Sunday afternoon. We hadn’t turned our television on, so we had no idea what was approaching us in that sludge-gray curtain. It seemed Mount Saint Helens, 96 miles south of Seattle, Washington, and 420 miles away from Coeur d’Alene, had erupted. We were covered in ash for days, trapped inside, advised not to drive or go outdoors. We were miserably hot because we couldn’t open the windows; I was worried we’d be stuck forever in that tiny house. After several days, rain fell and eventually, the ash washed away. The Mount St. Helens eruption was the deadliest and most economically destructive volcanic event in U.S. history. Fifty-seven people were killed; 250 homes, 47 bridges, 15 miles (24 km) of railways, and 185 miles (298 km) of highway were destroyed.

For four years, we enjoyed short but sweet summers, with perfect temperatures in the high 70s to low 80s and no humidity. We also suffered through impossibly long and harsh winters, with periodic blizzards dropping up to 36″ of snow; sometimes immediately following a blizzard, the warm and moist Chinook winds swooped in from the Pacific Ocean toward the Rocky Mountains, melting feet of snow within a day or two.

Over four years, we became good friends with Frank and Rhonda. Rhonda worked with me at Idaho First National Bank and limped because one leg was shorter than the other. Frank didn’t work and was living off a trust fund left to him by his deceased parents. They had built an A-frame log house on a mountaintop outside of town. We partied with them a lot, drinking a lot and having wild times in that untamed country.

Frank & Rhonda at Lake Coeur d’Alene

For four years, my husband wrote for The Coeur d’Alene Press. I wrote for six-months at the fly-by-night weekly newspaper, The Spokane Falls, where I made $45/week. When the editor quit after I’d been there only a week, I suddenly became editor and I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. Bill helped me at night, sitting at our kitchen table — a wooden spool that had once held electric cable — and edited my stories until they became HIS stories. Slowly, any confidence I had in my writing ability deteriorated until I had none at all. I quit and found a job at Idaho First National Bank, where I started as a teller, then worked my way up to management trainee and loan officer.

getting an award at Idaho First National Bank

me at Idaho First National Bank

me winning $100 at Safeway

We had always said we didn’t care about money and that we wanted to accomplish something meaningful in our lives. I got sidetracked from that vision because I was tired of being poor! We never had any money. We went out to eat, went on camping vacations, and never bought anything for the house. We never saved money. I was ashamed of that little house and never wanted to have any friends over for dinner.

Four years during which we did a lot of hiking and I tried skiing at resorts outside Coeur d’Alene. I had a fear of heights and fast speeds and my skiing ability was pathetic. I spent most of my time on the bunny slope, out-of-control, screaming and sliding on my behind.

me skiing near Coeur d’Alene

screaming & out of control

my usual position while skiing

Four years in which we attended dog sled races because Bill had to cover them for the newspaper. He also had to cover crimes, car accidents, local politics and the activities of the Aryan Nations, an anti-Semitic, neo-Nazi, white supremacist terrorist organization which at that time was based on a compound near Hayden Lake. We kept a police scanner in our house so Bill could hear of any stories he might need to cover. He’d often run out in the middle of the night to follow the police.

dog sled races

Four years during which I ran long distances, through neighborhoods, around Tubbs Hill, and on mountain roads with my friend and work colleague Delinda. One year, I ran a 10k in the Hangover Handicap on icy roads on New Year’s morning. I finished last because my feet kept sliding out from under me with every step. The race officials drove behind me picking up cones and markers for the race, annoying me immensely!

Hangover Handicap

me after finishing last in the Hangover Handicap

During our four years, we took a seven-day raft trip down the Salmon River in southern Idaho, organized by a college friend from William & Mary. Some of Bill’s fraternity brothers were along. Most of us were in two-man inflatable canoes, but two large rafts carried our camping and food supplies. The Salmon is the most massive river in Idaho and one of the largest in North America; it wends its way through the second deepest canyon on the continent, passing through 85 miles of remote wilderness. It has class 3 and some class 4 rapids. We paddled through heart-stopping roller coaster rapids and wave trains punctuated by deep green pools and roiling pillows. We rested at white sand beaches and pools and bathtubs built into canyon walls. We jumped off bridges into the river. We took turns cooking dinners for the whole group as we traveled. When we finished the trip, we took a jet boat back upriver to our starting point in one day.

the William & Mary gang on the Salmon River

Bill and I in a bathtub built into the rocks

a little relaxation

Bill in the stern

me in the bow

Salmon River

preparing to jump off a bridge over the Salmon River

jumping

Four years during which we had crazy parties with our friends and formed a human chain across two-lane roads late at night, dispersing at the last minute when we saw cars approaching from a distance. A black & white photo of our human chain is pinned to the bookshelf in the photo below.

Doug, Bill, me, Bill & Karin

Four years in which we explored and camped all around the Pacific Northwest, including Washington, Oregon, Montana, southern Idaho and Banff, Canada. Four years in which I had too many bad haircuts to count.

me in Coeur d’Alene

me at the Oregon coast

cooking creations while camping

Four years in which our marriage often seemed on the rocks. We fought a lot and I swore I never wanted children. In a desperate hope of saving our marriage, and after watching The World According to Garp, in which Garp was desperately in love with his family and children, I decided maybe we should have children after all. Both, I realized much later, were stupid reasons to bring a child into the world.

me at Hayden Lake

Bill at Hayden Lake

I got pregnant almost immediately once we decided to have children, five years into our marriage. Our daughter Sarah was born in April of 1984 in Kootenai Hospital in Coeur d’Alene, and we moved back to Virginia shortly after she was born; there, we would have family around to be part of her life.

We moved to an apartment on the second floor of an old house in Mathews, Virginia and eventually I went to work as a stockbroker for Thomson McKinnon Securities (now defunct). Nothing helped, however, to keep our marriage together. Bill and I separated in 1987 and divorced in early 1988, after 7 1/2 years of marriage. Sarah was just over two years old when we separated.

This was my first time to live outside the state of Virginia, where I’d lived my whole life. I didn’t know a thing about relationships as I hadn’t had good role models, and I was entirely too self-centered to be either a wife or a mother. Life was a struggle for a while after we returned home, as we went through our separation and I tried to juggle full-time work and motherhood. Sarah’s father and I always shared custody of Sarah. Though her childhood was tough because of this, she admits today that she feels very lucky to have two families, with four parents and four brothers, all who love her dearly.

*January, 1980 to May, 1984*

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“ON RETURNING HOME” INVITATION: I invite you to write a post on your own blog about returning home from one particular destination or, alternately, from a long journey encompassing many stops. How do you linger over your wanderings and create something from them? How have you changed? Did the place live up to its hype, or was it disappointing? Feel free to address any aspect of your journey and how it influences you upon your return. If you don’t have a blog, I invite you to write in the comments.

For some ideas on this, you can check out the original post about this subject: on returning home.

Include the link in the comments below by Sunday, June 30 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Monday, July 1, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation on the first Monday of each month. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

{camino day 19} a day in burgos

wanderessence1025 June 2, 2019

I slept fairly well despite the loud music outside my hotel window, which ended about midnight. I got going around 8:30 to explore Burgos. Sometimes referred to as the Gothic capital of Spain, it was also the seat of Franco’s government until 1938, revealing its nationalist and establishment leanings. Named after its heavy defensive town towers, burgos, it was home to the warlord El Cid.

I walked past the 15th century San Lesmes, built in the 15th century to house the remains of San Lesmes, patron saint of the town who dedicated himself to the care of the pilgrims on the Road to Santiago de Compostela. I smiled at a squat sturdy couple sculpted in metal, and wandered through the empty streets of the city to the plaza fronting Catedral de Santa María, where I commiserated with the tired Monument to the Pilgrim.

early morning in Burgos

San Lesmes

a sturdy sculptured couple

streets of Burgos

pilgrim sculpture

Catedral de Santa María

I was headed straight for the café near the cathedral where I had seen churros and chocolate on offer the previous evening. I enjoyed those for breakfast, along with café con leche and orange juice.

churros and chocolate and orange juice

Then I went over to the stunning 13th-century Catedral de Santa María, mostly Gothic with elements of Renaissance and Baroque. It’s a World Heritage Site. There is an excellent audio tour with more information than a person could ever absorb. I marveled over the multitudes of chapels, choirs, cloisters, altarpieces, and domes. It was huge! I’ll write another post with photos of the interior. 🙂

Catedral de Santa María

door of Catedral de Santa María

Catedral de Santa María

Virgin Mary in Catedral de Santa María

altarpiece in Catedral de Santa María

ceiling in Catedral de Santa María

ceiling & altarpiece in Catedral de Santa María

ceiling in Catedral de Santa María

I passed through the Arco Santa María, the medieval entrance dating back to the 14th century, crossing the Puente de Santa María over the río Arlazón, the river that runs around the south side of the city and separates the old town from the new. I wandered to a pilgrim shop outside the old town that other pilgrims had told me about. I was looking for a small backpack that could hold a water bladder for my long trek ahead through the Meseta, since I had decided I would continue sending my large backpack ahead for the entire Camino. I found the pilgrim shop, but not the kind of backpack I was looking for.

Arco Santa María

inviting stream

I walked back into town and stopped at an outdoor cafe for tapas and limon y cerveza. I ran into a couple I’d met earlier on the Camino; they were from somewhere in the middle of Virginia, Dick and his wife. They said they were going to rent bicycles to go across the Meseta, doing two stages a day, in order to meet their timetable to catch their flight home. We planned to meet that evening at 7:00 for dinner outside the cathedral.

tapas with limon y cerveza for lunch

After lunch, I went to visit Iglesia de San Gil Abad, dating from the 14th-15th centuries, but a wedding was in progress so I couldn’t go in. I always feel sleepy after having a beer at lunch, so I made my way slowly back to my hotel for an afternoon nap.

I was on the fringe of numerous celebrations in Burgos, but I wasn’t feeling in a celebratory mood because my anger and anxiety over my loved one from the previous night was spilling over into my day. When I got back to my room, where I had wifi, my husband and I got into a disastrous exchange about him. He said they’d gone back and forth with a number of texts; he had told our loved one that I was upset that he’d blocked me on every form of social media. I said I didn’t like them talking about me behind my back and I wanted to know everything that was said about me. When Mike sent the text exchange, I was hurt by everything my loved one said. It seemed he thought it was “them” (Mike, him and his brother) against me, and that they should move forward, not backwards, without me. It was extremely hurtful.

I felt so angry with Mike for talking about me with our loved one and then trying to gloss over the conversation and not being forthcoming about it. I was angry with our loved one because he continued to blame us, especially me, for the problems in his life. He believed what society labels “schizophrenia” was a gift, not something that should be put down.

He sent this text to my husband, forwarded to me:

She loves the idea of us. If she actually loved us she would have been there. Sure we can’t go backwards. Let’s go forwards. If she actually loved us she would hear our concerns. Still not happening. She needs to reconcile her relationship with her mother. Mom needs to wake up to the truth that my grandmother was not crazy but in fact simply lived in a controlled world that didn’t want my grandmother sharing her truth. You guys both need to wake up to the fact that schizophrenic people are not born with a broken brain but their brain is broken slowly over decades by the people in their lives not listening and choosing to believe paid actors over their own family. She (and you) needs to wake up to the truth that shamanism runs in our bloodline. This is powerful work and this is what I came here for. The powers that be are working hard to silence us, the shaman class, and we are fighting back, but when our loved ones can’t hear us because of the strength of the deception it gets hard for us to get ahold of ANYTHING. You don’t have to agree, no, but in order for me to listen to you you’ve got to listen and not immediately put me in a box and start treating me like I’m broken. ……

Look at what I’ve said, I haven’t claimed to know the truth, I’m only saying that the evidence I’ve seen shows lies and cover ups in every major area of human activity and this leads me to question. Then I come to you guys, my parents, with these questions and you’re refusing to entertain the possibility. Even provided evidence, I mean look at mom’s response. She legit said she doesn’t care about this shit. She just wants me to let her live her life. Well living an unexamined life means you’re serving a master you don’t know. And for me to point that out to you is not offensive, it is simply true. ….

You wanna know how much it hurts me to know that you guys legit don’t care at all about me and you put on a facade every chance you get and are trying to shape me into the child you guys always wanted me to be,

I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you guys to comprehend why I’m angry. You both, my only parents in this world, are literally insulting my intelligence 🤷‍♂️ I cannot comprehend why you guys got so angry. I understand why you’re angry now. You were angry then and you keep making it worse. But you need to remember why you got angry in the first place and realize it’s a silly reason. When I remember why I got angry in the first place, it’s still completely justified no matter which way I look at it. I’ve been lied to since day 1. My life has been a witch hunt. Remember that time I got expelled from school for having a plant privately? Remember when mom SCREAMED at me for not completing one assignment in fifth grade, literally towering over a young boy violently yelling over not completing something from school, which you guys never even considered if it was a good place to put me, you just did it because other people told you to. Remember that little boy who sat at the window waving as his daddy left every day for 18+ years. Remember how badly he just wanted to be around his father and learn from him? Now you see this weak pussy of a Peter Pan boy crying because he never learned any life skills from his parents but gave him enough money that he never had to learn those skills himself. I know why I’m angry. I can’t figure out why y’all are angry? You have more than enough resources. You have the stability to take a minute and do some research and see if your son is crazy or if he’s just one of the few awake. I can’t figure out why y’all are so angry but I’m f** pissed.”

My husband wrote back to him:

So you think your parents were the worst parents in the world because we did the best we knew how and raised our kids the way our friends and peers raised their kids? You choose to focus on negatives vs any positives. Ok that is fine. Everyone makes mistakes – we are human. Many people come from dysfunctional families and in Landmark-speak, at some point in time you need to leave the baggage behind and figure how to move forward and let go of the anger and forgive or it will keep eating away at you. It just seems that you are so angry that we don’t agree with your views and yes we have heard them. That doesn’t seem right. Mom spent all night praying for you and for herself and talking with others to get different perspectives. She called this morning to suggest paying off the last three months of Alex’s rent so you guys could get a place together. I’ve read tons of books and continue to read so that I am open to new ideas. Mom read the book you sent her right away. Not sure how many moms would have done that.

I felt there was no hope, no way forward. I could not live with another emotionally unstable person in my life. I wanted to escape from the family. I felt it was them against me. My feelings were so strong and dark that I wrote in my journal: “I am feeling like I don’t want to live any longer. Maybe there is a cliff or a castle wall I can throw myself off.”

Not only did I not fit in with my own family, and I didn’t want to deal anymore with my loved one and his disastrous decisions that always impacted us, but I felt I didn’t fit in anywhere. I felt no connection to anyone. I hated being in the city with all those people and the loud noise. I decided then and there I wouldn’t stay in any more cities during my Camino.

When I went into several churches today, I was simply bitter with God because he wasn’t helping at all, despite my pilgrimage and all my prayers. He seemed totally oblivious to my struggles. My loved one seemed to be getting worse, I was feeling hateful, my husband was stressed, and I felt hopeless and isolated. My loved one despised me and was convincing his brother to hate me. All I felt I had was my daughter, and I felt she didn’t care about me that much either. I sent my father a gift card for his birthday and he redeemed it with no thanks whatsoever. All my relationships seemed to be falling apart.

I had intended to rest back in my room, but after all this, I didn’t get any rest. I distracted myself by posting pictures of Burgos on Instagram. At 4:00, I went back out and walked to Iglesia de San Gil Abad, where I told God I was angry and bitter.

Iglesia de San Gil

interior of Iglesia de San Gil

I then walked to the 14th century Iglesia de San Esteban which was closed.

back of Iglesia de San Esteban

street art near Iglesia de San Esteban

Iglesia de San Esteban

Iglesia de San Esteban & Burgos Cathedral

I climbed endlessly up to El Castillo park, where I walked around the ruins of the Castillo. From this high point, I had wondrous views over the city. I felt my spirits lift slightly under the blue sky and the far-reaching views.

Castillo

views of Burgos from Castillo

views of Burgos from Castillo

views of Burgos from Castillo

doorway of Iglesia de San Esteban

I walked downhill to Iglesia de San Nicholás, the 15th century church that sits above Burgos Cathedral. A church service was in progress, but I determined to come back later because of the magnificent altarpiece. I ran into my Quebec friend Paul, who was waiting at a café in Plaza Santa María for his friend Richard to meet him. I sat and had a beer with him, but he seemed very preoccupied. I felt he wanted to be rid of me. I’m sure my gloom was evident, and I couldn’t say I blamed him. They would leave for Zaragoza the next day and I’d never see them again.

Catedral de Santa María

Plaza Santa María

musicians at Plaza Santa María

After leaving Paul, I went back up to San Nicholás because of the stunning white marble altarpiece I wanted to photograph, but this time there was a wedding in progress. I waited a while for the Virginia couple on the steps, but they never showed up for our agreed-upon dinner plans. I felt hurt that that they ditched me, even though I didn’t care much for them anyway. Then I reread my loved one’s disturbing texts.

Iglesia de San Nicholás

I felt defeated. I trudged back to my room, stopping for patatas brava and another limon y cerveza. Back in my room, I couldn’t relax because of the loud music blaring outside my window, which only seemed to amplify my churning anxiety.

I needed to get out of Burgos. I felt I no longer had the heart for my Camino. I wanted to disappear, vanish into some faraway land.

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*Day 19: Saturday, September 22, 2018*

*16,714 steps, or 7.08 miles: out & about in Burgos*

You can find everything I’ve written so far on the Camino de Santiago here:

Camino de Santiago 2018

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This post is in response to Jo’s Monday Walk: Mértola’s 10th Islamic Festival.

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