Tag: France

on returning home from france & germany in 2006

wanderessence1025 March 4, 2019

Two weeks traveling through Paris, the north of France, and southwest Germany with our two boys, ages 13 and 15. Standing in interminable lines for the Eiffel Tower and watching our youngest son take “artistic photos” of that Paris icon as well as the glass pyramid in front of the Louvre. Being accosted by African guys trying to make us braided bracelets, climbing a thousand steps to Sacre Coeur at Montmartre, and admiring the mosaic of Jesus with his gold heart. Finding serenity in the Cimitiere de Montmartre. Photographing our boys posing in front of Moulin Rouge’s windmill and sex shops. Enjoying the view from the Arc de Triomphe. Running through the Luxembourg Gardens.

Two weeks listening to my older son say, “What a way to ruin my day,” as we watched a decrepit old woman at an outside café trying to light a cigar with four bunched-together matches, finally giving up on the cigar, then pulling off her pants to reveal a saggy bare bottom, pulling off her hospital gown, and putting on a t-shirt, and then getting ushered out of the café by the proprietress.

Two weeks watching Parisians take to the streets to celebrate their victory over Spain in the World Cup, yelling “Allez! Allez! Allez! Allez!” Listening to people honking, dancing and singing, wild in the streets.

Two weeks driving a blue Renault Laguna from Paris to Normandy. Exploring the artificial port remnants in Arromanches from the WWII Normandy campaign. Enjoying 1664 beers at an outdoor cafe in Arromanches. Staying in a pigieonnier at Manior de Herouville. Watching Cool Runnings on a mattress pulled down from the loft of the pigieonnier because the boys saw a spider and refused to sleep up there. Meeting the aging, deaf and blind animals on the grounds: Ozzie the rooster, Purdy the white lab, Gimble the blind-in-one-eye English Spaniel, Twinkle the white cat, and a black Cocker Spaniel who was both blind and deaf.

Two weeks weeping over the film about the Normandy invasion at the World War II Museum in Caen and the 360º film at Arromanches where actual violent war footage was overlaid on tranquil scenes of the countryside and villages. Two weeks of the boys running in and out of bomb craters and into old German bunkers at Pointe du Hoc. Two weeks encountering Middle Age re-enactors at a Medieval Festival in Bayeux.

Two weeks to visit over 9,000 American dead at the American Military Cemetery while our boys stayed behind to watch videos. Feeling overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of young men who gave their lives to fight the Nazis and fascism. Basking on the beach at St. Laurent in much needed solitude. Exploring Mont St. Michel and enjoying the Bayeaux Tapestry while the boys walked around Bayeaux on their own.

Two weeks in Colmar eating disgusting German food while listening to a Russian bum play a boom box accompanied by a saxophone, after which he demanded money from the restaurant patrons. Listening to Alex complain about how bad and stupid the music was. Exploring the Route du Vin (the Wine Road), beginning at the Haut-Koenigsburg Castle, where the boys enjoyed the swords, knives and other weaponry. Driving south down the Route du Vin through charming towns, with clusters of red roofs nestled into hillsides surrounded by vineyards. Sampling wines in Kayserberg when we gave up trying to find the castle tower because of the heat, exploring Heidelburg and its castle, taking a Rhine riverboat cruise, and visiting Trier and Mosul. Admiring the wind turbines in the German landscape as well as the well-behaved off-leash dogs throughout Germany and France.

Two weeks eating omelettes, rarebit, pizzas, eclairs, and dessert crepes topped with ice cream, chocolate and chantilly. Devouring croissants and walnut caramel glacés and pain de raisins. Enjoying picnics of raspberries, strawberries, pears, apples, baguettes, pain du campagne, brie and gouda at Place des Invalides. Eating brochettes of beef, profiteroles, mackeral and salmon spread on bread, and “Noix de lotte au chou vert et au lard fumé (monkfish with green cabbage and smoked bacon).” Savoring asparagus tarte flambés at an outdoor cafe with a big screen TV where people watched Italy and Germany in the World Cup; watching honking cars flying Italian flags drive in circles around our hotel when Italy won. Two weeks drinking wine and cold beers.

Two weeks reading Bee Season by Myla Goldberg and keeping a sporadic journal.

Two weeks mangling the French language with “Je ne comprende pas” and “Òu sont les toilettes?” Two weeks attempting pathetic German phrases such as “Bitte.” “Danke.” “Entschuldigung!” “Guten Morgen!”

Two weeks wearing turquoise and denim and khaki bermudas and white frayed shirts and tank tops.

Two weeks trying to possess beauty by buying postcards, scarves, stamps, phone cards, watercolors of Sacre Coeur and the Eiffel Tower, and a turquoise flowered wrap shirt.

Paris

me at Shakespeare & Co.

“Artistic” Eiffel Tower

Alex, Mike and Adam

the Seine

Atop the Eiffel Tower

“Artistic” Eiffel Tower

Sacre Coeur

Alex in hat in Paris

Adam and sculpture

Moulin Rouge

boys in front of sex shop

Eiffel Tower

me with Mike

Normandy

Normandy

Mike

American Cemetery

me at American Cemetery

Mont St. Michel

me at Mont St. Michel

pigeonniere

Normandy

Crêperie

Alsace-Lorraine & Germany

Haut-Koenigsburg Castle

World Cup celebrations

Adam

Colmar

Heidelberg

me with Adam

Rhine River

While traveling, I captured only the French part of our journey in a handwritten journal, which I kept in some detail. However, I totally slacked off once we arrived in Alsace-Lorraine and Germany. I fell abysmally short in my descriptions and observations.

I wasn’t much of a photographer at that time, although at least on this trip, we were able to take digital pictures. I never did much with the photos until much later, when I added them to my European blog: in search of a thousand cafés: france. I still failed to use all my senses in descriptions, especially as, without a good journal, I couldn’t remember details.

I have a difficult time finding time to keep a journal when I’m traveling with other people. On this trip, as both of our sons were along, I simply didn’t take the time to write. It’s sad, but my record of this trip is very sketchy.

*June 26 – July 11, 2006*

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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, March 31 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Monday, April 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. 🙂

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

on returning home from france in 2003

wanderessence1025 February 4, 2019

Two weeks in the south of France and Paris. Two weeks exploring the onion-domed Russian Cathedral; Chagall, Monet and Renior paintings; and Van Gogh’s hospital room. Two weeks driving a rented Citroen past vineyards with their ancient, gnarled vines, standing like maimed soldiers in rows fading to pinpoints on the horizon. Two weeks shading our eyes from bursts of red poppies and yellow broom glowing in fields. Two weeks walking under canopies of plane trees, with their speckled but smooth bark, their amputated branches. Two weeks of palm trees, fig trees and yellow-flowering syringa trees. Two weeks mesmerized by the silhouettes of Florentine cypress trees under a full moon as we drove to Sante Affrique. Two weeks admiring the Pont du Gard and the Abbey de Fontfroide, with stairs worn smooth by centuries of monks’ feet. Two weeks baking in the ochre cliffs of Roussillon, collecting ochre dust on our shoes. Two weeks climbing a path scented in boxwood to the fortress ruins of Montsegur, where in 1244, the Cathars, a religious sect that renounced worldly goods, were burned en masse in a bonfire at the foot of the pog when they refused to renounce their faith. Two weeks emerging from an underground movie theater on the Champs Elysses, weeping after watching The Hours. Two weeks wandering through Paris: the Latin Quarter, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Museé d’Orsay, the Louvre, and the Basilique du Sacré Coeur at Montmartre.

Two weeks eating baguettes, canard confit, foie gras, olives, plump and perfectly red strawberries, croissants, pain du chocolat, galettes, glacé and dessert crêpes. Two weeks drinking pastis, the licorice-flavored drink favored by Hemingway. Two weeks stopping in shops named for the food items sold: fromagerie, boulangerie, charcuterie, boucherie.

Two weeks meandering through markets where vendors offered sun-kissed table linens, cloves of garlic tied in twine, honey (miel de lavande), jellies (confiture de framboise, confiture de rhubarbe), accordions of colorful postcards, old fun junk (brocante), chalkboards framed in whitewashed barn wood, handmade paper, and cheeses of every variety: boursin, brie, cantal, camembert, roquefort, emmental, gruyere.

Two weeks to fumble with a French phrase book and practice our pathetic French and to listen to Paris Combo’s “Living-room,” Bob Marley’s “Buffalo soldier in the heart of America,” Norah Jones singing “Come Away with Me,” and Florent Pagney’s “Ma Liberté de Pense.”

Two weeks to wear blue & cream flowered board pants, apple green capris, flowered sleeveless tops, and jaunty French scarves. Two weeks to stay in bed & breakfasts and pigeon lofts and hotels with lace-curtained windows opening onto balconies. Two weeks making buck-toothed chipmunk faces into a half mirror in the tiny triangular elevator with silver folding accordion doors in our Paris hotel, and laughing in loose silliness at ourselves.

Two weeks to possess beauty by buying postcards, brochures, a yellow glazed pottery bowl, a square apple green plate, a chintz-patterned box, bars of colorful soap, a tablecloth, scarves, honey, jellies and place mats.

Two weeks to dream of speaking perfect French, looking stylishly Parisian, drinking wine at sidewalk cafés and writing in journals that would eventually become novels.

cliffs of Rousillon

Mike in Rousillon

south of France

field of poppies & broom

vineyards in the south of France

me in France 2003

While traveling, I captured our journey in a handwritten journal, which I kept in great detail. I even made a few lousy sketches in said journal: sketches of a swimming pool, architectural elements at the Abbey de Fontfroide, and coffee pots at Domaine de Rasigous and at Aurifat. I was obviously fascinated by the many ways people make coffee or keep it warm. Though I tried to do word-paintings, I felt they fell short, as I didn’t use any psychological descriptions to embody a value or mood of importance. I felt the need to improve on my skills of observation.

I was too lazy to put care into my writing. Rather than taking time to sit and observe and reflect, I relied on my camera to capture the beauty I saw, but of course photos never capture the essence of a place. I still failed to use all my senses in descriptions. Taking so many pictures tends to make one lazy about noticing details.

Because it was 2003, just before the digital print age, I ordered two computer disks made from a few negatives, and the rest of the 18 rolls of film I took, I developed and put carefully into three photo albums. I started with such great intentions, but by the second of the three albums, I never got around to writing notes.

Cordes-sur-Ciel and my journal

South of France

Montsegur

Eiffel Tower

Bruniquel

journal & photo album

After all was said and done, I finished a second draft of my novel, including scenes from the Cistercian Abbey of Fontfroide and and Montsegur, the novel titled The Scattering Dreams of Stars that is still unpublished and sitting in a file on my computer.

And I dreamed of going to France again, this time to Paris again and to the north, which we did in 2006.

*May 8-23, 2003*

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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, March 3 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Monday, March 4, 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. 🙂

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!

Anabel, of The Glasgow Gallivanter, wrote a post about returning home from her Hebridean Hop.
- Hebridean Hop 22: returning home

Thanks to all of you who wrote “returning home” posts following intentions you set for yourself. 🙂

{camino: day 2} crossing the pyrenees

wanderessence1025 January 8, 2019

Ingrid and I left Orisson at 7:30 a.m and began our trek over the Pyrenees. It was a tough climb and an even tougher descent, 17km (10 miles) to Roncesvalles. Because I had reserved a bed two towns past Roncesvalles since the monastery was said to be full, I had to walk an additional 6.7km (4.2 miles).

The walk over the Pyrenees was grueling but we were rewarded with bucolic scenes of green meadows and infinite peaks, spotted pigs, cows, long-haired sheep, black-faced sheep (churros), and horses wearing gently clanging bells. Less than 4km from Orisson, we stopped to admire the Virgin Mary statue, Vierge d’Orisson, set against a stunning backdrop of mountains and valleys. We would find Marian shrines, a common sign of devotion, frequently along the Camino. The landscape reminded me a bit of England’s Lake District.

Rain threatened all day, but we only put on our ponchos twice for a short time; when the rain stopped shortly after, we took them off promptly as they were cumbersome to wear. Buzzards circled overhead and we heard that legend said not to lie down or they’d come after you.

Right before a wayside cross directing us off the road onto a rough grass track towards Mount Urkulu, a mobile vehicle for pilgrims offered drinks and snacks. I bought a hot chocolate, a welcome treat in the blustery cold.

As we continued our climb on the upland grass, giant black slugs dotted the path. We passed the primitive Santiago shelter, used in case of storms or bad weather. The Irish guy Cyril had told us yesterday at Orisson, where he hadn’t reserved a bed, that he planned to stay the night in the shelter, but we saw no sign of him at that hour of 10:30 a.m. Later, after filling our water bottles at the Fontaine de Roland, we crossed a cattle grid at the border between France and Spain without fanfare. At that point we were in Navarre. In a clearing, Ingrid and I sat on boulders in the midst of heather and ate sandwiches we’d brought from Orisson, mine a delicious patê on a baguette.

Later, we walked through a beautiful beech forest, the trees gnarled and moss-covered. They seemed in danger of toppling down the very steep hill to the river Arnéguy below. As we emerged from the forest, we reached the high point of Col de Lepoeder at a height of 1,450 meters. At that point the path forked and we could take a direct and very steep (and dangerous) route through the woods down into Roncesvalles, or we could take a less steep, but longer, alternate route. We chose the latter.

Purple, yellow and pink heather abounded as we made our descent on a paved road. The endless climb up had been physically challenging, but coming down was hell on my knees, legs and feet. Ingrid and I were pretty miserable at this stage, but we just let gravity pull us down, sometimes faster than we would have liked. I didn’t get any blisters, surprisingly, but my feet were aching dreadfully and I wasn’t sure whether the green Superfeet arches in my Keen boots were a hindrance or help.

When we got to Roncesvalles, the line of pilgrims checking in was snaking down a long corridor in the monastery, and Ingrid joined the back of the line. She was preoccupied with checking in, so we didn’t really say a proper goodbye. I had heard that the monastery allowed bookings on only half of its 183 rooms and reserved the rest for pilgrims who walked in. However, I could see by the line it would take quite some time to see if a bed was even available, and I had already reserved a room in Espinal anyway. I was anxious to get going the last 4 miles as it was 3:00 and I didn’t know what kind of terrain to expect.

After Roncesvalles, I walked mostly alone on a wooded path on the way to the next town of Burgette. I was wiped out after the Pyrenees, and wondered how I’d make it four more miles! On the way, I sneaked off the path into the bushes to pee. When I popped back out onto the path, I spooked an Irish lady named Mary and her English friend, who screeched at my sudden appearance out of the bush. The English girl had a huge backpack full of camping gear as she’d planned to camp the whole way with her friend. Her friend had abandoned her after the first day and took a plane back to England. She was upset and not sure what she’d do about the rest of the Camino.

In Burgette, the three of us stopped for a break at an outdoor cafe, where I had a delicious slice of orange cake and a Coke. There I met a couple from Austin, Texas who were living the easy life, staying in nice hotels and sending their luggage ahead. I would meet them many times in the coming weeks.

We three ladies trudged on to Espinal, where I checked in at Hostal Rural Haiza at 5:00 p.m. The English and Irish ladies stayed elsewhere. I had been walking for nearly 9 1/2 hours and wanted nothing more than to keel over. My backpack, which I’d sent ahead, had arrived safely, much to my relief. Our room had 13 beds, some single and some bunkbeds, for both men and women. Since the skies had opened up with thunder, lightning and a downpour almost immediately after I checked in, I relaxed for a while in my single bed. I chatted with two Italian girls, one studying to be a pediatric doctor and the other studying law; she wrote her thesis on copyright law for street artists. In our room were also five bicyclists from Amsterdam. One had gotten 5 stitches on his hand and wrist from an accident in a tunnel. His cycling trip was over.

I didn’t feel like eating the pilgrim meal (I didn’t care for the second course in the meal); instead I enjoyed red wine and an omelette with cheese and green pepper in the noisy bar full of locals.

I was nervous overnight as I had determined not to send my backpack ahead the next day, but to carry it myself. It was raining much of the night, so I fretted about the next day’s weather. I didn’t know if I’d run into Ingrid again, or if I’d see any of the people I’d already met.

me with Ingrid in Orisson

view from Orisson

spotted pigs

horse

friendly horse

sheep in the Pyrenees

horses on the hill

more sheep

Vierge d’Orisson Vierge de Biakorri

A man with his dogs

the endless road up

long-haired sheep

Over the Pyrenees we had magnificent sweeping views.

long-haired sheep

horse in the Pyrenees

pretty horse

we get on the grassy track

black-faced sheep

Santiago shelter

woodland

heather

beech forest

Col de Lepoeder is the high point on the Pyrenees at 1450 meters.

Me at Col de Lepoeder (1,450 meters) before descending to Roncesvalles

the rooftops of Roncesvalles

Roncesvalles

Roncesvalles

790 km to Santiago – one of many confusing signs

Roncesvalles to Espinal

the wooded path to Burgette

mossy rocks

a garden in jeans near Espinal, Spain

Espinal

Mary and her English friend

Espinal

Espinal – Iglesia de San Bartolemé

Haizea

*Day 2: Wednesday, September 5, 2018*

*40,066 steps, or 16.98 miles: Orisson to Espinal (24 km)*

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

Camino de Santiago 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 Camino was to write using all my senses to describe place and to capture snippets of meaningful conversations with other pilgrims.

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, January 21 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this invitation on Tuesday, January 22, 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 1} climbing to orisson

wanderessence1025 December 25, 2018

Chanting at 6:15 on Tuesday morning nudged us pilgrims from our dreams. At a breakfast of muesli, bread and coffee, Joseph at Beilari warned that the weather over the Pyrenees was expected to be stormy and possibly dangerous on Wednesday. He suggested we shouldn’t stop overnight in Orisson but continue straight through to Roncesvalles. Alternatively, we could go the lower valley route to Valcarlos. Ingrid and I debated whether to heed his advice but decided to stick with our plan to stay the night in Orisson. I set my backpack aside to be transported ahead and began to walk by 7:30, with an omelette sandwich from Beilari in my day pack. Pilgrims emerged from various hostels, fresh and hopeful, and converged on the road leading out of St-Jean-Pied-de-Port like troops heading out to do battle.

Wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and carrying my trusty LEKI hiking poles, I walked with Ingrid and countless other pilgrims, up and up, a constant breathless climb. Fuzzy sheep dotted green fields that skirted forests of chestnut and white beech trees. Window boxes blooming with impatiens, fuchsia, and Australian sword fern decked out whitewashed farmhouses.

French drivers veered maniacally around us, between us. Under a tree, an Italian man pulling a trolley regaled us with Italian opera – Pavarotti. We stopped and listened, laughed and clapped. We were all so hopeful and excited and nervous, and here we were, listening to opera under a tree on a mountainside.

From pilgrims passing by, conversations echoed in Danish, French, Spanish, Korean and German. Cows studied us, chewing placidly on grass, and a donkey brayed. Cowbells clanked, their music sashaying through the trees. Cornfields gleamed as if the sun had soaked into each stalk. Tidy bales of hay dotted the fields. Along the path were yellow arrows, often crudely painted on trees, rocks or signposts.

It was a very steep climb for five miles, especially toward the end, but the views were stunning. Emerald mountains unfurled around us, in undulations and rumples. I stopped not only to catch my breath but to take photos. And to eat half of my omelette sandwich.

When we reached Orisson at 11:15 a.m., we were given tokens for a 5-minute shower. Ingrid lost hers immediately and was afraid to ask for another because she might get yelled at. I advised her to come clean, ask for another right away, so they’d know she hadn’t had time to use it and ask for another. She did and they gave her a replacement. She and I were first in the side-by-side showers, laughing and joking as we hurried to get rinsed off within the 5-minutes. We both had time to spare. After drying with our washcloth-sized towels, we dressed in what we’d hike in tomorrow, washed our clothes and hung them on the line outside to dry. My pilgrim credenciale got bent and warped at the edges from carrying it in my waist pack and sweating all day. I wrapped it in a plastic baggie, where it would stay for the rest of my Camino.

Our pleasant room had six bunks with windows opening onto views of the Pyrenees. Ingrid and I, first in, grabbed bottom bunks. Our roommates were Joyce from Connecticut, Marianne from the East Coast of Canada, and Bridgett and Jeannette from Ottowa. Joyce, Bridgett and Jeannette had large hardshell suitcases they were transporting ahead each day, arranged by a tour company.

On a platform overlooking the Pyrenees and the impossibly green valleys, we sat at picnic tables with other pilgrims and talked. An Irish guy named Cyril told of his struggles working on various farm operations, how he understands cattle more than the owners, how he milks an endless line of cows each day. David and Michelle from Britain just retired and said they have an adventurous spirit. They wanted to start a new life, now that their children were grown and they had free time. Big and sturdy, they both had a general roundness to them: she with a blonde pixie cut, he with a big belly, a ruddy complexion and a bemused expression. Lisa from Leesburg, Virginia, not far from my home, told in dramatic fashion about how she can walk forever and carry a pack with no problem, but going uphill is another matter. I listened, laughed, drank wine and ate the other half of my omelette sandwich.

It was a long afternoon. Trying to nap in our room proved elusive, especially as someone with a drone was directing it outside of our window, looking in.

At our pilgrim dinner of soup, baked chicken, peas and potatoes, we all introduced ourselves. We were told the forecast for tomorrow was fine. I decided I must trust, have faith, that it would all work out in the end.

the Nive River in St. Jean 7:30 a.m.

farm houses

farm houses

me with Ingrid

Ingrid & Michelle

Corn stalks

bucolic Pyrenees

cows

cow friends

the path behind us

flowering friends

sheep dotting a hill

me on the Camino

a lone pilgrim

sweeping views of the Pyrenees

me on the trail

me with Ingrid walking up and up

Pyrenees

views

pretty farmland

views from above

Orisson

view from the outdoor cafe at Orisson

Brigette, Jeannette, Marianne, Lisa, Michelle and David

View from Orisson

view from Orisson

Pilgrim dinner at Orisson

*Day 1: Tuesday, September 4, 2018: St-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Orisson (8km)*

*14,873 steps, or 6.3 miles*

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Include the link in the comments below by Monday, January 7 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this invitation on Tuesday, January 8, 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!

a day in st. jean pied-de-port

wanderessence1025 December 11, 2018

Gentle chanting pulled us from our dreams on Monday morning at 6:15. The pilgrims in my room stretched, whispered, and rustled in the dark until everyone was awake. Once lights were on, they taped feet, organized backpacks, ate breakfast. I was the only pilgrim that would stay another day before walking, and the hospitaleros at Beilari told me I would have to leave the albergue at 8:00 a.m. I could return at 12:30 through the back door, though new pilgrims wouldn’t be admitted until later. While everyone got ready to leave me behind, I put rock tape on my knee and did some physical therapy exercises. At 8:00, I was out the door.

St-Jean-Pied-de-Port nestles in the foothills of the Pyrenees in the French Basque countryside, at the “foot of the pass” (pied-de-port) to Roncesvalles in Spain. I strolled in the cool morning air on the cobbled rue de la Citadelle. On the façades of the stone buildings, window boxes overflowed with petunias and impatiens. At the far end of town, I walked through the 15th-century Port St. Jacques, where pilgrims walking from other parts of France enter the town to begin the Camino Frances.

I climbed to the Citadelle for views over the walled town and the Pyrenees. Built on the fortified château of the kings of Navarre, it is a stronghold with moats, firearms, swing bridges, draw bridges and walls flanked by bastions. Below, a gauzy layer of mist lay fetchingly in the mountain folds and wove its way through the valley. There were few people at this hour; I encountered only a couple of large slimy tan slugs in the path.

Walking back into town, I stopped in at the 14th-century Notre Dame du Bout du Pont (The Church of Our Lady at the End of the Bridge), now known as Iglesia de la Asunción. I had the church to myself and lit a candle to ask for blessings for my pilgrimage and for my family and then for each of my children individually. I asked for guidance for them, and for protection and self-fulfillment. I felt awed by the task ahead of me: to walk 790 kilometers, or 490 miles, across Spain to Santiago de Compostela. By the time I left the church, I felt assured I wouldn’t be alone on my journey, and it humbled me.

I took a stroll through the Porte Notre Dame, through which I’d pass when I began my walk on Tuesday, and across the Pont d’Eyheraberry, where the Nive River mirrored the old stone buildings on its shores.

I continued out Porte D’Espagne, at the opposite end of town from Port St. Jacques; the road from this gate leads up into the Pyrenees. I checked out my route for Tuesday morning on the Route de Napoléon (25.1km to Roncesvalles). I’d be stopping 8km up the mountains at Orisson.

While enjoying a lunch of an omelette fromage and vin blanc at an outdoor cafe on the main road, I wrote postcards to my husband and children, mailing them from the local post office.

When I returned to Beilari, I found Ingrid, who I’d met yesterday on the train, standing outside the albergue, which didn’t open until 2:30. She was talking to two lively fellows, Newton from Brazil and Mike, originally from South Africa but most recently from California. We had an intense but agreeable conversation bemoaning the current U.S. president. It was a thorough Trump-bashing, peppered with laughs and plenty of indignation.

Once Beilari opened its doors, Ingrid settled in, and I sat on the patio with a beer, writing in my journal. I felt a bit lost as all the pilgrims I’d met last night had taken off. I wondered if I’d ever see them again. Ingrid joined me on the patio after she’d settled in, and we talked of Archie Bunker-type fathers, gay siblings, the president and his daily outrages, her involvement in the Unitarian Church and Habitat for Humanity, her job as a journalist and photographer, my stints teaching abroad and my blogging. We talked about our families and our pilgrimage and the next day’s walk. She had trained quite rigorously in Colorado at high elevations over the summer, and felt strong and ready to begin her pilgrimage. I remained wary of my knee and wondered how it would hold up.

Beilari doesn’t have Wi-fi; they encourage people to talk to each other. Some of us congregated in front of the Pilgrim Office across the street, trying to use their Wi-fi signal. Ingrid asked if I’d reserved a room at the monastery in Roncesvalles. I hadn’t so I checked online to try to reserve. Surprisingly, I found it was full for Wednesday night, when I’d arrive there. That made me nervous, so I reserved a room two towns further along, in Espinal. As I became increasingly nervous about making it over the Pyrenees the first two days, and even adding another 6.7 km to Espinal, I decided I’d use Express Bourricot to send my backpack ahead in two stages, first to Orisson and then to Espinal. I would carry a simple day pack.

At apertivo, we went through the same routine from the night before: tossing the invisible ball, the sharing, the toasts. At dinner, two tables of pilgrims shared a meal of white bean soup, salad topped with hard boiled eggs and carrots, ratatouille on rice, and chocolate mousse. It was a crowd of different nationalities and languages, making it hard to connect. Paõ from Barcelona, who later slept in a bunk in my room, played a ukelele while pilgrims danced to his “La Bamba.” Suddenly it was 10:30 and lights out.

Anxious about my first day of walking, I had a restless night, worrying about the Pyrenees. Could I make the entire pilgrimage? Could I connect with people? Could I, by some miracle, discover the art of living?

*13,153 steps, or 5.57 miles*

Streets of St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

Port St. Jacques

Streets of St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

early morning overlooking St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

The Citadelle

St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

Morning mist

Collège la Citadelle

Citadelle & basketball court

Citadelle

Notre Dame du Bout du Pont XIV

lighting candles

I loved the bridge over the Nive River.

the Nive River

Pont d’Eyheraberry over the Nive River

Streets of St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

The Notre-Dame gateway, the Porte Notre-Dame, is the best preserved of the gateways to the town.

Porte Notre-Dame

Beilari

Pilgrim

Orisson to the left &

A lively market offered enticing seafood, cheeses and wines outside the town walls.

fish market

market

sheep at the market

Another Roman bridge sits in a wooded area south of the Pont d’Eyheraberry over the Nive River.

Roman bridge

tower

Houses on the Nive River

evening from the Pont d’Eyheraberry (Eyheraberry bridge)

Dinner at Beilari

*Monday, September 3, 2018*

on journey: launching my camino

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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 & poetry. (This page is a work in process.) You can also include photos, of course.

Include the link in the comments below by Monday, December 24 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this invitation on Tuesday, December 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!

on journey: launching my camino

wanderessence1025 November 21, 2018

For once, it didn’t matter that my flight was delayed. It was actually a blessing that my 10:20 p.m. flight to Lisbon from Dulles International Airport on Friday, August 31 sat on the tarmac for nearly two hours due to thunderstorms and lightning. What was meant to be a 7:15 hour flight was supposed to deposit me in Lisbon at 10:35 a.m. on Saturday, September 1, meaning I would have to wait around Lisbon eleven hours for my overnight train to Hendaye, France.

Before boarding the flight, I met two ladies traveling to Lisbon, Porto and Barcelona. They said they’d send prayers along with me. Two other ladies with quite heavy backpacks were embarking on the 140-mile Portuguese route of the Camino. We wished each other Buen Camino! and boarded the plane to wait for take-off.

Onboard, passengers swarmed around sulkily, like a hive of sated yet edgy bees. Passengers were allowed to leave the plane if they took all their carry-on bags. When the luggage was finally loaded in the cargo hold once the storms passed, the flight crew rounded up the wayward passengers.

Finally airborne, I watched the 2018 Fred Rogers movie, Won’t You Be My Neighbor? Fred Rogers was creator, composer, producer, head writer, and host of the preschool television series Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood (1968–2001). He talked about how there is something inside us that hasn’t been lost – childhood. On his show, he addressed children’s feelings, such as “I think I might be a mistake.” Or, “I’m not like anyone else.” Besides addressing children’s everyday emotions, he also addressed social issues of the times, such as divorce, war, assassinations and racial tensions. On one notable episode, Rogers soaked his feet alongside African-American Officer François Clemmons in a kiddie pool on a hot day, a subtle symbolic message of inclusion during a time when racial segregation in the United States was widespread.

As our country is in the same predicament today as it was in the 1960s, I promised myself to pray for the state of the world, and my country, as I walked the Camino.

I tried to sleep but when my efforts failed, I watched the in-flight map. At one point we were over St. John’s and Grand Bank, Newfoundland and Labrador in Canada. Later, at 4:27 a.m., the local time in Lisbon was 9:27 and we had 2:37 hours to go. The estimated arrival time was 12:04. Altitude 35,092 feet. Traveled 2,334 miles. The airplane icon onscreen hovered about midway over the Atlantic, northwest of the Azores.

Because we didn’t take off until close to midnight, I arrived in Lisbon at 12:06 p.m., narrowing the window of time from 11 to 9 hours before the next step of my journey.

From the airport, I took the metro three stops to Estacao Gare do Oriente in the Vasco da Gama area of the city. The station had a luggage storage area but I was stymied by the lockers; luckily an Italian couple showed me how to use them. It was miserably hot. Dressed in the long hiking pants and long-sleeve shirt that I’d worn overnight on the plane, I was sweaty and uncomfortable. At the Vasco da Gama Mall, I sat at a cafe and enjoyed a pastel de nata and a cold coffee. I thought the mall would offer some respite from the heat, but it didn’t seem to be air-conditioned, so I escaped to walk on a promenade along the sea. At a place called Sea Palace, I had Dim Sum, but that was just as miserable at it had no air-conditioning either. I sweated during my entire meal. I so wanted to stretch out somewhere and sleep, but that was impossible. It was a miserable nine hours waiting for the time to pass.

promenade

lounging nudes at Centro Vasco de Gama

snack stand on the promenade

Jardim Garcia de Orta

Torre Vasco de Gama

hiking boots waiting to begin

Jardim Garcia de Orta

Alameda dos Oceanos

near the Vasco de Gama mall

Finally, I grabbed my pack from the locker at Oriente and and boarded the overnight train to Hendaye at 9:34 p.m.

Estacao do Oriente

On the Trenhotel, I settled into a compartment on train #310, Car 13, Bed 31. I found it odd the arrangement of 1s & 3s in the various numbers, especially as I’ve always considered #13 my lucky number. I stretched out on the bottom bunk across from a chubby Spanish woman wearing a black & white striped blouse; she had barricaded herself into her bed with several large suitcases. At one point during the train ride, I tried to close the curtains since the lights from the passing stations kept waking me up, but she snapped at me and refused to allow it.

Above me was an 18-year-old German girl wearing a skimpy knit tank dress; she was traveling alone for the first time. An Austrian girl burst into our compartment in the middle of the night and climbed noisily to the top bunk above the Spanish woman. For a long time, the two girls chatted in German over our heads, “Ach so!” flying back and forth between them. The Spanish woman’s perpetual sighs wove through their conversation. As I lay there, fully dressed in my hiking clothes, sleep proved elusive.

The train trundled and rumbled and clanked, and through the curtains, rectangles of light glided and flickered across the compartment’s walls. I drifted in and out of sleep. The Spanish woman left the train in Madrid, taking her sighs with her.

I finally fell into a deep sleep, waking at 10:30 a.m. on Sunday morning. The German girl and I chatted. She wanted to study at university to be a history and geography teacher. She hadn’t had a great trip because she had problems with her Master Card not working. When she called her bank, they said something was wrong with the servers. She was running out of money. A guy in Barcelona followed her in his car one night; he was masturbating, which greatly upset her. She was heading to Paris to stay four days, after which she’d return home to Germany.

I ate a sweet bun I’d bought from the Oriente train station, but I had no coffee. It didn’t matter, I suppose, as I wasn’t all that hungry anyway.

I arrived in Hendaye, France at 11:33 a.m. on Sunday, September 2. After about an hour wait, I caught another 1-hour train from Hendaye to Bayonne. Out the window, I saw charming red-roof and whitewashed towns against a backdrop of sea.

I think I smelled pretty sour from all the sweating yesterday and no shower for two days.

Bayonne

In Bayonne, I waited with a throng of pilgrims for the next train to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. When it finally arrived, people jammed onboard. It was so crowded, we could hardly move. Luckily an additional car was arranged and half the people moved to the other car, giving us a bit of breathing room. On the train, I had a long conversation with Ingrid from Minnesota.

My Camino shell

pilgrims awaiting the train in Bayonne

We arrived in St-Jean-Pied-de-Port at 4:30 p.m. on Sunday, September 2. Pilgrims scattered to their albergues in the old town. I trudged up the main street in search of Beilari, and Ingrid went off to her albergue. It turned out that Ingrid and I would stay in Beilari on the night before we began our pilgrimage (our second night in St-Jean) and we’d walk together our first two days over the Pyrenees. I would meet her numerous times on the Camino, but eventually she would leave me behind, as most people did, because her pace was faster than mine.

St-Jean-Pied-de-Port station

Ingrid from Minnesota

walking from the station to the old town

St-Jean-Pied-de-Port neighborhood

We walked through the city gate, Porte St-Jacques, into the old town.

The city gate, Porte St-Jacques

I was quite tired and disoriented from my long and convoluted journey as I climbed up through the old cobbled streets to find my sweet spot for the night.

streets of St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

After I checked in at Beilari, I wandered a bit around the old town. As I wouldn’t begin walking until Tuesday morning, the 4th, I knew I’d be able to explore more fully the next day.

St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

old town of St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

the portal, Porte d’Espagne

the Nive River

door to Notre-Dame-du-Bout-du-Pont

house in the town

pilgrim

Pilgrim office

cozy lights

At Beilari, I shared a room with Molly from Michigan, Erika from Sweden, and Ferri from Indonesia. At 7:30, we were invited to apertivo. We tossed an invisible ball to each other. When we “caught” it, we shared our names, nationalities, and a brief sentence about why we were doing the Camino. I said I wanted to learn to have faith that everything would turn out all right.

As Beilari doesn’t make a full meal on Sunday nights, they offered a free meal of vegetable soup and bread. On Monday night, we would enjoy a full meal. Two hearty Irish guys told our group they planned on walking the whole Camino in 26 days!

Pilgrim meal at Beilari

wine for toasts

Molly and Ferri planned to walk all the way to Roncesvalles in one day, whereas I’d made a reservation in Orisson for my first night, meaning I’d get to Roncesvalles in two days. They said they were sending their backpacks ahead because of the long walk. I considered whether I should do the same because I was seriously afraid of not making it over the Pyrenees with my heavy pack and my bad knee.

It felt so good to get into a comfortable bed. Beilari turned lights out by 10:30, encouraging a peaceful night for all pilgrims.

**August 31-September 2, 2018*

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“ON JOURNEY” INVITATION: I invite you to write a post on your own blog about the journey itself for a recently visited specific destination. If you don’t have a blog, I invite you to write in the comments.

In this case, I wrote about my experience of the long journey just to get to the start of the Camino Frances in St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France.

Include the link in the comments below by Tuesday, December 18 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Wednesday, December 19, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, once on the third Wednesday 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!

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