Miracles and miseries...

[Sharon Mehdi]

Hello all,
I'm a writer from Portland, OR about to embark on my second Camino adventure
in May.  Walked from Roncesvalles to Santiago three and a half years ago at
age 59.  I was unfit, ill-prepared and incredibly naive.  My survival was
nothing short of miraculous.  Following is an article I wrote after the first
go-round.  Aging babyboomers, take heart!
Best regards,
Sharon Mehdi

The Road to Santiago
Miracles and Miseries of a Modern-day Pilgrimage

"Follow me," the monk said in Spanish as he loped off down a drafty stone
corridor. Judy and I grabbed our bulging backpacks and struggled to keep up
with him.
Up three flights of steep, sloping stairs.  Past a sign that read "Pilgrims
Only" in several languages.  More stairs, a landing and still more stairs.
"This is where you sleep," the monk said as we slumped against the wall of
the ancient monastery gasping for breath.  He had deposited us outside a
large room packed with three-tiered bunks, each sporting a bare mattress and
pillow.
The room was illuminated by one small window and a low-watt bulb hanging from
a cord in the ceiling.  Several tall, tanned Frenchmen in their 20s were
arranging wet socks on a piece of twine strung between metal-framed beds.
Other men were huddled over maps, or resting on bunks.
Our fellow pilgrims eyed us with what seemed to be a mixture of curiosity and
astonishment at the sight of two chubby, breathless, 50-something women
lugging gargantuan backpacks.
We dragged our gear across the oak plank floor to bunks near the window.
Each year thousands of Europeans trek the medieval pilgrimage trail from the
Pyrenees in France, across northern Spain, to Santiago de Compostela in the
far-western province of Galicia.  Few Americans, however, have heard of the
route.  And fewer still are willing to face the rigors of a 500-mile journey
on foot over mountains, through forests and across the celebrated plains of
Spain, following a path marked only by occasional yellow arrows painted on
rocks, tree trunks and fence posts.  Certainly not the sort of vacation idea
most city-dwelling baby boomers would entertain.
But herein lies the mystery of the call to Santiago.  What might otherwise
seem impossible, unthinkable, downright insane, becomes not only possible,
but recklessly imperative.
Santiago de Compostela has been luring pilgrims since the year 813 when a
hermit, guided by an unusually bright star, discovered what bishops, kings
and popes came to agree was the grave of the apostle James.  How the
apostle's body got from Jerusalem, where he was beheaded in 44 AD, to the
lonely wooded spot in northwest Spain where it lay buried for eight
centuries, is another story.  But miracle or myth, by the year 1000, the
shrine of St. James ranked in importance with the Holy Land and Rome as a
sacred destination for pilgrims.
I first read about the legendary pilgrimage route in a book by Brazilian
author Paolo Coelho, whose harrowing modern-day journey had been part
spiritual quest, part test of courage and part sheer endurance.  Midway
through the book I experienced something akin to a cosmic "click."
I had lived my whole life without ever testing my limits.  I had no idea if I
was courageous, or if I'd crumble.  I didn't know what my body could or
couldn't do if put to the test. I no longer knew if it was possible to
experience more than the passionless, homogenized spirituality that had
replaced an earlier fervor of faith.  All of a sudden it seemed terribly
important to find out.
Eight months later, I and my friend Judy-whose fear of spontaneous adventure
is surpassed only by her fear of being left out-squished our new REI
backpacks into Delta's overhead bins, and headed from Portland to Paris.
 From there, it was a bullet-train ride to Bordeaux; a local train to the
Atlantic-coast town of Bayonne and the-little-engine-that-could to St. Jean
Pied de Port, at the base of the Pyrenees.  The starting point for our
journey was a day's walk up the mountain at the 12th-century monastery in
Roncesvalles, Spain.  We took a taxi.
After we declared in writing that we were indeed pilgrims and not just
tourists, a monk in khaki shorts and cartwheel beret issued us a pilgrim
passport that allowed us to stay overnight free, or at very little cost, in
the official hostels that dot the route every 10 or 15 miles.
That evening we stood with other pilgrims at the altar rail in the
monastery's candlelit chapel as a priest offered the ages-old prayer for our
protection from the vagaries of weather, accident, exhaustion, and wild
animals.  He warned us about perilous mountain mists in which pilgrims can
lose their way, and asked us to pray for all those who had died before
reaching Santiago.  He closed by blessing us in our own language.  "United
States of America.  May God be with you."  Tears filled my eyes.  We were
about to step into history.

The journey begins
The next morning we were up and out before sunrise.  Judy, who had more
backpacking experience than my none, was sure we'd be able to walk 20 miles a
day.  "What else will we do with all the time?" she reasoned.
By the end of day three, we had covered barely 17 miles of treacherously
steep, rocky terrain.  We were popping Motrin like M&Ms to dull the pain in
every joint and muscle.  It felt like our packs were filled with boulders.
Temperatures were in the 90s.  We were dehydrated, disillusioned and
desperate.
"This isn't supposed to be penance!" Judy wailed as we inched our way down
yet another slippery incline, our top-heavy packs keeping us dangerously off
balance. I wasn't so sure.
Our lodgings had included a deserted school house outfitted for pilgrims with
bunk beds and communal shower; a cot in a small, windowless hostel and a room
in a Basque pension where every surface was covered with residue from greasy
bug spray.

Six degrees of separation
By the time we reached Puente la Reina-Bridge of the Queen-where pilgrim
paths from all over Europe come together to form one Camino, we were finally
out of the Pyrenees.
It was here, at the hostel founded by Knights Templar in the 1100s, that we
met the only other American we would run into on the journey-a social worker
from Seattle wearing a dusty Mariners' baseball cap.  He had cycled the road
to Santiago several years earlier and was back to do it on foot.  Said his
sister lived in Portland.  What were the chances?
Together we explored the town's narrow, arched streets, and sat for a while
in the quiet coolness of the Romanesque church dedicated to St. James.  That
night he slept in the bunk above mine.
On our way out of town the next morning, we took photos of each other
standing on the 11th-century bridge built by a charitable queen out of pity
for pilgrims who found the River Arga a hazard to cross.  It never occurred
to me to ask his name.  Such was the anonymity of the pilgrim path.

The pain in Spain
We walked from sunrise each morning until three or four o'clock in the
afternoon, stopping only briefly along the way to rest.  Even so, most days
we covered fewer than 10 miles.  While Judy was slowed by the weight of her
overburdened pack-a metaphor, she decided, for the amount of baggage she was
carrying through life-I struggled with the pain of a stress fracture in one
heel and a blister the size of Rhode Island on the other.
Each day I thought the walk would get easier.  Each day it didn't.   "We're
not even Catholic!" said the queen of nonsequiturs, as we hobbled along the
rutted trail.  Fit young pilgrims with remarkably long legs strode past us
with a cheery, "Bonjour!" or "Hola!"   I tried not to hate them.
By the third week, whatever reasons I had for setting out on the journey had
been forgotten.  The focus of our days became simple-find water, find food,
find the often-obscure yellow arrows that told us we were still on the path.
The only way I could keep my mind off the pain in my feet was to sing.
Villagers hearing the rasping, tortured strains of "Climb Every Mountain" or
"Just a Closer Walk with Thee," ran out to greet us with concerned looks and
prayers for our safety.  Some offered water.  Some offered apples just picked
from the tree.  One offered salvation.

The woman at the well
Her name was Carmen.  We met her by the town fountain at the end of an
hours-long uphill climb on a scorching afternoon.  We had been walking nearly
nine hours.  We were sweat-soaked and exhausted.  The next pilgrim hostel was
five miles farther up the mountain.
 "Is there a hotel in the town?" I gasped, my chest still heaving from the
climb.  She assured me there wasn't.  Nor was there any way to buy food since
it was Sunday.  I looked at Judy.  Her eyes were glazed and she was starting
to babble, a condition I had come to recognize as dangerous.  Neither of us
would make it another five miles.
"You can sleep at my house," the tiny, smiling woman said.  "I will feed
you."  I stared at her, wondering if I had understood the Spanish correctly.
"Come!  Come!" she said.
We followed her across the cobbled street, through a doorway hung with long
strands of heavy beads that served to keep out flies.  Inside it was cool and
dark.  A pine trestle table, already set with place mats, silverware and
napkins took up most of the tiled entry.  Had she been expecting us?
For the first time in weeks we took showers in a real bathroom.  Dinner was
homemade pea soup, crusty peasant bread and wine from Spain's famed Rioja
region.  That night we slept in beds with sheets and blankets.  It was heaven!
Carmen was in her 70s and had never been to Santiago.  Her mission, she said,
was to care for weary pilgrims so they could continue their journey.  It was
a calling she took seriously.
The next morning she was up before dawn preparing cafe con leche and jam
sandwiches for our breakfast. As we left, she gave us each a hug and said,
"Pray for me when you get to Santiago."  We added her name to the growing
list of people who had requested prayers at the shrine of St. James.

The Mount of Joy
A wooden sign along the side of the road read, "Come on, pilgrims!  Not far
now!"
We were several miles from the Mount of Joy, where for more than a thousand
years, pilgrims have caught their first glimpse of Santiago de Compostela in
the distance.  From there it would be an easy half-day walk to the cathedral.
 It had started to rain.  The wind was stinging my face.
It had been almost seven weeks since Judy and I left Portland.  In that time,
not a day had passed that one of us didn't suggest giving up, turning back,
taking a bus, hitchhiking, buying a horse, or simply living the rest of our
lives wherever we happened to be at the moment.  I had argued, blamed,
whined, cried, yelled and otherwise tormented my traveling companion in an
attempt to project my fears and anguish over the rigors of the journey onto
someone else.
Now, for the first time since we set foot on the road to Santiago, I knew we
were going to make it.
I walked faster.  The dreary hymns I had been singing for hundreds of miles
gave way to a peppy, "Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall..."  My pack
was light, my legs were strong.  I sailed over potholes and puddles.
"Sixty-four bottles of beer on the wall...I am woman...I am inVINcible!"
We reached the Mount of Joy and its massive complex of pilgrim hostels on a
Sunday afternoon.  We were mudsplattered and soaked, our shoes caked with
heavy Spanish clay.  A wayward gizmo on Judy's pack had ripped holes in most
of her clothes.  I had walked the crotch right out of my jeans.  Our hair was
shaggy and matted, and our noses were peeling from the sun. We were pilgrims!
 And we were beautiful!
Below us lay the sparkling, brown granite city of Santiago, with its
centuries-old tradition of welcoming pilgrims.  Through the mist we could see
spires of the cathedral built to honor the bones of St. James.
Tomorrow we would make our way along winding, narrow streets to the Plaza del
Obradoiro.  We would enter the cathedral through the Gate of Glory, just as
pilgrims had since the Middle Ages.  We would place our fingers in the deep
grooves worn into an alabaster pillar by millions who had rested there as
they offered prayers of thanksgiving for a safe journey. We would watch as
red-robed acolytes launched a giant silver incense burner through the
cathedral-catapulting it over the heads of awestruck worshipers.  We would
embrace the gold-encrusted statue of Santiago.  And we would light candles
for those who asked us to pray for them.
But for now, I wanted a hot shower and a warm meal.  I wanted to talk with
other pilgrims gathered at the Mount of Joy about the adventures we shared.
I wanted to phone home. After weeks on the road, I was finally beginning to
understand that the grace of pilgrimage is not in reaching the destination-it
is in the journey itself.