Meanderings & Musings

Roncesvalles, Spain, February 28 I’m scrunched in my lower bunk, #13 of a 24-bed dorm (this is one of the tiny ones here, some of the dorms have well over 100). By scrunched, I mean that I can’t sit upright because there’s not enough headspace. Were these not built for adults? I’m beginning to think that lower bunks are highly overrated. They’re always the first taken, though in this case, I had mine assigned by the stern lady at the desk who got me checked into this historic facility.  It is an iconic stop. A town with a resident population of about 30 humans, with this enormous, ancient monastery complex (complete with cloisters, chapel, hostel, museum, and more), which has been a place of hospitality for pilgrims of The Way for about 900 years, dating back to 1127. There’s an ancient feeling about the place, for sure, though I’ve been told there were some recent improvements, like the outlets by each bed and a reading light. For these modernizations, I am truly grateful. Only t...

Saint Jean Pied-de-Port, France, February 27 It’s an early, 5 AM wake-up in the dorm. Somehow, this room that looked bright and airy yesterday, with a lovely view of the mountains, feels like a thick-stone-walled dungeon in the darkness. It’s filled with metal bunks, now creaking exceptionally, as pilgrims begin to rouse and start packing out. I’m not entirely certain that I've slept at all, between the sounds of this snoring, coughing, restless band of hikers. (My first surprise when I arrived at the hostel in town yesterday was the sheer number of travelers, as my main intent for choosing a winter Camino was to avoid the crowds.) Sleep is something I was anxious about with this trip. I’m a bad/light sleeper on a good day in my own bed with Benadryl and Ibuprofen for my shoulder issues. At some point during the night, I had a couple of thoughts about sleep related to pilgrim-life: 1) Sleep is a gift, not an expectation. I’ll be grateful for every bit that I get. 2) Eventually, I’...

  Saint Jean Pied-de-Port, France, February 26 I arrive in town via bus from Bayonne, France after spending a night (already a pivot from my plan, being delayed for hours yesterday due to a tragic incident on the rails, that made me miss my train connection). It was a stunning ride, and surreal in a lot of ways. I'm actually doing this: traveling through Europe like a boss! I continue to shock myself a bit on that account, I’ll admit. I had so much uncertainty about traveling alone internationally, finding my way in strange places, but here I am, doing what I felt incompetent or incapable of, or at least with significant doubt and trepidation of my abilities. Again, I never would’ve done it if I didn’t have this sense that it was the right thing, right time, going solo. I walk into town from the bus station, my only plan being to secure a bed promptly at the municipal hostel upon my arrival. Here’s what I know in advance about the place: no reservations allowed, dorms accommodate ...

  Paris, France, February 24, 8:43 PM It’s my 40th birthday and I’m alone in this Parisian restaurant. (Jason left for home today.) I’ve clocked nearly 9 miles on foot, walking all over the city, chasing distant architecture/interesting domes. My feet were starting to really bug me midway through, and were utterly throbbing towards the end. (It’s not entirely new, they were already doing that at home in training.) While on a bridge, taking pictures of the city at night, a Parisian gent approached me and asked if I wanted my photo taken. Of course, when traveling solo, it’s a chance not to be missed. It might’ve crossed my mind when I handed him my phone that I just handed off a whole lot of my current world: maps, credit card, and ID, beyond the phone itself, and that if it was someone of ill intent, I could be in a sticky spot.  Before leaving home, I had this belief that surfaced when people asked me if I wasn’t afraid to do this trip alone: that humans are generally good, t...

February 2025: Lancaster, Penna I’m really doing this: walking The French Way across the whole of northern Spain. Solo. The French is just one of many routes collectively known as El Camino de Santiago . Together, they form a network of ancient pilgrimage routes originating from various points in Europe to the great cathedral of Santiago, where, reputedly, lie the remains of St. James the Apostle , brother of Jesus. When I first heard about the Camino a few years ago, I immediately placed it in my I’d love to do that someday category. And really didn’t give it much further thought. It resurfaced in early December, when I began asking myself what I might want to do to celebrate the completion of another decade, hitting the big 4-0. What began as simply another idea, quickly took center stage and refused to leave, as did the thought of doing it alone. I started pouring over websites, searching for information about the different routes, trying to determine a plan. I inhaled Camino blo...