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Camino Francés: T-3 days

 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, trustworthy even. It’s a simple one, and not stated lightly. Yet without it, I’d never would’ve been able to step out my door and into a venture like this one. Now, here in Paris, I’m adding on to that belief that not only do I have to have a general belief in the goodness of the majority, I also have to trust myself to see, solve, and/or avoid problems, as needed. We started chatting and when I said it was my 40th birthday and a bit about my venture, he immediately said that I absolutely had to see the start of the French Camino, which, according to him, was in Paris, just a few bridges away. I initially tried to get out of it; my feet were legitimately bothering me (he said it was definitely the barefoot boots I was wearing and that I better have some proper ones for the Camino!) and I was ready to get back to dinner and my hotel. However, I was curious and he was convinced I’d be grateful. In the end, I instinctively did my first real gut check of the trip: does he seem trustworthy/harmless, and do I trust myself enough to effectively navigate any situations that might arise? I said yes to both in my head, so we set out. Parisian bridges are much further apart than they appear, and three turned into five. 



Anyway, we found the stunning and mysterious Saint-Jacques tower (which I’d seen earlier in my wanderings). It's all that remains of the 16th-century church otherwise destroyed in the French Revolution, and is where, I am told, the Camino Francés officially begins. From there, we wandered further to find the first seashell marker of the route. (I thought I’d caught a glimpse of one earlier in the city, but didn’t quite realize the trail extended this far.) There, indeed, is the very same route that I’ll pick up in a few days in St. Jean Pied-de-Port, the most common starting point of the French Camino. Strange thought, somehow. I thanked him (as he’d promised I would, but what else could I do?) and we parted ways.




I came directly here to dinner, feeling exhausted, with feet throbbing. But when I stopped walking just now and sat down, it’s as if they entirely froze, with excruciating, erratic spasm-like constrictions that hardly diminish in between. It’s so painful I can hardly think; I can’t bear weight on them at all, so I’m desperately hoping that it passes with a bit of a late dinner break here. Seriously, what am I doing? I haven’t even yet begun this walking journey, and already I can’t even walk. What was I thinking? I’m feeling as if I’ve made an absurdly crazy move to be here, embarking on this Camino with a body that is already rebelling, revolting, betraying me. Will my body hold up for me, or fall apart completely? I’ve been saying that I expect to be taxed and stretched physically, spiritually, emotionally, and mentally, but I know that I haven’t a clue what that entails or what I signed up for in taking on this venture. I only seriously started considering it about two and a half months ago, and I’m seriously questioning my judgement and preparedness. 


Yet I had a sense of, this is the way (more clearly than almost anything else ever), which I kept following, and here I am. What do I want or expect to gain? Self-discovery, letting go, accepting what is, trusting myself? What am I here searching for? Myself? God? Reality? A truer version of one (or more) of those? I’m helplessly grasping for words to describe a vague sense. Truly, I hardly know. I’m merely relying on this unusual assurance I've had as a constant these past two months: that it is the right thing, the right time, and that I need to do it alone.
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