My reservation is for today, so that’s good.

I don’t know how I could have been so stupid as to think my flight to Madrid was almost 24 hours after the flight to Dallas. But I did. Not only have I donated the cost of my Dallas hotel room, my hotel reservation in Madrid starts a day after I need it. Adventures with Jane, indeed. I’ll keep y’all posted.

It’s been years since I wrote in this blog. So much has happened. Antonio moved out, the pandemic happened, Antonio and I began speaking again, we began working for the same company, Antonio went back on camino, Antonio decided to move to Spain to run a bar for his parents, and I decided to rent my house and travel for most of the year.

In just a few days I will be going to Spain to volunteer in an albergue there. I’m both excited and scared. I have never done anything like this before. But growth is uncomfortable. The thing I am most worried about is I am supposed to cook vegetarian. I’ve never really cooked that way.

I am hoping to write a second book that tells the story of pilgrims from the other side. This albergue is on the Camino Primitivo, however, so I’m not sure how many pilgrims there will be. But I have plans to go to a second albergue (also vegetarian) in August (if the paid gig I’m trying for doesn’t work out) and it is on the Camino Frances.

I will keep you guys posted, but to the eight people who follow this blog (WordPress won’t tell me who,) I’m off again!

It’s been almost exactly a year since I returned from Spain. There have been some changes in that time. I bought a house, retired from teaching, gained 10 lbs I neither wanted or needed…you know, life stuff. And in all those experiences I never really had a moment when I consciously knew or applied a lesson I learned from walking across Spain.

But then I never felt the Camino taught me some of the things it taught others. That I was strong and determined? I knew that from riding in the MS 150 the year before. To be tolerant and accepting? Kind of already was, although I learned to be more so. So in many ways the Camino was confirmation rather than revelation. Until yesterday.

Yesterday Sarah moved in to her first apartment. My birthday gift to her (saved from her actual birthday in April) was to help with the move. So I rented a Penske truck and hauled the washer and dryer my cousin Melissa gave her from Brenham to Houston.

Now to understand this story you have to know that I was born with amblyopia, or lazy eye. My left eye does 80% of my seeing, so I have very little stereo vision and I struggle with depth perception. For years, when my life felt out of control, my brain would deal with the stress by dreaming I was driving a large vehicle (18-wheeler, school bus, once an incredibly tall bicycle) that was high off the ground. I would struggle to control what was out of control, because I was so separated from the road.

The guy at the rental place said, “You’re going to love this,” and showed me the shiny new truck, only 20,000 miles on it, with a cab floor at hip-level.

I did not love it.

It took a lot to stay calm, swing myself up into the seat, and start driving. I circled the parking lot a little, trying to get a feel for the truck, but I was worried about the mileage so I headed to Mom’s where the washer and dryer were, heart in my mouth and prayers on my lips. The hour-long trip to Houston was going to be the literal stuff of nightmares for me.

When I got to Mom’s I was nearly in tears, but I didn’t take out her fence when I drove in nor did I roll the thing in the ditch, like I worried. Charles and Randall loaded the stuff while I washed my face and printed out directions to Sarah’s apartment (I left my phone at home, like a goofball.) And then I headed out.

65 miles of the 67 mile one-way journey were on the highway. I wasn’t worried about them. I was worried about tight corners and small passages in her complex, and the roads to her complex. What was I going to find at the end? How was I going to navigate this behemoth through the streets of Houston?

Then a still small voice said, “What if this were the Camino?” Instantly my whole body relaxed. “Oh, well, if this were the Camino, no problem. Everything would work out. The roads would be fine, or there would be somebody to help me navigate them, or something. If this were the Camino there’d be nothing to worry about.”

“Then go on Camino,” said the voice. And I did.

When I walked in to Santiago the summer of 2018 there were boy scouts (or some Spanish equivalent) asking the pilgrims why they walked. I told them I walked to find an answer to the question, “What next?” I didn’t get an answer to that question. Instead I found that the answer to that question didn’t matter. God provided for me throughout that journey, and He would continue to do so.

And you know what? I was right.

I should have done this each day that I’ve been back, instead of waiting a week. But you can’t get back lost time so…Being back with my family was good. Being back with Fred was better. Sleeping in my own bed has been wonderful, and yet I keep waking up disoriented. I don’t exactly think I’m in Spain, because I never slept the same place twice while I was there. Yet I wake and I stare at the ceiling and then at the room and I reorient myself.

I’m in the airplane to fly from Santiago to Paris. I feel naked without my mochilla.

Today I went to the pilgrims’ museum. It was there, reading about pilgrimages and their importance through history and why people do them, that it hit me. I’m a pilgrim.

A pilgrim.

I’ve stepped into the stream of history, become part of something thousands of years old.

I saw pictures of people bathing in the Ganges. Read how pilgrimages change people, change the world. And I realized, I who always feel that if I’VE done it it can’t be that special, that I have done something special. That while 300,000 people complete the Camino each year, I am still unique.

I’m having some trouble with that.

After meeting Bjorn I went back to my hotel and got my bag, then took a taxi to the airport. I realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, admittedly at 11, so I got a bocadillo and a Coke. Almost 9 euros! I’m spoiled. For 10 euros I could get a three-course pilgrims’ menu plus wine. (Sigh) I think there is a lot of the Camino I will miss.

The flight to Paris had only one interesting thing happen. I was sitting next to two Asians. One asked the steward for tea, specifying “hotto.” The steward was totally confused. I, with my 37 days of pilgrim practice, said, “He wants hot tea.” That’s happened to me more than once lately.

Well, the other interesting thing was we disembarked on the tarmac. I haven’t done that in a while.

The cab driver flirted with me and told me I was beautiful.But that may have been the tip. My hotel was awful and didn’t have a bathtub. It didn’t have a restaurant either, so I got a Twix and some madelines out of the vending machine.

I repacked my backpack and went to sleep. Fred called a little after 6 to make sure I was up and not going to miss my plane. Apparently I am never allowed to leave again.

When I check in this morning somehow I don’t have a seat. The man says the plane is very full, and something about standby, but that doesn’t make sense. He says I will get a seat assigned at the gate. I think this is the norm for everyone. So I wait at the gate, and my name appears on a screen.

When I check in I ask why my name is on the screen. “You were on standby, but we have a seat. Is good news for you.” Well, it is good news but I’m confused as to why I need it. I bought my ticket in December. Surely the airline knew I was flying.

I realize that all the zen-like pilgrim calm and acceptance would have been out the window had things worked out differently. Someone would have had to EXPLAIN why, after seven months, the airline hadn’t figured out I was supposed to be on the flight. I might have even used inappropriate language. Fortunately I was spared, and I can continue to pretend I am above such things.

In a beautiful twist of fate, not only am I on the flight, but the only empty seat is NEXT TO ME! I get a window. I get space to curl up or stretch out. This must be my reward. I’ll take it, God, I’ll take it.

I have set off EVERY SINGLE SECURITY GATE I’ve gone through. I think it is the various pins and screws that now hold bits of me together. I have been patted down, wanted, and had my hands wiped for residue.

Speaking of which, we were asked to stay on the plane while Customs boarded IT. Then they called for a passenger, Khalil somebody. Then after a bit they let us deplane.

I keep confusing airport personnel. “Is this it?” as I put my cell phone and money belt in a bin. “Yes.” “Did you buy anything in Paris?” “No.” Clearly I am not the norm, and I see it as I look around me.

People are absolutely anchored, tethered, by stuff. They haul it in bags, so many they can’t carry them all but need a cart. I have to wait to deplane while everyone gets their stuff. The carousels rotate with it, and the shops we pass urge us to buy more. And while I’m not at all sure I could be a digital nomad anymore, this is a lesson I hope stays learned. I need people and experiences, not stuff.