Here are the troublemakers, both of whom got left in Pamplona.

I can’t take a picture of the other troublemaker, nor can I leave it in Pamplona. Butt: I might need to poo. Me: Well? Do you or don’t you? Butt: No. (I finish packing, get my poles, head out. 20 steps down the street…”Yes.” (Sigh)

I met Jackie on the edge of town, completely by accident. She had sent her pack on and only had a Day pack, (the cheap red and white one, btw, Fred) so I didn’t recognize her at first. She was going the wrong way, something I had already done twice. We walked together again today.

Today was the first day that it really began to dawn on me that I am walking across Spain. Before, when I was in the mountains, it was simply walk to the next tree, walk to the next rock, cross this bridge without falling in the stream, go down this slope without falling on your face or your arse.

Today we walked through fields of wheat sprinkled with poppies. The clouds silently chased one another across a field of deep blue, while the golden wheat whispered to itself, and the red of the poppies sprang from the gold like small children saying “Boo!” only to hide again, laughing. Such peace. Such beauty. Something that has dawned on me is how few (as in no) airplanes I have seen. I realized that yesterday when I saw something black in the sky and assumed it was a plane, only to realize it was a hawk, and I hadn’t heard a plane since I’d landed in Paris. (I haven’t heard a train whistle either, praise and glory be.)

At one point Jackie and I stopped and said, “There. We just walked from there.” It seemed incredible to gaze on Pamplona from a distance, and to know that as far as it was, Santiago was farther. And that our feet, those things we hide in shoes and cover with socks and apologize for during pedicures, THOSE were going to carry us all the way.

Today we found some pilgrim (what do I call them? Sculptures?) They were in “The Way.” They’re on top of a high hill where the wind never stops blowing, so much there are turbines on the hill. Jackie, Jerome, and Elisabetta took their pictures with them, but so far I have had no desire to insert myself into the landscape. Maybe because this might be a book later (Maybe. Yes, Fred, I’ll take you out), or maybe because I want you, my reader, to feel what I feel as if you are there, and you can’t if you are always “looking in my mirror” so to speak. If I get demands to put myself in I will. Some.

Jackie and I stopped for water, but didn’t eat lunch till after 2. I just haven’t been hungry. I’m sure it’s heat and exercise. I try and drink lots of water, and I keep “pain de chocolate” (croissants with chocolate) on me st all times. For lunch I had a txistorra sandwich. It is a type of chorizo from Navarre, where I am.

As we came down a wicked slope I told Jackie I needed to stop. I was getting a hot spot (pre-blister.) I also wanted to lace my boots for going downhill. There were some benches, and on them was a young woman. She invited us to her family’s albergue. It sounded lovely, but Jackie already had a reservation in Puente la Reina. I told her I might stop, but it’s at least 5 km from Puente.

Relacing my boots made a HUGE difference. I thank God for the Camigas (although they did recommend the shampoo bar, which I am now using as LAUNDRY SOAP.) It was there I saw a poster on different ways to lace for different purposes. I figured black toenails were from your toes hitting the ends of your boots, so a lacing for that would work for downhill. It did.

When we got to Albergue de Muruzábal Jackie needed to use the toilet. I told her I’d buy a coke, but as I looked at the beautiful garden with its soft grass, I knew I wanted to stay. Here, HERE, was an albergue of which I had dreamed. Beautiful garden, better view, wide veranda where dinner was served.

Everything was clean and new, either warm wood or terra-cotta. Four other pilgrims and I ate dinner together. Salad, pasta, pork with peppers, and an orange, with plenty of red wine. Ignacio and Resendo only spoke Spanish. Bernie and I only spoke English. A nun (I never got her name) translated. Bernie is a monk, and he sat next to the nun, so Ignacio said we were separated into “santos y pecadores.” That actually sounds better in English. “Saints and sinners.”

Before dinner I did my laundry by hand and hung it up (on the wrong line as it happens) hoping everything would be quick dried by dinner. No such luck. I’ll have to pack in the morning and hope the dew won’t rewet everything. I’m meeting Jackie in Puente la Reina at 7, so I’m getting up at 5:15. Good night.

I just realized I didn’t post my signpost picture. Here it is.

The method that seems to work is to publish text then add pictures. So if you read this and there’s no pictures, come back later. There will be.

I met Eddie and the others at the cafe around 7. Had apple tart and cafe con leche. Funny thing is, I’m not a coffee drinker in the states. While Eddy and the others are friendly, they are not my family. I haven’t found my family yet. But it’s early days. I’m still hopeful.

Not far from Zubiri we passed a church being restored. Here I met Neil, who is from South Africa and is spending his life restoring the church. It was damaged when a roadway built in 1958 diverted water into the foundation, causing the walls and ceiling to crack. . It was abandoned by the locals even before that, I think he said.

He said the 16th century altar was looted in 2009, but it absence revealed a painted altar on the wall, with pagan symbols of nautiluses and suns. He also pointed out the outside walls are not stone but painted plaster. That’s because the entrance arch was painted with blue stars and other symbols.

I also met a woman who had cone down with tendinitis, and was volunteering at the church. She told me a professional hiker told her to stop every two hours, take off your shoes, and stretch and air your feet. So I’m doing that when I can.

Neil was not impressed with my little coffee cup stamp from the morning’s cafe. He started to tell me where the good stamps were, but I told him I had to have that one because that was where I had my first ever tequila shot. He said he’d give me that.

Here are some pictures of what I saw on the way. At some point I met Jackie. She might be family. She walks my speed. She’s from Guatemala and is a yoga teacher. She quit her other job and is on Camino deciding what she wants to do next. Mostly, does she want to marry a certain man or not. We told each other our life stories but had to separate once we got to Pamplona. She had a reservation. I did not.

Jackie is a cyclist (see, Fred, told you I’d meet one) and she agreed to ride the meseta with me. The man she may marry is also a cyclist. There have certainly been a lot of Bicigrinos around. I’m not a mountain biker. Wish I was, sometimes.

I checked in to my hostel, which is across from the cathedral, and showered. And I decided I had HAD it with the shampoo bar I brought. It doesn’t rinse out and my hair was getting more straw-like with each use. Plus it keeps breaking when I try to comb it. Enough! Basta! I’d also had enough of the shower shoes I brought. I got mesh that I thought would be light and dry quickly. Wrong on both counts.

So I went in search of flip flops (those who know me just gasped in shock; I hate flip flops) and real shampoo and conditioner. Found both, as well as some non-Camino parts of Pamplona. Saw Flamenco dancers. Had some wonderful local food, then headed back to the hostel. (I took this picture while I was eating. Look carefully. You’ll see why.) (In the window. See it now?)

I got lost and ended up 10 min in the wrong direction. Which I discovered after walking in circles for an hour. I tried my prayer trick, and you know what God said? “I spoke to you then because was there was no one else. Here are my children. Ask one of them.” So I did.

Reshowered when I got back to the albergue, where it is now 29:45 and past my bedtime. Good night.

Not charging anything meant my battery ran out fairly quickly, so very few pictures. This is the albergue at Roncevalles. The breakfast for which I paid was toast, juice, and coffee, but it isn’t served till 7. This is later than I want to start but I’ve paid for it and at this point I don’t KNOW that it’s only a piece of toast. So I go back to the alburgue to take care of some issues.

I realize that I have lost the sewing kit and clothes pins, but of all the things I could lose they are probably the least crucial so I am only mildly upset. I had told Eddie that all my hair ties were at the bottom of my pack. It was dig them out or look awful, and I was choosing to look awful. He said what Fred said. No one cares. (They really don’t, btw.) With the extra time I can dig out the hair ties, and that’s when I discover the missing sewing kit.

After my meager breakfast I head out. There is a market where many are stopping, and I stop to buy water, yogurt, and a Coke Zero, which I have to finish because you can’t use poles and drink anything.

Fully supplied now, I head out. My phone still has battery, and I think (wrongly) that my charger does too, so when I see a woman taking a picture I do too.

I take more pictures of different things I find interesting.

I decide I’m going to take pictures of mile markers to Santiago when I can. I think this one says a farther distance because it is on the road.

I delayed leaving a little so I could use the toilet, but now I have to again. There are no buildings in sight, so the woods it is. Fortunately I have a plastic bag and tissues. About 30 min later I come upon a restaurant. Eddie and his wife are there, as well as their friends. I leave my pack with them and go inside to get a tortilla and coffee. On the way I am accosted by a very drunk local man, barely out of his teens. I can’t do anything because my hands are full, and I don’t know what I’d do anyway. I make it past and to Eddie’s table. His friends saw what happened and are indignant on my behalf. I don’t brave drunk guy again to use the toilet. Another mistake.

I stay with Eddie’s group awhile but they walk too slowly for me. I meet Maeve and her mother, with whom I had dinner in St. Jean. We picnic together, and the mother presses cheese and crackers on me. Eddie’s group passes us while we’re eating. Both groups are going on to Larasoana, but I’m thinking I’m not. I’m tired of being the last pilgrim, too late for dinner or laundry.

I have to visit the woods again, with a less neat result than the first time, and that decides me. I’m staying in Zubiri and getting laundry done. I find an albergue with one bed left. I shower and put on the spare shirt Mother wanted me to take (braless) and my rain pants (commando.) I give the hospitalero everything else, and then I lay down to wait. I figure if necessary I can conceal my unfettered state with my rain jacket. Which I’m about to do, because I’ve been typing over an hour, I’m hungry, and my laundry has yet to make an appearance.

Met Eddy and his friends at dinner. Drank my very first tequila shot.

Where to start? I took pictures all day, so I’ll go back and review them. I tried to include them but the blog won’t post. It’s why the last entry was a day late and appears twice. I’m lying in bed at 5, having gone to sleep at 9:30, and taking a minute to keep you guys updated. I figure text is better than nothing. (Note, my next alburgue has MUCH better WiFi. Pictures are going in.)

I couldn’t get my poles together so I had a choice. Struggle alone in my room or get help. A very nice Chinese family helped me out. Poles assembled, I went to augment my hostel breakfast. I got Basque cake. Its a little like chess pie, but with an almond flavor. It is good stuff! Then I set out.

As I climbed I passed sheep, goats, cows, and horses all grazing in the open. Some, not all, with cowbells. I couldn’t decide if they were the responsible or the irresponsible ones. The goats and sheep ere spray painted.

I also passed piles of rocks with abandoned books. I’m glad I got rid of my book in the airport.

Climbing was hard. There are two options over the mountain. The road, called the Napoleon route (and the one the pilgrim office recommends) and the trail, which is closed in winter. As I huffed and puffed, my 53 year old knees and sea level lungs straining, I gave myself permission to take the road. It wasn’t failure, I reasoned, but reality. Accommodation for the reality of who I am right now. Pride ( and a touch of obstinacy, since it seemed everybody was saying YOU should take the road) had said take the trail, but pride was dissolving with each gasp for air. Then I got to the trail.

Oh, did I mention it is 27 km to my alburgue in Roncevalles? That’s about 16 miles. Up and over a mountain.

I took the trail. Not from pride, but because no one else was taking the road. I came to meet people, and I reasoned that if I had a problem I needed to be where people could solve it.

The trail was pure mud, churned by the boots of who knows how many pilgrims. The weather was cool and cloudy, something I was repeatedly grateful for throughout the day.

Not far in my boots began to rub my heels just a little. Knowing how quickly a small problem can turn big, I stopped to put on some moleskin. I had wisely put it in my top pack pocket. I had NOT put in the scissors to cut it. I did have my knife,so I used it. (Yes, family, I did cut myself but it was just a knick. Two licks and it was done.)

Feet taken care of, I went on. The mud stopped, thank God, and there were even roads intermittently. The alburgue Orisson is 8 km in. I left at 8:45, and got to Orisson at 11:30.

“I did it!” just kind of resounded through my whole body. I got a slice of tortilla. I resisted more Basque cake, but I should have gotten coffee. The tortilla, which was a slice of crust less quiche with potato and ham, cried out for it, and I think some caffeine at that point would have helped.

I went to use the toilet, but a young man who needed it said, “It’s locked.” It was a locked toilet that caused my two hour sojourn through St. Jean, and I know there is literally not another one for miles. So while he went in search of a key I turned the handle. It wasn’t locked. I offered it to him, but he said go ahead. I think he wanted time for his face to change back.

Once again there is no toilet paper,and I bless the top pack pocket and my wisdom in putting tissues in it. Then I start back.

I can’t describe the climb without pictures. (Thank goodness I can put some in now.) Stunning beauty, painful knees, hurting hips…I stop and stop. For water, since I can’t reach my bottle myself and I have no one to help, food ( thank God Ryan insisted I get both), air, and sometimes pain. My left foot is structurally damaged, and it decides to remind me in various painful ways.

At one point I stop and lace my left boot differently. I saw a poster on the Camigas Facebook site, and I think the high arch lacing will help the numbness in my toes. So I lace the first two notches vertically, then begin the crisscross. My OCD is bothered by the fact that my boots don’t match, but my right foot doesn’t have a problem. My OCD can get over it.

I come to a spot where, unbeknownst to me, the trail splits into easy and hard. I don’t realize this, and unknowingly take the hard trail. Suddenly the pilgrims who have consistently been passing me are gone. So are the yellow arrows. I’m going downhill now, and my toes are jamming in to the front of my boots, especially on the left. I stop and relace into a crisscross.

I keep going, but the lack of arrows worries me. I stop and pray for a sign. “God, I just need a sign. Right trail, wrong trail, just tell me.” 20 feet on there is a yellow arrow on a tree.

Okay guys, I’ve been typing now for an hour. The alburgue is coming alive, so I am going to continue later.

Continuing.

The trail continues to go sharply down. I finally reach my alburgue at 6;45, ten hours after I started. Quint and Heather, whom I met at the Fountain of Roland (no picture, google it) are arriving from a completely different direction. That’s when I find out I went the hard way. By the time I check in my dinner is in 5 minutes. No time to clean up.

I go to dinner ( for which I paid in advance), but I’ve arrived so late I’ve missed the chance to get my laundry done. I also miss the pilgrim’s mass because I’m taking a shower, but I can’t stand myself. It was bad enough inflicting my smell on my dinner companions. (This is necessary information for Day Three.) I am bunking with Eddie from Florida and his wife, whose name I still don’t know, and a German man who never introduces himself.

The plug is too high on the wall to charge my charger, and the light on my adapter doesn’t work so I think somethings defective. I don’t charge anything. Big mistake.

We are all sacked out by 9:30.

I found a cafe and ordered a Basque burger. Doesn’t sound adventurous, I know, but what I know is once you step outside the bounds of standard fast food, a burger can be anything. This one had bacon and a sausage on top, something cheesy inside, and also something sweet. The beef was grass-fed, I could tell. I ate the sausage separately and put the bacon inside. Adding mayo was a mistake I won’t repeat. Maybe that was the something sweet.

I met a lovely woman and her daughter, no names again. They’re from Ireland. They’re walking to Orisson but sending their packs to Roncevalles. They’ll bus from Orisson to there. So might I, if my knee acts up too bad. Good Lord, and I thought I was in shape.

I told my dinner companions I would never usually eat so much at night, but I’d eaten almost nothing all day, and I was worried about trying to walk with my stores depleted, so to speak. I am sure breakfast will be nothing but starch.

My new friends kindly walked me back to the hotel. There seemed to be a choir rehearsal going on in the church. I wasn’t going to video, just record the audio, but my friend took a picture so I did too. However this hasn’t updated twice now, so I took the video out.

It was truly beautiful. I love men’s choirs. Here is my hostel. Back at the hostel I took a shower and put on tomorrow’s clothes, in which I will sleep. The view from the small courtyard was so beautiful, I have to share.

And just in case that isn’t enough, imagine yourself standing on soft, sticker-free grass with a cool wind on your skin.

Good night.

I ordered my credencial from American Pilgrims on Camino (APOC) before I left. Got my first stamp at the pilgrim office.

The guy at my hostel was a bit justified in laughing at me when I checked in. The hostel is literally two doors away. If I had gone there first, as you are supposed to do, I would have found the place easily instead of wandering around for two hours.

I have traded the credencial storage for my passport. The credencial is now in my pocket and the passport is in my money belt.

I’ve bought some supplies for tomorrow, since Fred assures me I will need extra food and water to get over the mountains.

I had to buy a bag in which to carry it home. Like the book at the airport, that bag may get left. I’m not sure if this is the first lesson of the Camino or not. But, in the spirit of the “Wonder” precepts, today’s lesson is, “If it’s outlived it’s usefulness to you, leave it behind.”

Oh, yeah, Parisians might ignore traffic signals but French drivers in general are VERY respectful of pedestrians. Cars see you at the crosswalk and they stop. No lights, no signs other than the lines of the crosswalk. But if you’re there, they stop. It’s pretty nice.

I didn’t use the facilities on the train because I can’t forget how in Austria the contents of the bowl just dropped onto the track. The train ride lasted about four hours. It ran late so there wasn’t time to use the facilities before making my bus connection. When I finally got to St. Jean Pied de Port, an hour and 15 minutes later, I got lost in this very small town and wondered around trying to find my hostel for another two hours. Fortunately I found a bathroom about an hour in. It probably helped that I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since getting on the train at 7:30 in the morning. The man at the desk made fun of me, in a very gentle way. I am now on my way to find myself some food and a Coke zero.

The taxi arrived on time and the ride was only 20 min. However Paris is like Houston. A 20 min ride can take 20 min or it can take an hour. I planned for the hour.

Got my ticket from the machine and figured out how to find my platform. Paid 0.8 euros to use the toilet. That was interesting. Everyone paid and then men went right and women went left.

I’m sitting on the train using the station WiFi and praying I’m in the right seat. Thank God there is a phone charger by me. I can save my power pack.

And I can read. I know I’m attached to my phone anyway but it is everything. Book, map, translator…and if I had it set up right wallet. With a phone and a power pack I truly would need nothing else.

On my way here I read a Jack Reacher novel I bought in the Austin airport and left in the Paris airport. (I’d read it and I wasn’t going to carry it.) I think I understand his lifestyle. I think I maybe could do it. Maybe.

When I originally booked my hotel room back in March I accidentally booked two rooms at the same hotel. I contacted the hotel and tried to cancel one. I came to find out today that I had canceled both. So I hopped on their free wifi and booked another one. I’m having to pay three times as much but my room is much nicer so there is that. And my room is closer to Gare du Nord which is where I need to be tomorrow morning.

The picture is just a random Paris street. In an attempt to kill three birds with one stone (save money, train for the Camino, and explore Paris) I walked from my former hotel to my current one. It should have taken me 45 minutes. I think it took around two hours. My feet hurt, my back hurts, my legs hurt… I’m going to die on this walk.

Paris is an interesting city. It reminds me of Cairo. It has the same “traffic laws are merely suggestions” vibe Cairo does. Unlike Cairo they do have traffic signals, but pedestrians are like “I unclog my nose at your so-called …traffic signal….” I adopted the same strategy I did in Cairo. I find a Parisian that’s doing what I want to do and follow them. Figure if it doesn’t work, they’ll get hit first.

Dirty, like Cairo. And full of Muslims. Especially Montmartre, where I am. As I passed beggar after beggar, all clearly Middle Eastern, after I passed so many shops and restaurants that were Cairo, not Paris, I began to understand some of the pushback of which I’ve read. Paris is overwhelmed. I am sure Paris Social Services is overwhelmed. Someone more versed in middle eastern cultures than I could tell where most were from. I could not. I have a guess that a significant number are from Algeria, since I saw shirts for the Algerian soccer team displayed in a shop.

I didn’t take a picture of the shirts, but I did take a picture of some fabrics like I would see in Saudi. The Saudi fabrics were even more elaborate, and twisted into the shapes of the gowns they might become, but I took a picture as proof that it’s not totally like I’m in Paris.

I am sure Parisians, and possibly all French people, feel their culture is disappearing. Frankly, as I walked the streets, and looked at the culture represented, I would agree with them. Those of you that know me know I am not racist. I’m not condemning those who have chosen to come here, nor am I condemning them for keeping their own culture. I’m just saying that I understand how some people could look around and say, “All these people need to go home.” I read once, somewhere, that ignoring the problems of Africa, as the Western world has done, was a bill that would be very costly when it came due. I think Europe is beginning to pay for it now.

And speaking of costly, I’ve just discovered a costly mistake. I didn’t check my itinerary before I booked the new hotel. I was sure I knew the train station from which I was leaving. The train I need to catch at 7:52 in the morning, getting there 20 minutes early of course, is quite literally on the other side of Paris.

The spoon is where I am. The lipgloss is where I need to be. I’m going to talk to the concierge about a taxi in the morning. (Sigh.) You’d think someone my age would give up making assumptions…Oh well. It can’t be helped now. I have to believe that there was a reason for this. And that it’s not just because I’m stupid.

I know you’re supposed to push through jet lag and stay up, but I was running 24 hours on three hours sleep, so I checked into my hotel and took a nap. I’m about to emerge and find some dinner. And my boyfriend Fred tells me that it is not to be McDonald’s.

My flight from Detroit was delayed by 45 minutes, and I didn’t realize that I was changing time zones. So the hour and 15 minutes I thought I had to find my gate turned out to actually be 15 minutes. Imagine my consternation when I go to see what gate I’m flying out of and find that my flight is already boarding. I ran. 53-year-old, right knee needs replacing, 40 pounds overweight me ran from gate 76 to gate 56.

OK, it was running interspersed with lots of really fast walking interspersed with lots of semi fast walking interspersed with lots of huffing and puffing. But I made it. And then spent the next several hours coughing because my lungs just aren’t up to that sort of stuff anymore.

I didn’t even doze on the flight over, so right now it’s about three or four in the morning for me but about nine in the morning for Paris, and I was so excited and had so much stuff to do that I only got a few hours sleep the night before. I think I’m going to sleep well tonight.

I sat next to a very nice foreign exchange student, who had spent the last year as a sophomore in an American high school, and was returning to her native France. We spoke about many things. She is a violinist, and of course I gave her advice on how to get into a good music school. But we never even exchanged names.

Immigration was insane. There were probably between 200 and 300 people all waiting to get their passports checked. By the time I got down to baggage, my backpack was a sad lonely lump slowly circling on an almost empty belt. I had been worried about it making the connection. Not only had it made the connection, but the small portable charger that I accidentally left in an outside pocket was not only there but also undamaged. (I actually have two chargers with me. A large solar one my mother got me for Christmas, and a small light one that is also solar but only in emergencies. I couldn’t decide which one I wanted to bring so I brought both. I kind of figured that phone chargers would be a really important item, and Fred tells me that that is how he made all his friends.) I think I just need to start accepting that this trip is a God thing, and stop worrying about this or that. Everything is going to work out the way it is meant to work out.

Well, I’ve been taking a break, letting my phone charge, and frankly kind of avoiding my next step, which means going out of the airport and actually trying to be in Paris and find a taxi and find my hotel and all of the things that so many people tell me I am so brave for trying to do. I don’t feel brave at the moment. But even though I’m scared, and nervous, and apprehensive, I’m going to do it anyway. And isn’t that what courage really is?