It is our last full day in Santiago. Helen and I ended up with some time to spare. I had calendared enough days from Porto to finish that we would only need to make 10-11 miles per day. But as we fell in with fit and motivated Europeans, in one case hyper-motivated, we smoked along the ol' Caminho Trail and pulled in on the 15th. Our Madrid plane does not depart until Monday the 19th.
Am glad, though, because not only does this give a chance for the soles of the Keens to stop smoking and for the blisters to shrink, but we have a cushion to savor this complex city a bit and, perhaps, savor what has taken place in our souls.
Pilgrims constantly stream into the great plaza from our route, the Via Portuguese, as well as the busier Via Frances. We watch now with something of a veteran's understanding as the exhaustion turns to elation as people, now people we have never met, hug and cry.
This is bittersweet as our own little Caminho family has dissolved. Each continues their pilgrimage by another road. Ramon from Washington has gone on alone to Finisterre on the coast. After drinking wine by a fountain in the sun, Guus and Marian have boarded their bus for Porto then on to Holland. Etan leaves for Switzerland as I write. We will host Marie tonight as we are one more day here, then we fly to Madrid while she, young footpad right out of a medieval story, walks to Finisterre, then bus to Santiago, then walks back along the Caminho Frances to her home in the shadow of Mont Blanc.
There really are such people in the world still.
But Santiago is a holy city, and as such it is complex. The pious, the curious, the adventuresome, the wealthy, the poor, and the bored all flock here. And there is much trade--trinkets, holy baubles, marinated octopus (which is in describable fabulous), simple hostels, luxury hotels all fill the streets. A St James mime slowly swings a huge censer in the square, providing a photo op. You can be a Knight Templar, a weary pilgrim, or just dazed and confused in the streets of the old city.
I like it for its honesty. The Strange Road does not lead to some ethereal bliss, but humanity in all our hustle to make a living and just get by.
At a last dinner, Marian asked what each of us had gained from the Road. I replied that my request of Santiago had been fulfilled. Remembering my romanticized plunge into ancient Celtic mist in Ireland, I had asked the Saint of the Road to let me see the real people along the way, not only my fellow-pilgrims but the people who love and work and get up each day with their joys and sorrows, their loves and losses.
He heard my prayer, Santiago, Big Jim, the majestic and ragged and whimsical Saint of the road. He guided and led and provided, and gave me so much more.
He gave friends, a dear band of fellow-journeyers who understand deeply the Strange Road with the scale of each cobblestone, the weight of wet laundry pinned to your backpack.
The faces...gentle Fernanda who told us of her love of her city Oporto there in her own apartment. The cafe workers who smiled at our efforts to speak Portuguese. The man delighted to give us vegetables. The excited local drunk who encouraged us from his bicycle on that blistering day. The bright and fresh faces of Gonzaga and his choir, the earnestness of Marianna, the inquisitive graduate student and her companions. The kind and the distracted, the indifferent and the concerned. Each and every one who, when we most needed to hear it, blessed is with a "Bom Caminho", "Buen Camino." On some days, only that made all the difference.
On impulse last night, Helen got on the line to enter the Catedral, hug the statue of Saint James from behind, and then pray before his ossuary in the crypt. The evening Pilgrim Mass was taking place as we did so, and as we stood the "botafumeiro " again soared. The cantor's voice again soared with it, and I heard in the lyrics "keep Spain in the faith we received, bless the people of Spain."
Before me a family with adorable preschoolers. The parents pointed out to their curious eyes the baroque statues, the flying censer, and then lifted them to kiss the massive bronze cheek of the great statue eternally gazing over the sanctuary of the great church.
The people of Spain, a nation that guards the Road and the Shrine, tiny children receiving by sight and touch the most sacred of Spain's holy sites, the soul of a nation.
I breathed a prayer for Spain and for Portugal as I leaned on the statue, placed my cheek on his shoulder. His shoulder was massive, heavy, and strong, with the raised ornaments of scallops and stars worn bright from touch.
Gracias, viejo. Thank you, old one.
bom caminho
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Saturday, September 10, 2016
passed by
Pilgrims intentionally straggle. There is a delicate unspoken etiquette that allows one to gently fall in step with another, speak for a time, then quietly experiment with gait that allows
The swifter or more determined, if they wish, to pull ahead.
I am one of the slowest on the Strange Road, ever so slightly hobbled
Of gait with my right foot turned slightly in and the killer blister on my right foot sole. So I am easy to pass.
I have learned that there is a calling in being passed.
The dignified German man who passed me gravely, but stayed for a time, may not have told me that he
lives near Saxonhausen concentration camp. We discussed genocide, how decent German people live with the Nazi legacy, and the hypocrisy of the USA and our genocidal treatment of Native Americans and many others.
I would not have heard of the losses that other pilgrims have suffered, of children and marriages and ways of life, of health, of faith. I would not have heard of the quiet courage to carry on.
I would not have heard myself speak aloud my own pain, doubt, struggle, and fear.
I would not have had my own wounds bound in silence by the quiet acceptance of others.
Deep in the Spanish forest, on an old Roman road, lies a small bridge covered with planks. The local people call it the "fever bridge" because, they say, one Saint Telmo died beside it while on pilgrimage to Santiago. Next the bridge stands a very old stone cross, mute testimony that here Telmo's physical journey came to an end. But another journey began. His death-place became the place that all others would pass by on their journey. The arms and base of the cross are covered with stones, some inscribed with names. What a journey began for Telmo the day he stopped walking to Santiago but allowed others to walk into his solitude, bringing their pain.
Alone, I stood before Telmo's cross and gave thanks that mine too is a vocation to be passed by.
The swifter or more determined, if they wish, to pull ahead.
I am one of the slowest on the Strange Road, ever so slightly hobbled
Of gait with my right foot turned slightly in and the killer blister on my right foot sole. So I am easy to pass.
I have learned that there is a calling in being passed.
The dignified German man who passed me gravely, but stayed for a time, may not have told me that he
lives near Saxonhausen concentration camp. We discussed genocide, how decent German people live with the Nazi legacy, and the hypocrisy of the USA and our genocidal treatment of Native Americans and many others.
I would not have heard of the losses that other pilgrims have suffered, of children and marriages and ways of life, of health, of faith. I would not have heard of the quiet courage to carry on.
I would not have heard myself speak aloud my own pain, doubt, struggle, and fear.
I would not have had my own wounds bound in silence by the quiet acceptance of others.
Deep in the Spanish forest, on an old Roman road, lies a small bridge covered with planks. The local people call it the "fever bridge" because, they say, one Saint Telmo died beside it while on pilgrimage to Santiago. Next the bridge stands a very old stone cross, mute testimony that here Telmo's physical journey came to an end. But another journey began. His death-place became the place that all others would pass by on their journey. The arms and base of the cross are covered with stones, some inscribed with names. What a journey began for Telmo the day he stopped walking to Santiago but allowed others to walk into his solitude, bringing their pain.
Alone, I stood before Telmo's cross and gave thanks that mine too is a vocation to be passed by.
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
Improbable mercy
We set out from the ancient monastery on rural roads, the shade a grace due to the heat and sun. Later that night German pilgrims would discuss with us the German concept of "redneck."
But the day had far more that contemporary American culture-war references.
Cobble-cobble-conbley stones--we marveled at the stamina of the Romans who had actually laid some of these roads.
A sweet Portuguese pilgrim named Dio, with whom my daughter bonded. A long-distance runner, he courteously kept us company for the morning, then discreetly asked if he could "resume his pace" as he needs to be in Santiago in five days.
A sweet dog who had clearly had puppies recently, who wished to join us and did until she sat in the road looking confused. Perhaps she wished to hit the Strange Road to escape parenthood.
Medieval bridges and weirs,cobbles cobbles everywhere. The Hungarian who walks with me says "It only gets worse."
But the medieval town we stumble into, exhausted, the welcome aubergues, the tale we hear of the pilgrim condemned to death whose judge was shocked by his dinner-chicken jumping up and crowing, while the condemned man was hung but dangled, alive, because Saint James was supporting his legs.
We see the late-medieval cross depicting this as we leave town.
Heat, sun, wildfires into the distance then, that night, so near. We are part of this dry arid landscape, air a dry searing wind in the lungs, each step a conscious command of obedience to sore and heavy muscles.
We round a Romanesque church on a hill. It is locked, but from its door's Windows cool air streams and an enchanted vision of carvings, a distant promise of glory and beauty, can be seen.
I pray to the Saint of the church to help us find shelter from the heat.
Stumping down the last trail, a bicycle hoves in sight. The Most Talkative Man In Portugal engages us, assuring us that shelter is near. He amuses us with his antics yet comforts us with his enthusiastic assurances that deliverance is at hand.
He disappears, and a turn in the Caminho finds us at converted stables run by the efficient Susana. We rest, drink copious amounts of water, arise to be cared for again.
Susana says, with young/old eyes, "The Caminho is first of all an inner journey. We bring ourselves as we are, but we all need to make this journey."
Today, we walk the streets in Ponte de Lima, an historic town with a Roman bridge and the streets thronged with people. It is the fiesta, held since 1826. We walk among them. We are strangers, but with newfound friends among our fellow pilgrims. We have found wisdom we did not know we needed, are content to feel the Road beneath our feet, to not control the outcomes. Tomorrow we walk again. The Strange Road awaits.
But the day had far more that contemporary American culture-war references.
Cobble-cobble-conbley stones--we marveled at the stamina of the Romans who had actually laid some of these roads.
A sweet Portuguese pilgrim named Dio, with whom my daughter bonded. A long-distance runner, he courteously kept us company for the morning, then discreetly asked if he could "resume his pace" as he needs to be in Santiago in five days.
A sweet dog who had clearly had puppies recently, who wished to join us and did until she sat in the road looking confused. Perhaps she wished to hit the Strange Road to escape parenthood.
Medieval bridges and weirs,cobbles cobbles everywhere. The Hungarian who walks with me says "It only gets worse."
But the medieval town we stumble into, exhausted, the welcome aubergues, the tale we hear of the pilgrim condemned to death whose judge was shocked by his dinner-chicken jumping up and crowing, while the condemned man was hung but dangled, alive, because Saint James was supporting his legs.
We see the late-medieval cross depicting this as we leave town.
Heat, sun, wildfires into the distance then, that night, so near. We are part of this dry arid landscape, air a dry searing wind in the lungs, each step a conscious command of obedience to sore and heavy muscles.
We round a Romanesque church on a hill. It is locked, but from its door's Windows cool air streams and an enchanted vision of carvings, a distant promise of glory and beauty, can be seen.
I pray to the Saint of the church to help us find shelter from the heat.
Stumping down the last trail, a bicycle hoves in sight. The Most Talkative Man In Portugal engages us, assuring us that shelter is near. He amuses us with his antics yet comforts us with his enthusiastic assurances that deliverance is at hand.
He disappears, and a turn in the Caminho finds us at converted stables run by the efficient Susana. We rest, drink copious amounts of water, arise to be cared for again.
Susana says, with young/old eyes, "The Caminho is first of all an inner journey. We bring ourselves as we are, but we all need to make this journey."
Today, we walk the streets in Ponte de Lima, an historic town with a Roman bridge and the streets thronged with people. It is the fiesta, held since 1826. We walk among them. We are strangers, but with newfound friends among our fellow pilgrims. We have found wisdom we did not know we needed, are content to feel the Road beneath our feet, to not control the outcomes. Tomorrow we walk again. The Strange Road awaits.
Saturday, September 3, 2016
Sleepless in Madrid, welcome in Porto
The upside of that big flight from Portland OR to Amsterdam is that they pamper you, but that does not really mitigate the impact of a 9 1/2 hour west to east flight.
My daughter and I deplaned with that thin, exhausted, brittle sort of buzz come from all those hours in the air, finding that time has totally misplaced you.
Settled into the Hostel Viki, a clean but no-frills place free of anything like diversion, and a night of near-sleeplessness ensued.
Both of us dissolved into our personal vulnerabilities, Helen frightened that her own body would not sleep when she wished it to, me feeling guilt that I led my daughter into this deeply disruptive moment.
But a great deal of comforting and using the brain, sheer emotion and reason all at once, coupled with a very raw form of prayer, got us through the night and to this day, awakening in Porto.
The day dawns late for us. I awakened at 1:30 and was up until 4. Strange how raw is prayer at that hour, but how good is tr sense that one is heard.
Snapshots...
The plaza near the hostel in Madrid, deserted during interviews the day, awakening at 6 pm to fill with people of all ages, families with young kids, the elderly, young adults--a neighborhood come alive.
Rotten night attempting to reason with our Oregon physiology that it is indeed nighttime.
The human body often does not respond to reason. We comforted each other and, when the day dawned, headed out for a cafecito in the same plaza.
Again, a neighborhood coming alive, this time to a new day. Kind Spanish shopkeeper,
Clearly amused that we found the local prices so
low.
Feeling caffeinated, a Portland normalizing state, in better spirits we boarded the plane for Porto.
Porto--a swirl of images and impressions...
The new-old city, built on colonial exuberance and prosperity. The visually explosive baroque and rococo churches, faith and confidence and prosperity all at once.
Friendly patient people. The question"fala Ingles?" results in some form of effective communication, especially when peppered with Spanish.
Good coffee.
Cobblestones.
Narrow "roads" with an occasional truck, more brave than prudent, making its way where only feet and perhaps some horses were meant to go.
My daughter and I placing our "credenciales" for the carimbo, the stamp of the pilgrim, then placing them at the feet of a 16th c statue of St James tucked away in the second story of the cloister.
Tears flowed in a silent moment that startled a tourist who paused in his photography, but glanced at the credentiales and stepped back in respect, bowed his head and waited for us.
Outside, my daughter discovering a yellow arrow, a waymarks. "This is where it gets 'realz'" she said.
We discussed our reasons for taking the Road. Helen is openly more skeptical than I, not as caught up in the mysticism of the Strange Road. She has more questions than answers, says she is here to see Europe, walk the Road, and see what it may be about.
I think that is a fine reasons to follow the yellow arrows.
My daughter and I deplaned with that thin, exhausted, brittle sort of buzz come from all those hours in the air, finding that time has totally misplaced you.
Settled into the Hostel Viki, a clean but no-frills place free of anything like diversion, and a night of near-sleeplessness ensued.
Both of us dissolved into our personal vulnerabilities, Helen frightened that her own body would not sleep when she wished it to, me feeling guilt that I led my daughter into this deeply disruptive moment.
But a great deal of comforting and using the brain, sheer emotion and reason all at once, coupled with a very raw form of prayer, got us through the night and to this day, awakening in Porto.
The day dawns late for us. I awakened at 1:30 and was up until 4. Strange how raw is prayer at that hour, but how good is tr sense that one is heard.
Snapshots...
The plaza near the hostel in Madrid, deserted during interviews the day, awakening at 6 pm to fill with people of all ages, families with young kids, the elderly, young adults--a neighborhood come alive.
Rotten night attempting to reason with our Oregon physiology that it is indeed nighttime.
The human body often does not respond to reason. We comforted each other and, when the day dawned, headed out for a cafecito in the same plaza.
Again, a neighborhood coming alive, this time to a new day. Kind Spanish shopkeeper,
Clearly amused that we found the local prices so
low.
Feeling caffeinated, a Portland normalizing state, in better spirits we boarded the plane for Porto.
Porto--a swirl of images and impressions...
The new-old city, built on colonial exuberance and prosperity. The visually explosive baroque and rococo churches, faith and confidence and prosperity all at once.
Friendly patient people. The question"fala Ingles?" results in some form of effective communication, especially when peppered with Spanish.
Good coffee.
Cobblestones.
Narrow "roads" with an occasional truck, more brave than prudent, making its way where only feet and perhaps some horses were meant to go.
My daughter and I placing our "credenciales" for the carimbo, the stamp of the pilgrim, then placing them at the feet of a 16th c statue of St James tucked away in the second story of the cloister.
Tears flowed in a silent moment that startled a tourist who paused in his photography, but glanced at the credentiales and stepped back in respect, bowed his head and waited for us.
Outside, my daughter discovering a yellow arrow, a waymarks. "This is where it gets 'realz'" she said.
We discussed our reasons for taking the Road. Helen is openly more skeptical than I, not as caught up in the mysticism of the Strange Road. She has more questions than answers, says she is here to see Europe, walk the Road, and see what it may be about.
I think that is a fine reasons to follow the yellow arrows.
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