Yin and Yang

From: September 28, Castrojerez, Spain

About: September 22, 2016--Pamplona and the Hill of Forgiveness

After our lovely stay at the Iriguibel Sercotel in Uharte, we return to the Camino and almost immediately face a choice: follow the Camino on busy suburban and urban streets, or follow the shaded Riverwalk on the River Arga all the way to town.  Despite the extra 5 km, we choose the river and don’t regret it all.

It is a Sunday morning; there are lot people meandering, skating, walking their dogs,  pushing their kids in strollers.  Lot of bikes go by …pelotons of speeding racers in logo drenched jerseys and shorts, families on comfort bikes, sweating weekend warriors on mountain bikes.

The greenway links numerous parks on which 3 features stand out, like the number of parks which have extensive community gardens. In addition, Spaniards are mad for handball and its Basque variation, pelota. All but the tiniest of towns has a semi-enclosed handball court. We also walk by 4 big public swimming complexes, with indoor and outdoor pools, slides, and wading pools. As the day heats up, the crowds at these pools grow and grow.

Finally, after about 6 miles, we are nearing the center of Pamplona. We need to cross the river and go up a steep bank to get to the city center. The riverwalk continues, but right at the junction of the biggest garden, and another swim complex, I spot a stepping stone pathway across the river leading to a traverse  up the hill.

We are right under a 17th century garrison and steeling ourselves for a climb in the hot midday sun
I see a family of swimmers appear through double glass doors not connected to any building. Upon closer inspection, it is an elevator to the top of the bluff. Well, all right..

Upon exiting  the elevator, we walk  past the ramparts overlooking the river and are surprised to learn that these too are the work of the estimable and ubiquitous Monsieur Vaubon. Just past the barricades, we walk around the most of the circumference of the world famous and disappointingly active bull fighting ring, where big red and blue banners advertise past and future events.

We make our way through the city, where everything but the bars, cafes, and churches are closed. The many squares are full of people. There are quite a few times when we have to make our way through crowds. With our backpacks, walking sticks, and walking clothes, I feel like the world’s biggest mark. In Camino-lore, Pamplona has a well-deserved reputation for pick -pockets, so we keep our wits and our wallets about ourselves.

We go deeper and deeper into old Pamplona, past the ritzy shopping districts, past the tourist- thronged antiquities, past the sensible shops of the Calle Mercaderes until we find the “street” of our lodging.  Down a street no wider than a narrow alley, the establishments and the patrons seem downright seedy.

When we find our “gastropub,” where no one is eating, the chunky, short-haired bartender greets us enthusiastically, while also giving us the once over.    He grabs a set of keys, and hustles us outside to an adjacent door.  Just before he opens the door, her grabs a young blonde woman with long, frowsy hair, leather jacket and tottering boots, and gives her an enormous, full-on kiss on the mouth.  He lets go of her without a word between them and takes us into a narrow hall, up a flight of stairs to gathering room in which numerous four foot tall bags of laundry are thrown in the corner.

The whole thing seems shady and weird. We agree, then immediately worry when we pay for the room with our credit card.  The bartender gives us a key and tells us our room is #10 upstairs,  “Arriba!  Arriba!” he says, pointing up.

We start climbing the narrow, turning stairs.   1 flight,  2 flights, 3 flights—5 flights to an utterly bereft and charmless room.  Dull grey walls, two small single beds, a flat screen TV, and a small bathroom with a small window overlooking the neighbors’ cracked tiles and hanging laundry.  We have stayed in hermitages with more personality and better amenities.

Well, no matter.  We will be gone tomorrow. We spend the evening exploring the town, trying and failing to find the open Carrefour's supermarket.  My mapping app kept saying it was right by us, but several circles of the area never reveal it.

It was getting toward dark and even the pubs were beginning to close. We stop for a bite not far from our  “D-luxe accommodations” and ask the Basque bartender about the Basque name for the city.  He tells us “only Castilians (said with disgust) and tourists call it Pamplona. To the real people, it is Iruña.”

As we return to our lodging, we see the same frowsy blonde with the leather jacket and towering heels wobbling down our gloomy street.  She is very high or very drunk and is being followed by a thuggish fellow who is whistling repeatedly at her. Two creeps up the street watch this scene with amusement. It hits me this young woman is probably a prostitute.

We climb the stairs to our cell, noting there would be no escape if this old building caught on fire. As far as we can tell, we are the only people in the building.  Finally at the fifth floor, we lock ourselves in, then watch bad Spanish television until we are sleepy.  Around 11:30pm, we hear people coming into the building.  Raucous voices filter up the stairs.  There’s all kinds of activity, doors opening and closing, people shouting—well into the night.  I listen and worry. Wes manages to sleep with help of  sleep mask and earplugs.

The next morning, we are out of there as soon as possible.   There is no sign of life in the lower floors, except an abandoned, not quite empty, cognac bottle in the hall.  We are glad to leave and can’t agree whether this was a house of prostitution or not.  Shaun: yes.  Wes: maybe.

We make our way to the new part of town with its stacks of apartments and wide streets.  We drink coffee in the morning sun and look west to the big ridge on the horizon—El Alto del Perdon (Hill of Forgiveness).  We will be glad to return to the quiet by-ways and highways of rural Spain.

We follow the trail out of town, past a few small towns with their red tile roofs and pelota courts and city wells.  It is full hot now and our climb over the ominously named ridge has begun.  Under the shade of a tree, Wes is visiting with the same Asian group we had seen the other day.  As I arrive, a rangy dog with a full loaf of bread in his mouth runs through the group, then stops in a newly plowed field to devour his purloined breakfast.

The group, three of whom are from Taiwan, and the other from Korea, ask us to sit, but fearing our legs will seize up if we stop, we trudge on.  The hill is steep, the path rocky, and the sun hot. We move from one shady spot provided by overhanging brambles to another. 

Up ahead, we can see bands of new apartment blocks lining the ridge. It looks like a desolate place to live, even though it has good views of the valley below.  We stop for a moment and watch the trucks and traffic disappear into a tunnel under the ridge.  That seems like a better idea than sweating our way up the Hill of Forgiveness.  At least in the short term.

Up the hill in the heat, Pamplona in the distance

When we enter the little town near the crest of the ridge, red-faced pilgrims are sprawled in whatever shade they can find.  Some offer their beers in toast to our effort. It is not long before we have one as well, to raise to the next overheated climber.

We don't tarry, however. The sun is not going to get less fierce.  So it’s the classic 25 steps, breathe, 25 more assault on the summit.  We are welcomed to the land of rock, wind, and windmills  by a large iron sculpture and multiple signs donated by the movie The Way. 

Just over the top, a skinny,  smoking blonde peers out from a food trailer that must have been hell to pull up to this desolate spot. Nearly every pilgrim rushes over to by something cool to eat or drink.
Before us, a new valley and the end of the Basque homelands. 

The climb down is as hard as the way up.  The path is a tumble of fist-sized rocks which roll beneath our feet. We gingerly place each pole on the steep decline, and try not to slip, each step smacking our tender toes.

We have just a few kilometers to our next lodging, the aptly named Refugio del Perdon. After presenting our dusty, stinking selves at reception, we are soon whisked away in a small SUV to a new apartment block just up the hill.  In the door, our young host shows us around.  Here is the fully equlped communal kitchen, here the attached eating and sitting room, beyond is an enclosed back yard.  Up a couple of flights of stairs, here is our room: Queen bed, wooden furniture, a loveseat and coffee table, a big bathroom with whirlpool bath, shower, bidet, and toilet.  Out on our private balcony, the  reds and golds of a desert twilight begin to glow.

After washing ourselves and our clothes, we walk back down to the inn for our dinner. We share a table with three Norwegian women and two American women from Tucson, Arizona. The Arizonans have just completed their first day and are a bit shell shocked by the heat and the difficulty.  The Norwegians are on holiday, eating, drinking and walking sans backpacks from Roncesvalles to Logroño. 

The food is simple but good, the wine exceptional, and the conversation stellar.  We laugh and talk about work and life and politics until all the other tables are cleared and the staff is standing there, rag in hand, staring at us. We take the hint, and go our separate ways.

Back at our deluxe accommodations, we have to laugh at the yin and yang of our lodging adventures.  Who knows what tomorrow will bring.  Lo veria.  We'll see.
                                                                                            

Pamplona Riverwalk with stork nest and community gardens

A Jumble

September 20, 2016: Najera, Rioja, Spain

The first few days on the trail are a blur of steep ups and downs, interactions with “peregrinos” (pilgrims) of all ages, types, and ethnicities…  the dislocations of adjusting to Spanish language and culture…and of course, physical exhaustion.

Our first clue we have entered some other reality happens in the little town of Viskarret. After our climb over the Pyrenees, we could only make 6 miles the next day. We ended up staying at a posada (inn) notable for a few things: shutting down the electricity at 10 PM (too bad for people who need to get up in the night), and intense conversations with the British, Canadian, American, and Austrian guests around this high-priced communal dinner table.

Earlier in the day, we discovered that the Brits who commented on my socks are in fact, Scottish and more than a little dotty.  They are here in their motorhome, driving to various locations on the trail to offer advice,  tell stories, hand out yellow and blue yarn flowers, and parade their fat little Jack Russell about.  This is their twelfth or fourteenth trip to the trail.

We also learn that many people walk a short distance, don’t carry their luggage and feel no compunction to get to Santiago de Compostela.      We also witness a rather heated political discussion with the London Sunday Times reporter, his sister from Canada,  and American from California, and the 2 dotty Scottish. 

When the conversation turns to Brexit and the Times reporter makes sure we know he has spoken to all the key players in the recent events. It wasn’t long before the topic was Donald Trump and his bigotry and shortly thereafter, Maggie Thatcher and her bigotry.

The Canadian sister makes a case about Maggie’s support of white supremacy. The dotty Scottish either do not hear or  understand her point,  and make a full throated statement of support of Margaret Thatcher.   To the Californian and Canadian sister’s ears, it sounds like they are in support of white supremacy.

Jim the Californian slams down his unfinished beer, stands up, and pronounces,  “I didn’t come all this way to hear this,” then leaves. The Canadian sister churns in her seat. When the Scots try to explain themselves, they only make it worse by saying,  “I’m not a racist. We have a black deacon in our church.” The wife thinks she is helping when she say, “We have a black friend and he’s a grand fellow.” It’s clear they don’t know the difference between white separatists, white supremacists, and racists.

After a bit more of this, the Canadian sister leaves, disgusted. The journalist then interrogates the poor, dotty Scots who haven’t the intellect, language, or skills not to be skewered time and again by the cynical Londoner. “Do you mean that you thought Maggie’s policies benefited the lower class people? How do you account for the increase in unemployment?” To which they reply, “We liked her, she brought back strength to our country when we needed it.” He asks, “How do you account for the Falklands War?” It was like watching a cat knock about a flustered and increasingly frightened mouse.

Later that night, the journalist entertains the whole table with a long story of his uncomfortable night sleeping in a bunk bed in the massive dormitories of Roncesvalles. He is witty and well spoken… and used to being the center of attention. But he is also plainly unnerved by the Camino experience. He is furious the next morning that the electricity was out. He is angry butter is not served with the bread and the scanty breakfast is so expensive. His sister will not walk that day, overdone by the trip over the summit. He sets out alone, a beginning hiker with almost no Spanish and little tolerance for difference and ambiguity. Wes and I bet he won’t make the full week he has set aside for this walk.

After our short day, we decide we better have a full day. Because we are not feeling so great, we decide to send our bags ahead to our next lodging. We pull out a few things from our packs and place them in small carry sacks.   It is a joy to make the steep ups and downs without the 20 extra pounds on our backs.

We are jaunting along.  I am moving somewhat faster than Wes, and waiting across the highway when a car pulls up.  A young Spaniard /Basque, his girlfriend, and his parents jump out of the car, and pull Wes over to ask him why he is walking the Camino.  Wes relays that he doesn't know, but that something spiritual is calling him.  The group ends up interviewing him on a small camera and by the time he re-joins me, he is crying.  I try to determine why, but all he can muster is that is made him think about the enormity of our undertaking.

The trail is full of pilgrims —on bikes and walking.  They range from 3 young Spaniards who make a sport of throwing rocks at trees to an elderly British woman with painfully swollen legs, hobbling up the steep hills, a small open umbrella attached to her pack and bobbing with each step.  Her companion is murmuring constant encouragement.  

When I pass two young American women, who have stopped to tend sore feet, I hear one say, “OMG, I can’t believe it.  This is only the 2nd day!”  Later, they pass me by, in intense conversation about a Danish fellow they had met in the dorms.

By the time we get to the little town of Zubiri, it is full of pilgrims on this hot fall day.  It is also clear, we have made two significant mistakes.  When putting together the light pack, I have brought neither my Camelback water bladder, nor any way to deal with pain. 

I grow increasingly thirsty after a big climb.   I am happy to join the throng of pilgrims visiting a food truck strategically placed at the top of the hill.  I order a juice and get some fruit, and am trying to recover my equilibrium, when I am enthusiastically greeted by none other than the dotty Scottish.  They mournfully tell me they won’t see me any more because they are now going over to the other big mountains on the trail…to offer their brand of comfort and encouragement, I suppose.

The walk into Zubiri includes a drop of 300 meters in just few kilometers.   I try to “walk slalom” down the hills, but my injured toe is banging against my boot, and every step is a searing throb.  My “medicine chest” is back with the backpacks, so there's no way to arrest or mediate the pain.

When I get to Zubiri, I have to walk to the far side of town to the town’s one “farmacia”— the only place one can buy ordinary drugs like ibuprofen.
When we sit down to lunch after my pain pill detour, we realize we have made another, even worse mistake. 

Our lodging is still more than 8 miles away!  I had had a great deal of trouble finding lodging the previous night.  I finally found one in a town called Uharte, which was far, but seemingly not too far, if we aren’t carrying our packs.

However…

I had misread the map and miscalculated the distance by 5 miles… creating a walk with a total distance of 16 miles.  With my throbbing toe, we would have happily called a stop at Zubiri, but we couldn’t.  Our bags are on their way to Uharte.  We have to get there….somehow.

When most sensible Spaniards and pilgrims are taking their siesta in the hot afternoon sun,  Wes and I are walking down a treeless trail, next to a massive manganese mine, going through his one bottle of water at an alarming rate.  We are about to clear the mine tailings when we hear a voice from behind call out, “Are you from Michigan?” This was startling until I remember that I am walking advertisement for UM School of Social Work.  I am wearing a maize and blue string pack emblazoned with a big block M, a remnant of hosting social work interns at Matrix.

Diane is an American now living in South Carolina, but whose husband is from Gaylord, Michigan.  She is traveling alone, on the 2nd day of her hike.  We are on the 4th day of ours, even though we had all started at St. Jean Pied-de-Port.  She is walking fast and light, but getting tired, and glad for some English conversation.  We walk together for a while, but she soon finds our pace too slow and is soon out of sight.  In the meantime, we cross and are crossed by a small group of young looking Asian woman, traveling with an slightly older Asian man.

At the town of Larrasoaña, it is already starting to
be late afternoon and we still have 4-5 miles to our lodging.  We are beat and will never make it.  Perhaps we can find public transportation or take a cab.

Once in town, there are distressed pilgrims walking up and down the streets.  Most  of the bars and cafes are closed and all of the lodging, albergues, and hostels are full.  Before long, we spot the reason.  The town is hosting its annual fiesta.  Hundreds are seated at long tables under a big white tent. 

Larrasoaña is a quaint medieval town in a cool mountain glen.  Many of its stone cottages are 2nd home for people living in nearby Pamplona.  Cars line the 12 foot streets, and more villagers, relatives, and part timers are arriving by the second.

After wandering the town and realizing there is no option but a taxi, we start trying to figure out how and where to get a cab in this country town. We are hot, tired, and worried. As I sit there, messing with my phone, a small car with 3 young people finds a place to park just in front of us. 

Wes jumps up, runs over to them and says “Taxi?” Then signals making a call.  Without any more  interchange, the driver pulls out his phone, calls a cab, and tells us in broken English a cab will pick us here by the church in about 15 minutes.  We are stunned and grateful.  Our benefactors are gone in a moment.

While we wait for the taxi, we see Diane again, moving with a group of 10-15 pilgrims, none of whom has any place to stay.  We tell her about our choice to take a cab, but she says no.  She clearly thinks we’re cheating.

Well, maybe we are, but we are glad to.  We never could have made it to our hotel, which as it turns out, is a wonderfully put-together and run old-world hotel on the outskirts of Pamplona, right beside the cool lush banks of the Arga River.

In our room, we collapse on the bed, take cool cloths to our faces, take long, cool showers, change into our “evening clothes,” and happily drink the complementary juices.  An hour ago, we were in a mess.  But once again, guardian angels/kind people/Wes’ impetuosity /dumb luck has seen us through. 

With the sunrise tomorrow, we will walk into Pamplona and leave the Pyrenees' part of our journey.  As per usual, the trip is taking us.

The Road Less Traveled

September 7, 2016: Arneguy, France.

We are in a nice room in the Hotel Clementenia, just a few feet from the Spanish border.  We walked 12 kilometers through back country fields and farms  to this sleepy little town.  We definitely took the road less traveled.

The night before, we stayed at Le Coquille Napoleon. Although I think we paid too much for a simple room, we delighted in the sense of life at the small compound created by the weathers Basque Jean Michel and his much younger, sprightly English wife, Lorna. With two Chihuahuas, Momma who barked and baby who cringed, two rambunctious spring kittens who charged and tumbled around the yard after three year old Anton.  Half-wild, shirtless and shoeless, and speaking a conglomeration of French, Spanish, English and Basque, this is sandy haired toddler is as free and loved as possible.

The menagerie was extended by a bright green parrot who alternately disappeared into the top tree branches, or flew long forays around the countryside or decided to periodically makes himself visible to the crowd by preening on the deck or in the low branches.  His bright orange undermarkings suddenly render him visible.

There are 2 speckled small chickens and a rooster. The gray kitten likes to worry one of the hens, making her run and squawk like a hassled housewife trying to dash across the street before the light changes.

Inside the living room, we see a large aquarium. The next morning. we see the farm’s two burrows, mama and colt, at the fence looking for their breakfast. Before long, they move to the far end  of the pasture to disappear once more in the bushes.

At 7 AM sharp, the speckled rooster begins crowing as predicted by Jean Michelle. For some reason. I laugh as both humans and a few previously unseen black chickens come to the center yard on command.

The breakfast is a quick and fairly silent affair, in stark contrast to the clangorous and languorous gathering of the night before, with 15 people gathered around the large table on the deck, jabbering in a mix of German, French, Spanish and English.  The two French women, who earlier in the afternoon, spent hours in intense conversation with the other young French couple about the price of food and equipment, but who would barely speak to us, twit and giggle in rotten English with the single American male who showed up right before dinner.

He is even more monolingual then we are. A tall blonde from LA, he is just as enamored with the French flirts as they are with him.  Hector, a young Valencian in full football jersey and shorts, was greatly relieved when a portly Spanish man with the big voice and matching belly, showed up at the compound.  The have an intense conversation, with occasional translations for the Frenchwoman and American man making goo-goo eyes at each other.  

Four Germen men,  accompanied by one German woman and one Dutch woman are seated right by us.  An open faced blonde,  the Dutch woman has the best English of the crowd and she is good about engaging us in conversation. 

At breakfast, we watched  a constant stream of pilgrims plugging their way up the steep hill next to La Coquille Napoleon.   Wes and I nurse coffee yogurt and bread, (hardly worth the €7 price), and marvel at the range of  backpackers going by.

Most of our group has gone, including the hard- drinking and smoking Austrian, who left at 6:00 am.  The next to go are the chittering French women, only carrying a belly bag and small day pack.  The German group is next, hefting new backpacks on their middle aged bodies, followed by the slender young French couple who slept outside on the ground, didn't eat dinner with us, and who completed several rounds of salutes to the sun before hoisting their  massive bags on their backs.

We are the last to leave.  As we say goodbye to Lorna and John Michel, Lorna tells us. “For some people, the Camino is just a 500 mile pub crawl”.  It is is easy to see how the experience could easily become a walk between convivial and well-lubricated conversations with strangers.

Because we have decided to the take the “low way,” with a stop half way up the mountain, instead of trying to make 26 kilometers and a giant pass on the first day, we are going down the hill many hikers are going up.  We encounter a stream of older Brits whose bags must have been sent on as they are only  carrying water and the lightest bags.

As we make our way down to 30 degree hill, which is the first rough ascent from Saint Jean, we see people as anxious and worried as we were yesterday at the same point.  The faces say, ”Do I really have the strength to do this?”

We begin telling the sweating walkers what our landlord Jean Michel said to us, “That is the single steepest hill of the whole trip.” We encounter two elderly Brits, one of whom was sporting a jaunty safari cap, but who was already straining and bright red in the face.  His face positively lightened and refaxed at our words.   He was confident he could make it up this hill at least. 

An overweight strawberry blonde woman with an enormous backpack was lolling around a route marker decorated with a makeshift cross, then found her way over to visit with a Palomino pony. As we arrive to provide the encouraging words about the hill, she is saying to the horse in American English. “You can’t have my apple; that’s my lunch.” The horse’s sensitive lips are feeling all about her hands, disregarding her words.  Surely,  she had just given him something.  We give her our landlord’s advice and she responds, “Oh, you have made my day. I was afraid it was going to all be like this!”

We leave the masses to sweat over the big hill and make our way along a burbling creek, and through farm fields  where we attempt to have conversations with the resident cows, sheep, and horses. They are bored with pilgrims…or don’t understand English moos and baas...and don’t even look up as we go by.

We are proud of ourselves for making this choice. We have made the first day error over and over on previous trips and have regretted it every time.  We have paid for our enthusiasm and foolishness with injuries and horrible first weeks, as our bodies tried to acclimate to daily hard use.

We know we haven’t walked any up any big hills living in Detroit.  We know our training has not included much time  carrying heavy packs. In fact, our training has had very little weighted walking at all.    So once again, we must train as we go.

How many of those pushing up the mountain will regret their first day blisters, and sore muscles, for  the first quarter of their trip?

We remind ourselves, the goal is to get to the end—and let each day grow in meaning, and distance as we grow in both physical and spiritual strength and are ready to receive it. This is a hard lesson to learn. We will find out if we have in fact learned it.

the mountains ahead...

So Far and Yet So Close

September 4, 2015: Bayonne, France

We are in a small room on the 4th floor of a pension in the old elegant section of this very old town.  We arrived this morning after a semi-restful overnight train from Paris.  After three attempts, I was able to get our 2nd class reservations to 1st class (one of the unexpected benefits of our Eurail pass).  Had we been consigned to 2nd class,  we would have been sleeping in an extended seat in a compartment with 6 other people, where we would get very little rest.  (but more than on Amtrak’s barely reclining seats.)

In first class, we had the two top bunks in four bunk compartment.  We got some sleep, but I was bothered by the presence of an older French man sleeping in the lower bunk.  There was no problem other than our complete inability to communicate.  He spoke a dialect of French almost completely incomprehensible to me ( I think I made out “Bon jour, madame” and “Dix” the word for 10). And he understood not one word of our English or my fractured French.

The truth is that I was extremely self-conscious and awkward. This does not bode well for staying in the dormitories of the Camino.  I will have to find a strategy for undressing and for being comfortable in an environment of strangers.  We will be finding out soon enough,  I guess.

It is hard to believe we are this close to the trip now.  I was excited last night as we waited in the run-down and sparse Paris’ Gare Austerlitz to see at least 4 other pilgrims waiting for the same train.  One older woman with steel grey hair, sensible hair cut, and short sleeve plaid shirt wore a big brown back-pack adorned with the mussel shell of the Camino.  I visit with a Brit from London, a short-haired slender man who told me he bought two train fares from London because he was worried a bout having enough time to transfer between stations (gares).  “I was so anxious that I needed two hours between connections, I went ahead a bought another ticket after they wouldn’t change the first.  As it turned out, it was a waste of 45 pounds, because I have plenty of time.  I was just too worried.”We see him the next morning as we are leaving the train.  He had spent a rough night with very little sleep in the 6 person compartment, where “you couldn’t move without  touching another person.”

We were in need of a cup of coffee, so make our way to a lovely, low-end tabac not far from the station.  At first, we sit outside next to a thin, drawn woman nursing  a small cup of coffee while a tiny, cowed long hair Chihuahua stared at her nervously.  However, she, and everyone else outside, is smoking, and the wind is blowing the fumes in our face, so we move inside.
The first man I see while ordering looks utterly stricken, looking up at me with red and rheumy eyes as he nurses his first shaky drink of the morning.  He is 55, heavy in belly, cheeks, and jowls, and looks all the world like a grief stricken postal inspector.

Across the room, a jocular man with a long Gallic nose is trying to make the table laugh.  The tiny woman to his left is having none of it, though the two man opposite them break out in occasional raucous laughter.  She sits straight as a stick, arms crossed over her belly, her chopped hair, mismatched skirt and blouse ( flowers up top, plaid below) and tight lips conveying “I wish I was anywhere but here.”. Another lively conversation is occurring in the corner.

Wes likes the energy and is relieved to speak in something close to his normal volume, after all the whispers and murmurs expected and practiced on French transportation.   We drink small, strong cups of coffee flavored with tiny sugar cubes, surprised at ourselves because we never add sugar to our coffee at home. But here, it somehow completes the taste.  Wanting another cup, Wes goes to the counter to order another from Bernadetta, the thin, hard featured, black haired waitress wearing skin tight pants and grey suede demi boots with 3 inch heels.  When she brings the coffee and Wes attempts a mispronounced “merci beaucoup,” which I correct, she pats him on the arm and says, “Parfait.”   We are charmed.

About that time, the drawn smoker comes in to use the restroom, followed by the nervous Chihuahua.  The mud grey pup stays right at her feet, tail between his legs, and goes both in and out of the bathroom with her.

As we leave the café, we spot the anxious Englishman pacing back and forth in front of the train station. He told me that there was a train to Saint Jean with no attempt at the French pronunciation at 2:55pm and was surprised to learn there was a bus as well.  I try to capture his eye to what arrangements he had made, but his pre-occupation and determined walk render us invisible.

At the pension, we are first greeted by two small spaniels.  The black lets us touch him while he circles us warily, but the white and ginger cowers in his usual spot.  Soon the landlord, a remarkably handsome young man with bright hazel eyes and chiseled chin, arrives.  Between his broken English and my lousy French, we determine to leave our bags until we can check in a 1pm.  Foolishly, I ask the dogs’ name, but not his.

Out on the Rue Port Neuf, it is a sleepy Sunday morning.  Nearly all the shops and cafes are closed.  We find an open boulangerie with nice looking quiches and croissants, but cheap out and buy the croque-monsieur.  They’re pretty awful.  On hard, stale white bread with tasteless barely re-heated cheese and some sort of gloopy mayonnaise spread, Wes immediately chokes on his first bite.  He hacks his way up the street, trying to clear the noxious piece stuck in his windpipe.

We come to the Cathedral just as mass is ending.  As we circle around to the front entrance, two beggars confront us.  One, a youngish man in a baseball cap, accompanied by two bulky, sprawling, well-fed mutts, thrusts a yellow plastic cup at us.  Another, somewhat older with dark hair approaching a monk’s tonsure, holds out a metal cup and asks us in barely recognizable English, “Going to mass?”

We wander in the church and are struck by its air of solemn sanctity (so different from the tourist exploitation of Chartres) and it's “Accuiel de Pelegrinos,” (helpdesk for pilgrims).  As we peer into a small, wood paneled chapel, an older woman with badly dyed blonde hair the texture of cotton candy begins shouting at a man in the chapel.  He leaves the chapel, as do we. She then follows him out of the church, yelling in high pitched French I don’t understand.  She continues shouting for some time at the entrance of the cathedral, her voice amplified to the neighborhood because of the typanic structure of the arches.

We want to go to the next mass at 11:30, so decide to wait in the adjacent leafy cloisters.  While we amuse ourselves feeding bits of peanut butter to a small blackbird, the blonde woman continues to yell.  At one point, she marches through the cloisters, still ranting at the top of her voice.  We put our heads down and hope we don’t capture her attention.  Eventually, she returns to the church entrance, and after some conversation with the two beggars, quiets down.

The wait in the cloisters grows too long, so we wander the battlements of the ancient town, looking down into the empty moat and another wall beyond.  Wes wonders if these were another design by Vaubon, introduced to us by Klaus as the military architect who created the defensive bulwark  at the top of Freiburg.  A few minutes later, when we stop to read about an unusual stone tower abutting a rough stone wall, we discover that the tower had been built by Roman soldiers in the 1st century, and yes, indeed, the double wall battlements were created by the ubiquitous Monsieur Vaubon.  This small city on the frontier with Spain has been at the center of innumerable disputes for millenia.

We return to the Cathedral, give some small change to the waiting beggars, and see that the blonde woman is now vigorously sweeping the entrance while maintaining a constant flow of verbiage.  The mass itself in in French and Latin, conducted by a pudgy African priest who spoke slow, careful, strongly accented French.   I could follow what he was saying, but could not comprehend a word from the mouth of his pale skinned and grey haired deacon.  I found myself watching the acolytes.  Two tall thin, dark skinned boys, whose thick curly hair was not picked, pressed, or shaped were accompanied by a young boy of about 11 who may have been at the altar for the first time, so often was he directed and corrected by the deacon.  The teenagers, by contrast, were stately, elegant, and handsome, providing the candles, platin, wine and hosts at the very moment the priest needed them.

The music was a compelling mix of pop, Latin, and traditional church songs played on a 100 pipe organ and sung by a curly haired, long nosed, clear-voiced young soprano wearing a jaunty sailors’ stripe shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers.  In the service and songs, the name of the messiah is rendered “SheZuh”.

After our surprisingly satisfying mass, we make our way around town, stopping for snacks and water, then eventually dinner and wine, managing to communicate in some atrocity of French, Spanish, and English.  Wes reads the Camino de Santiago guidebook, and I am pleased I am able to successfully edit my manuscript on my phone and keyboard whiling away the hours at the Café du Theatre at water’s edge.

Back in our room, we sleep for few hours, then wake to watch the “exciting conclusion” of the Star Trek prequel—in English—savoring the encounter between Zachary Quinto and Leonard Nimoy, before laughing uproariously at the stupid English practical joke show, Just for Laughs.

It is quiet now.  All sounds of our neighbors’ lives—their nose blowing and dish washing and raucous discussion of sports—filtering up through the courtyards abutting our hall and bathroom windows, have abated.  Wes snores smoothly next to me.  The small fan placed by door of our nearly breathless room putters on.  I will turn off the lights in this orange striped room and try to make my way to sleep.  Tomorrow, we go St. Jean Pied de Port, get out pilgrim credentials, and begin the next phase of this adventure.

R+71: Embracing the Tangle

Detroit. 2.28.14

I have been back at work for six weeks now.  I am still getting my feet under me.   The contrast to our lives on the bike is remarkable.  While we were on the bike sojourn, and then later, when we were on the writers’ retreat in our cabin, life, managing priorities and communications were much simpler.

On the bike, choices are reduced.  When do we leave?  Where do we go?  When do we stop?  Where do we stay?  What do we eat?  Of these, the only one that regularly presented complications was “Where do we stay?”  In many places across the country, there were exactly two choices.  Do we camp outside or do we stay in the one small motel in town?  In Circle, Montana, for instance, there was a KOA campground or there was a creepy looking motel.  We were so tired after biking hours in a howling wind, we didn’t want any more time outside.  We opted for the motel, and were filled with anxiety when we saw its ramshackle sign and abandoned, crumbling coffee shop.  As it turned out, the motel owner “gave us his best room,” which although the plumbing leaked, and was newly painted a spectacular combination of pink, blue, and gold,  it ended up being a pretty good rest for our weary bones.

To stay or not stay here....that is the question.

Other times, we were faced with a plethora of choices.  In Shawano, Wisconsin, there were many nice looking accommodations.  It was late, we had been lost (again), but we had reservations at a resort, theoretically on the lake.  Our inner voices were screaming at us, to just take one of these rooms and not bike out in the dark to that distant room.  But no.  And when we got there, after meeting the befuddled owner in a lobby reeking of cat, we found our beautiful lakeside resort was actually a rundown welfare motel. 

Still--these choices were pretty straightforward: cope or not cope with the choice.  Rail against your fate (Wes’ choice in Shawano) or slip into surly resignation (Shaun’s choice in Shawano).   The good news was that we could leave behind our bad choices the next day.   We left it behind and rolled onto the next adventure.

Communications on the road are also pretty simple.  First of all, for much of the day, silence reigns.  Once we mount our bikes, there might be an hour or two where the only communication was an internal conversation with yourself.   Many times, there was not even that.    

Our brains were focused on making sure that our bodies were functioning as needed, especially when the terrain was challenging.  The only thing that mattered, that truly was all-consuming, was getting that bike up that hill.  The same can be said for many down-hills.  Full concentration was required when zipping down a mountain at 35 miles an hour.  There is only one choice available.   The same is true riding in traffic, as when we were trying to make our way on that hell-hole of a two lane road going into Whitefish, MT.  With no shoulder, heavy traffic, and a six inch drop off the highway to the surrounding land, it took every ounce of our mind and body to stay alive.  

As we were going in and out of public places, like restaurants or bars, communication was an option.  If we were tired, or not feeling social, we could easily choose not to engage with the people around us.  When we did talk to the strangers we met, it was easy enough to turn the conversation to them and find out about who they are, what they are experiencing, what they are perceiving in the world.   We had nearly pat answers to the five standard questions.  (Where did you start?  Where are you going?  How many miles a day do you ride?  Where do you stay?  How many tires have you gone through?)  If our conversation turned to our background or interests, we could disclose… or not.  In any case, these were 15-45 minute relationships.  Before long, we would be down the road and would likely never see this person again.   Such are the pleasures of anonymity.

Oh, what a difference to be back in Detroit and back at work.   First of all, good bye to anonymity.  Nearly everywhere I go in this small town masquerading as a big city, I see someone I know.  Here at the coffee shop where I am writing this, I have spoken to 7 people in less than an hour.   Some of these people I have known for years.  I know their families.  I have had disagreements off and on through the years.  I must choose how I continue these relationships.  Let bygones be bygones?  Warily engage and watch out for grounds of conflict?  Keep the war alive?  I almost never choose the latter, although I know people who do.  I wish I could always choose the first, but I am rather bad at that best of choices.  Mostly I focus on the positive and watch out for the negative.   With the woman whose politics make me uneasy, but whose personality and family I like, we talk of family and history and neighborhood.

Back at work, the choices can be overwhelming.  There are ramifications to everything.  Who will it benefit?  Who will disagree?  What happens if we do?  What happens if we don’t?  What are the steps to get there?  Everything is a finely balanced choice.  Choose wrong and the resulting mess will bring emotions and confusion and disorder that may take years to sort. 

Even in the best of circumstances, I am operating with a mass of indefinites.   This is a human operation.  Humans don’t always say what they mean… even when they are not trying to obfuscate.  They may not have the skills to express it.  They may not feel comfortable expressing it in these circumstances. They may not know what they want (one of my particular failings)… And there are the inevitable balancing acts.  What may be just great for A is deeply upsetting to B and C is not yet ready to choose.  Round and round and round it goes. 

Then the context for every decision must be considered.  Can I see what is happening in the city, in our community?  If I align with one group, do I damage my relationships with another?  If I speak against one option, do I close off the possibility of a relationship with the people who support the other option?  Which way is the best way?  Who knows?  Who can tell?
And no matter what, whatever I choose, I will have to live with consequences of my choice.  If my choice angers someone, then I will have to work through the backwash of that emotion, even while allowing another person the space and time to celebrate, or worry, or dismiss the same thing.  It is a tangle, that’s for sure.

During these first few weeks, being back in the tangle has felt claustrophobic.  How often I just wanted to get on my bike and disappear from all these complications. How much I just wanted to retreat into a spot where all the choices are mine, as are all the silences. 

However, in one of those moments of grace that sometimes touch my life, I had a realization.  The tangle is the work.  To engage in human work, and be in the human community means embracing the tangle.  My only choice is to be as authentic and simple and straightforward as I can.  The negotiations will be constant.  The confusion will be ever present.  My job, therefore, is presenting my best and truest heart, and silencing the worrisome yammer in my brain.  I agree to muddle on, sorting and sifting and winding the tangle that is life.