El Camino de Santiago del Norte

El Camino, the Northern route.

The Camino de Compostela is a pilgrim’s route to the city and cathedral of Santiago in Northwest Spain. It has been in existence since the middle ages. The Northern route is said to be the oldest of the many caminos that flow from all over Europe destination.  The Northern route is not the most heavily travelled and my trip represents a toe in the water, performed over six days—650 km short of the complete trip from where I started, San Sebastián in Northeast Spain.

Por qué? Vs Porque! (Why? Why!): A formal tracking for the Camino trip requires registering with the church in Santiago and letting them know you are coming—eventually.  Patients and acquaintances reminded me that a couple times a day, you would ask a business to document, with a stamp in your official Camino book, your progress (and proof) traveling. You are considered an accomplished Camino walker if you document 125 km.  Pen in hand, I took the book, provided by the receptionist in my San Sebastián hotel, and started to enter my data by hand. I then saw the registration code for accessing and registering online. I entered my name and quickly came to an open question: “Why are you walking the Camino?”

It was a fair question and one I had given some thought to: it was a physical challenge; it was an experience I wanted to share with friends and acquaintances who have already walked it. It was an opportunity to see a beautiful part of the world on foot. It was a chance to really put my Spanish to the test. It was a time to plan and execute a trip without any help. It was a chance to be alone and unaccountable to anyone for ten days. It was a time to reflect. …… The Church wanted to know my answer and I started typing, perhaps a little whimsically. “I am coming to the end of my Camino and thought this would provide me a chance to be stimulated and perhaps, reflect a bit.” I hit enter. The answer was not accepted. I looked at the form again, and realized that my big fingers were missing the little option button that would provide a drop down menu for answers. In this case, for this question, the answer was either for religious purposes or “other.” I gave my answer and moved on but on my walk would reflect on the intersection between the secular, science, religion, not to mention tourism, their complex interaction, and the rendering to simplicity with a yes or no—ones and zeros if you will. From such simplicity, complexity. I am still not sure if I knew for sure why the Camino, but I am glad I did it—-well, my little piece of it: 128.4 km (80.25 miles) and 2922 meters over 6 days.

Preparación (Preparation):

1. I have been studying Spanish—with discipline since retirement. I knew Spanish accents in Northern Spain would be different than those I have long had experience with ie people from Mexico. I felt ready to take on virtually any subject.

2.  Given that I would only bring carry-on luggage,  I was thoughtful about what and how much cargo I would need. This was complicated in the last week by weather predictions that changed fairly dramatically every 12 hours—-not unlike my own home town in Olympia (my Spanish walk was only 3 degrees latitude south of Olympia but shares a similar Spring climate). It might be in the 80’s; it might be raining and in the 50’s. Hiking poles were highly recommended by veterans of this walk and I am glad I heeded the advice to bring them. I have had a pair since I turned 70 (just in case)  and checked with TSA: technically they are not allowed in carry-on but like many things in our complex world (and TSA), there was a 50:50 chance I would get them through.

3.  I never questioned my fitness for walking 12-17 miles a day, and that in itself is a reason to consider walking the Camino because you don’t know what you don’t know. All my reference points for walking in mountains were from decades ago. My steps per day average climbed steadily the six months prior to the Camino trip.

4. One final preparation has come with age: given the expense and emotional commitment to the trip I took pains to avoid accidents the few weeks before my trip. For example, I avoided bike riding (one crashes and it is a matter of when, not if…). Yard work was modest and not dangerous. Trainings walks were done with an eye on traffic and uneven surfaces.

An irony with this preparation goes back to my work with Medicare patients. One common lecture is the, “you really should not get on ladders anymore,” lecture. The week before my trip, I was awakened by my dog at three in the morning hyperventilating and scratching at the sheets next to me. She was inconsolable. And then I heard it: the fire alarm battery warning beep. NO WAY. We bought a ten year guaranteed system to avoid this. I looked up at the device, 18 feet in the air. Kernie was deep asleep. The dog and I went upstairs behind a number of closed doors. The next day I bought a two pack and was on an extension ladder, Kernie guiding me and holding the base down. The fire alarms were over ten years old…(no way)…so I replaced two in one day in different rooms. Dodging more bullets included some gutter work on a tall  step ladder and replacing old ceiling lights in the kitchen on a short step ladder.

Was I done taking risks?  Walking to get the mail while Kernie and Tres prepared dinner, I returned, mail in hand along our long driveway that abuts the back yard of an elderly woman. She has dogs that challenge me when I walk by and Picasso (her terrier mix) barked as usual, coming to the fence hoping to see Sloane. The neighbor let out a yell to calm her. I heard a crash, wood on wood and then, a panicked cry for help. Did I hear that right? I did. The third cry found me climbing two four foot chain linked fences and working my way down a raised garden wall into her back yard. I climbed her porch steps and through the open door to find my neighbor: she appeared to be old, thin, and was flat on her back with a bed jacket on but otherwise stark naked. She did not know who I was but was quite relieved that someone had come. The next hour (I’m going to be a little late for dinner dear; I will explain later—I texted) found me assessing her injuries, cleaning up an overturned ashtray with 30 butts now on a wine soaked floor. The couch was soaked and it was not from wine. I sorted that she had no fractures and together we successfully got her to a dry chair. She had caretakers but did not know where they were. She had family, but,she went on, “They don’t like me.” She knew no one’s phone number by heart but did know her own, so several cushions later, it was found as she repeatedly rang it, and I reached a brother 40 miles away. He had his daughter come to us within five minutes. This was good as I was about to call 911 and that would have made this neighbor my enemy for life—she was absolutely clear about that. My sense was that neither she nor the ER needed that experience.  Daughter and granddaughter arrived to take over and I was thanked. Thinking specifically of the Camino, I decided not to climb the fences back to my driveway and happily found a boyfriend of the grand daughter to drive me home some one third of a mile away by road.

El viaje (the trip): This was the second international trip I have scheduled on my own since I got married. Kernie is our official travel agent but my Camino started with the planning and I took this on as part of the process of, “getting to know oneself.” I found a company that could find me business class tickets at a discount (rebecca@business_class.com) and was impressed when Lufthansa made a schedule change  (three months before the trip) that she was on it and reviewed it with me. When I got to the airport, the agent was confused by what she saw on her computer and suggested I had not paid for my upgrades despite my having a receipt that showed, “paid in full.” It was a technical glitch caused by the schedule change and my using a third party but after an hour, I had tickets in hand and was sitting in the business lounge where Rebecca of business class .com got back to me with reference numbers and independent confirmation with Lufthansa that all was well. I was impressed.  This was my last luxury prior to Spain.

Landing in Irun/San Sebastian’s airport was the start of my pilgrimage (Iberia air lines, economy, in the back). Sleep deprived, we hit turbulence going over the coastal range and shortly after that did a quick dive and 180 degree turn to land on a runway oriented at right angles to the beach. The passengers clapped on landing. Having only carry-on, I was on the street hailing a taxi in no time.  My Spanish was equal to the task of discussing weather, Trump, the Camino, the heritage of the Basques, Trump, right wing movements in Europe, and how San Sebastián is the most expensive city in all of Spain.

Impresiones de San Sebastian (Impressions of San Sebastián): Hotel Nizo, with breakfast taken overlooking the beach. My room was next to the elevator and something of a monk’s cell: a single bed, one chair and one desk. I did have my own bathroom.  My first night, I walked towards what looked like the old town and expected a busy night life given the hour (9:30 PM) and had to search to find a bar that served Pinxtos (tapas). My Spanish served as I sorted what the ingredients were (the servings are under glass in this restaurant but often displayed in open air) as they looked mysterious. I ordered the local white wine (excellent) with three samples and got away with a $13 dollar bill. The waitress brought me a fork and knife half way through eating and I later asked if I was being rude eating with my fingers and she laughed—no, she brought them because I was a tourist.

That night I noted by 10:30 that the streets were full of women going home, from eating or working. Stores and bars closed by 11:00 PM. In the mornings, I was in awe as the beach’s promenade was 12 hours a day full of joggers, cyclists, and walkers. Everyone looked fit—except for the group of high school students, apparently drunk hanging out on a promenade just down from the hotel at sunrise; I was still on Pacific Standard time). Looking at joggers, I made a joke with my server at breakfast asking if everyone in this town was an athlete. She had no idea why I had that impression. I also took note that in this part of Spain, service workers (hotel room cleaners, ice cream parlor servers, waitresses) all seemed to be young local people. I never saw obvious “foreign” workers doing entry level jobs.  Walking through the old town on May 1 reminded me of being in college: there were “revolutionary” posters everywhere, done with artwork that reminded me of classic Soviet political posters. The messages on these as well as graffiti made clear that labor unions, labor rights, and anti-imperialism orientations were front and center here. Palestinian flags were displayed throughout this trip even in small towns which found me thinking this was a natural fit for the Basques in our modern world: they have perceived themselves as being ill treated for centuries by Spanish central authority and they sympathize with those in similar straights.

San Sebastian remains a great destination if you have never been there.

El día antes (the day before): I had a free day before the walking would begin. I scored a visit with an old High School friend who lives in France. It was pouring rain that day (off and on) and we managed some food, and several hours of conversation, back and forth. I got soaked heading back to the hotel as a windy squall hit the bay and drenched, I told the clerk at the desk, “Pensé como un adolescente.” Or, “I was thinking like a teenager.”

Caminando (walking): My walk was supported by Santiago Ways (I do recommend them); of interest, I took their information at face value: “Almost the entire Cantabrian coast has a mountainous terrain….there will be stages that will take their toll on your legs…Nevertheless, it won’t be overly difficult for anyone who has just a little bit of hiking experience. The hills, although constant stay within acceptable limits.”  This was accurate but did not truly prepare one for the walking experience. The walking in my case was complicated by on and off again rain which was a nuisance but more importantly, affected the trail quality which was to have a big impact on the walk. I was joined by a fellow Rotarian, Mike Bell and his sister Mardi and we chatted things up as we embarked up a steep slope out of town  and then along the coast line on a brilliant sunny morning. It was charming but within hours, the views of the sea faded and I suddenly felt like I was on the Inca trail (blocks of stone laid down the middle of a path with troughs of mud on each side. The climb found us going slow but steady. I realized that our itineraries were different enough that I had to move on without them as I had several kilometers to go beyond their stop. I was excited about my first night in a town called Getaria, according to some, one of the top ten small Spanish cities. Consulting the map, I found my bed and breakfast “agriturismo” hotel was four kilometers from the actual town. To access it, I had to be off the Camino and walking on a two lane road with no shoulder—up hill. This hotel was a treasure trove of antiques and locals using the bar downstairs. I had a home cooked dinner of chicken with a wonderful server (who I suspect was also the cook) who managed three groups. I ate alone and was the only English speaker in the room. I reflected on the end of days, the Camino, my tired legs and went to bed early. This had been my longest day of the trip, some 28 km.

The walk to Deba the next day was 19 km (piece of cake given  the day before) but the 570 meter elevation found my thigh muscles approaching failure with the last ascent up some stairs onto a small plaza with church and bar. My phone battery was down to 5% and I quickly opened it to write down the address and phone number off my hotel. I was not sure if the hotel was on the Camino or not. A local called the hotel and the directions were straightforward: follow the Camino. From this point it was downhill and the hotel was easily found. Rosa was the proprietor and a wonderful host.

Rosa: Rosa was a woman of indeterminant age; she was grandmotherly and felt affection for her in that role on first sight. She is likely younger than me. She had a sense of humor, asking each of us when we would like dinner. The guests that night were a youngish Eric from Colorado and a couple from Australia I had met up with a couple times on the road, Joanne and Marty. We all gave different times but it was agreed as we talked in a central area that we would all go down at the same time. We sat in the kitchen and Rosa made a home cooked meal of chicken. Soup was served first and was (recall the exercise was brutal that day) of Michelin star quality: I thought it was split pea but the taste was other worldly and when asked what the ingredients were, she would not divulge seasoning but noted it was a mix of  carrots, spinach, and squash. She asked me what I would like to drink and my response was, “Diet Coke.”  Eric from Colorado asked for tinto (red wine) and she nodded approvingly. I asked if I might have some too and she gave me a stage frown, waved a finger at me saying, “no!” And then brought a bottle and two glasses putting them on the table. As Eric poured, she proclaimed, “Sangre de los Peregrinos!” or, “Blood of the Pilgrims.”

La alluvia (the rain): The following two days were dominated by rainy weather. I was glad to have walking sticks as whether going up hill or down, negotiating slippery surfaces, or mud, they proved invaluable. My photo on Facebook of a mud puddle was the worse I negotiated but not by much and this was taken 24 hours after the last rain. Pole number one failed in that puddle—the fitting to keep the pole pieces together had eroded and as I plucked the pole out of mud, the pole essentially separated into two parts over and over again.

La gente (the people): One of the draws for walking the Camino was meeting strangers and sharing life experiences. My first day found me walking with a namesake, Randy, who’s apparel proclaimed him Canadian. “Are you really Canadian or are you wearing that to avoid taking a lot of shit?” I got a good- natured laugh and we talked up life in British Columbia and changing occupations over the years, now being celebrated with a post-retirement walk. The discussion turned to health and I learned that he had had a stroke affecting his left side three years before  while at work on his farm; he made the phone call to his wife who correctly got him help and he made it to an ER in time to get treated.

Topics during these walks usually related to life experience and without meaning to, I learned about a number of health histories: rheumatoid arthritis variants and treatments for this in other countries, mind altering mushroom therapy for fun and for depression, the use of acupuncture in a veterinary practice, and the value and highly functioning state of hospice in Ireland. We talked about our grandchildren. A group of Spanish women loved the challenge when I noted that I was a doctor of almost 20 years before I figured out my middle aged female patients routinely dyed their hair—they challenged me to pick the oldest of their group. Now that was a Huxtable moment!  Sometimes, there was problem solving needed: Eddie (Ireland) determined his next stop the day before and arranged with a service to transfer his suitcase. He got a phone call mid-walk to learn that his bag had not been picked up; Eddie did not speak Spanish and this problem cascaded as he consulted a taxi service and the original service all at odds with each other. My attempt to help was appreciated but ultimately, ignored. Nancy (N. Carolina) had come with a sister from Long Island. Nancy was a 67 yo marathoner/ironman participant and her sister, well, was from Long Island. On the first climb out of San Sebastian, they had separated. I learned of this the next day when I met Nancy and found that she got a phone call from her sister who was in a trailer park (we never passed a trailer park) and was down to 5% on her phone battery and had no idea where she was. Nancy’s solution? She talked her sister into somehow pinging her phone and got the information which in turn was shared with the local police who found her and brought her to that night’s lodge.

I rarely stuck with a given walking partner for a full day. Our personal needs, feeding patterns, and inherent pace usually led to separation but often within a day or two, we would meet again.  Eddie from Ireland would come around a corner (or vice versa) and proclaim, “and there is the man!.”

When we connected again, inevitably the conversation would flow to yet others met on the trail. I had my “German girls,” and sequentially, there were through my new friends, the, “Irish girls” and the, “English girls.”  It was notable to me how a majority of the Camino walkers I saw were women.

El Fin (the end): Once away from the coast, the scenery was pretty uniform: hills alternatively covered with forest, vineyards, or sheep. As in the past, the novelty of stone buildings, hundreds of years old became commonplace. There were shelters and churches reminding us all of the original support system for pilgrims and to my joy, I found across from a church a grouping of upright stones reminding us all of the pre-Christian Celtic influences of this part of the world. All that faded away as we entered a valley that would eventually lead us to Bilbao, our end point. My hotel was overlooking a beautiful set of green hills but to its back, a large industrial sector that with a five minute walk, led to a light rail system that could take us to Bilbao, if we so desired. The Australian couple and I shared two bottles of wine with Nancy and her sister in the warm sun as our muddy boots, now washed, dried on the windowsills of our rooms.

Bilbao: The mileage to Bilbao got me to the 125 km mark, making me an official pilgrim—except I lost my book documenting the travel. No worries, I have my pictures and my memories. I visited Bilbao for a morning last year to see the Guggenheim and remember that it visually reminded me of Portland (in a good way!). I was able to point out to Nancy and the Aussies from high on a hill where the Guggenheim was as we descended into the city. We separated in the old town and suddenly I was at my hotel. I got to my room  and unpacked; I realized that all my clothing was funky. My pilgrimage included a visit to a local laundromat which impressed the home front when I came home with nothing but clean clothes. So this story ends well.

Las lecciones (the lessons):

Part of my motivation for doing this walk was to scratch an itch; I have heard of it for years and wanted to experience it.

I also thought that in the foreseeable future, the actual physical work required for the Camino might became problematic and so, there was no time like 2025. This was good judgement as in a few years, trying this route, I might have made some errors and come away with regrets.

I enjoy meeting strangers and, “getting to it,” which involves learning about priorities along with my inevitable questions about health. At lunch, Nancy from North Carolina turned her back to me talking to another traveler and I saw a crusted lesion on her back: pencil eraser size. I asked, “Did you have a punch biopsy or did you have a freezing done?” She let me know it was a biopsy, a superficial melanoma, her third….and that future routine visits to Derm were on order. I noticed she reapplied sun screen shortly thereafter.

I can communicate and make myself understood in Spanish; I will never speak like a native speaker. Language remains a fascinating topic of study to me as a taxi driver en Guernika was very difficult to understand and when I asked him if his first language was Basque (thinking this would account for the accented Spanish) he insisted he spoke pure Castilian Spanish….I suppose that happens in the old USA as well.

Santiago Ways was a great supporting organization and I do recommend them. My issues about where I found lodging through them are easily explained by my relative lateness setting the trip up and expectations. Also, telling them how long I wanted to spend on the road from San Sebastián to Bilbao set me up for long days. There are those who to avoid this, take the risk (will there be rooms in the inn?) and arrange their night’s stay day by day.

I always come back to Viktor Frankl: Meaning in one’s life comes from work, love, and suffering. Oh, and expectations…..

The Basque: I have read a history of the Basque years ago and medical school often referred to this population as unique. It is old and unconnected from most of our cultural references of ancient times (Romans, Greeks, Celts). Just as in our country, the small towns wore the pride and parochialism of their culture on their sleeves and with that, were typically pleasant and supportive. Their cities and farms were immaculate and well cared for. I saw both up close!

Eskerrik Asko (Basque for, thank you).