The Good Craic Society
Bunk beds, blisters, buen camino
9/3/2021: Nájera, Spain
Greeting from Albergue Las Peñas in Nájera, Spain. This marks day eight of walking the Camino de Santiago. A quick recap of the day for my eager readers: 29.6 kilometers (18.4 miles), ‘ouch my feet hurt,’ and ‘where’s the next village I need coffee NOW.’
But before I dive into that, let me catch you up on the month of August.
Last time we left off, I was telling you about my visits with the French nuns, ending in Tours with the Ursulines. After that, I went to Paris to meet up with my brother, Nick, who kindly came to visit me on my fellowship!
We ended up spending a couple of days touring in Paris, shamelessly visiting the most touristic sites: the Eiffel Tower, Museé d’Orsay, Montmartre, etc. It was awesome having Nick with me because he speaks almost flawless French so I could lazily be an American for a couple of days and let him take charge with the food ordering, metro navigating, etc.
Where Nick really came in clutch (excuse my awful pun) was in driving our manual rental car to the north of France. Foolishly, I thought I could be instructed on how to drive stick right off the bat. No surprise as to how that ended: the car stalled in front of the Enterprise lady and all of her clients. So much for that young driver’s deposit.
We spent a couple of days touring Normandy, seeing Bayeux and the D-Day beaches (here’s a little post on that/Afghanistan…yes there is a connection).
But the real reason we went to the north was to visit the Fachons, Nick’s French host family from high school.
Pulling into Marquise was an experience in and of itself. The tiny village was a typical northern town just a few miles from the coast of Normandy. It’s home to “Mamou,” the matriarch of the Fachon family, who was nice enough to host us while her grandchildren (Nick’s host siblings) visited.
A little on Mamou. She’s not only the most adorable and generous French grandmother I’ve come across, but she’s an avid history buff who lived through the German invasion of France. As a little girl, she recalls hearing bombs hit the coast of Normandy (which is still dotted with blast marks, to this day) and having to coexist with the German soldiers that lived in her area. She told us the story of her cousin’s first communion celebration which had to be postponed due to an overhead bombing. The delay was nothing short of a miracle, because a bomb hit the church that would have housed the celebration.
The bumps on the far hill are all vestiges from WWII bombings
For Nick and I, it was absolutely astounding to hear these stories and see them in the landscapes around us. As Americans, the impact of the Second World War is far less visual. But being in Europe, you don’t only hear first-hand stories, but you see them play out.
One of the more shocking vestiges of the war was the German bunkers that are all over the northern French coast, largely open and unprotected. You can just walk right up to them:
These sites and stories were humble reminders that there is a price to freedom and stability. As an American that has never experienced domestic warfare, I felt grateful as I passed the pock-marked landscape and concrete bunkers.
One of the central themes of my travels has been the power of generosity and human compassion. While visiting the Ursulines or the Benedictines, I was always touched by their hospitality and kindness towards a weary traveler like myself.
I did, after all, plan my fellowship around visiting sisters like these. So naturally, I was somewhat anticipating a positive experience with them (though they always exceed my expectations). What has come as a real shock has been the generosity of everyday people.
The Fachons not only hosted me in Lyon for dinner, but they invited Nick and me, a stranger to them, on their family vacation to visit their grandmother. From the get-go, it was already a generous offer.
When we got to Mamou’s, we were overwhelmed with a sense of warm welcome. Not only did the Fachons spend an entire day touring us around the coast (we visited the English Channel, saw the cliffs of Dover, and walked around Boulogne-sur-Mer), but they also made us feel like members of the family, cooking us special meals, playing cards with us, and patiently including us in all of their conversations despite our slower French.
Their greatest sign of hospitality, however, was their cooking. Oh my goodness, get ready. Here’s the play-by-play:
The first dinner was something called a “Welsh” which is basically bread covered in a melted beer and cheese mix, served with fries on the side:
They’re French fries for a reason, my friends. These were the best damn fries ever (my deepest apologies to my beloved Chik-Fil-A waffle fries…I will never forget you). In the north, there are trucks devoted to making fries (“frites” in French) 24/7 called “barracks à frites.” You just drive up with a bowl and they fill it up for a flat rate, no matter the size.
My favorite meal was the homemade crêpes prepared by Mrs. Fachon. I had merely mentioned that I loved French crêpes at one point. That was all it took; Joana woke up extra early to make them fresh for Nick and me before we set off on our flight.
I know I’m talking a lot about food but this is all to say that human generosity exists and goes a long way. Despite the fact that the Fachons had just met me, being with them made me feel like I was with my family again, something that I really needed after a couple of months of traveling alone. They also reminded me that most people are fundamentally good and will take care of you if you need it.
Little did I know how important this realization was as I set off on my Camino; on the Camino, kindness is practically a currency. You’re forced to trust others (though it’s often natural to trust among pilgrims).
It was at the Fachon’s kitchen table that I worked up the courage to book my transportation to the start point of the Camino, something I had subconsciously prevented myself from doing out of fear, falling back on “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
After France, Nick and I flew to Madrid, where we visited my cousin/big sister/role model/badass lawyer and mountain climber, Amalia. She’s been my guardian angel since I got here, always checking in to see if I’m safe and how I’m doing. I never realized how lonely I would be throughout the day as all my friends and family at home were sleeping due to time differences. Amalia has been my rock through that loneliness, always available for a call or WhatsApp.
While she worked during the day, I showed Nick around the city and we also took a couple of day trips to places like Toledo. While I really enjoyed those days in Madrid, I was also growing more and more nervous for my next adventure on the Camino. When I said bye to Nick at the airport, I turned around and truly accepted that the next day, I’d be starting a 500+ mile journey across Spain all by myself.
Ok time for me to cut to the chase on all this Camino business.
Here’s a basic explanation, courtesy of the illustrious Wikipedia:
The Camino de Santiago, known in English as the Way of St. James, is a network of pilgrims' ways or pilgrimages leading to the shrine of the apostle Saint James the Great in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in northwestern Spain, where tradition holds that the remains of the saint are buried. As Pope Benedict XVI said, "It is a Way sown with so many demonstrations of fervour, repentance, hospitality, art and culture which speak to us eloquently of the spiritual roots of the Old Continent." Many follow its routes as a form of spiritual path or retreat for their spiritual growth. It is also popular with hiking and cycling enthusiasts and organized tour groups.
People have been walking the Camino since the 10th century, all heading to Santiago in Spain. And I am following in their footsteps.
A typical day on the Camino consists of 20-30 kilometers of walking. At the end of the day pilgrims stay in hostels called “albergues” where you often share a communal meal with other pilgrims. We carry everything in our packs from stop to stop, including clothes, food for the day, and any other necessities you would need for 30+ days of walking.
Committing to my Camino was the hardest part. I found it terrifying that I would be walking across Spain alone. It wasn’t quite the physical challenge, it was more a fear of everything that could go wrong; a perfectionists’ meditation, if you will.
Because the Camino is honestly a perfectionist’s worst nightmare. There’s no amount of planning that can make it go smoothly. For instance, as a pilgrim, you show up to a new town every night, simply hoping to find a bed. Booking ahead of time is difficult if you want the albergue experience (as opposed to expensive and solitary hotel rooms) and often not even allowed. You literally wake up, walk, and hope for the best.
One of the greatest challenges I face with my travels in general is dealing with uncertainty. It’s a skill I’ve avoided all of my life — I always try to take the “right” class, do the “right” internship, and participate in the “right” activities, having a clear cut plan for where I will end up when all of these conventional steps come together. This year, however, is anything but planned. Everyday is a mystery and often I go to sleep wondering “how the heck did I do that and how the heck did I get here.”
And to be honest, I’m starting to really love it. Sure, it often involves plenty of anxiety and fear, but at the end of the day, I love knowing that I can live without a plan. Basically, I can just live.
So that’s what I’m trying to do on the Camino; just living.
9/3/2021: San Dominico, Spain
Here’s the part you’ve all been waiting for (I’ll just keep telling myself that): what do I do everyday.
Here’s an example of a day in the life.
11 PM last night: Went to sleep in my ~luxurious~ hostel bunk bed after a meal at a restaurant with a pilgrim menu (bread, wine, salad course, main course, desert, 12 euros, happy Carine).
6:30 AM this morning: Woke up and put my sleeping bag away, grabbed my clothes drying on the clothesline (still wet…RIP), washed my face, brushed my teeth, and got dressed. Packed my pack (this is so stressful because my whole life is in that bag). Double-checked my pack. Triple-checked my pack. Taped my blisters. Put on my boots and got to walking with my Camino buddies.
7:15 AM: Leaving Nájera, I get a stunning sunrise over the mountains behind me as I walk through rolling hills of vineyards. The vines are saturated with grapes at this time of year, often making for a perfect snack. Pilgrims are walking at all different paces around me. I say hi to Dorthy from London and Paula and Rob from Scotland and walk ahead, listening to some music and turning around every couple of minutes to see the sun move up the mountain.
8:00 AM: Dammit I’m hungry. Grabbed my apple and checked my guidebook for the next village…there better be a coffee shop. Marcin (aka “Machine” aka “The Man, the Myth, the Machine”), my friend from Poland, assured me that there would be coffee. He checks his map for me every morning, knowing that I always need the motivation of coffee on the horizon (hi Marcin, love you buddy!!!!).
9:00 AM: Machine never lies. There’s coffee. We sit down and drink our cafes con leche while pilgrims that were behind us stream into the village, also stopping for some breakfast. We run into the local market for bread, ham, and cheese. My little Camino group (Will from Belgium, Ben from France, Machine from Poland, and Jack and Lorcan from Ireland) always eats meals together, sharing the bread and sandwich fixings we bought in the morning. It’s really cool to see all the food thrown in a communal pile where anyone can take anything, no tally kept, no question asked.
11:00 AM: We get to the top of the tallest hill for the day and there’s a little stand with fruit, cookies, and drinks. It’s all donation-based, you can take whatever you want and leave whatever you want. The group of dreamy Italians walk by…slow down Giuseppe! Slow down!
1:00 PM: Michael from South Africa and I are talking about our respective country’s politics for what seemed like half an hour but was really hours. We make our way into Santo Dominico, wondering where the time has gone.
1:45 PM: All the lads and I are sitting in front of the town cathedral, sharing our food for the perfect Camino lunch: bread, jamon, cheese, and chocolate as desert. We make plans to find a local hostel.
2:30 PM: We find the municipal hostel and check in, showing our “pilgrim passports,” and getting them stamped by the hospitaleros (hosts). Dreamy Italians check in right after….arrividerci boys!
3:00 PM: Will, Machine, Jack, and I walk over to the cathedral to check it out; there are some famous chickens kept inside (yes, chickens). Apparently you can’t leave until you hear the rooster crow. I took my chances (as karma the next morning, the roosters in the coop next to the hostel woke me up at 4 am).
4:00 PM: Wander around town. Ouch my legs hurt why the heck am I walking more than I have to.
8:00 PM: Mass in the local monastery. I can’t much understand Spanish priests due to the accent so I take in the beautiful church, reflecting on my day.
9:00 PM: Machine and I grabbed a ~gourmet~ microwave pizza and some wine and joined the others in the hostel kitchen, sharing food and planning for the next day. I call ahead to a hostel in the next town, hoping to make a reservation (the boys call me “El Jefe” because I make all the plans as the only Spanish-speaker). Dreamy Italians tell us to come to the outdoor concert with them. Say less boys, say less.
9:15 - 10:15 PM (curfew in albergues in always around 10…sad): We all went outside to the town square where there was a public rock concert. It’s some kind of 50’s rock cover band, playing Spanish versions of Elvis. Honestly the music is bizarre (read: bad) but it’s a blast as we all dance without abandon. We dance together for the whole hour, never stopping. Some of even get up on stage.
10:15 PM: We sprint into the hostel, already breaking curfew. The Italians join us (success! they are now our friends!) in the courtyard where we all shared some bottles of wine, laughing and talking until the old Spanish people in neighboring apartments tell us to shut up and go to bed.
Here are my Apple Watch stats for the day if you’re interested (forgot to record some of the middle bits):
Today, September 8, 2021: Burgos, Spain
Today is my first rest day! We got to Burgos last night after a hot and shade-less 22 km trek. Tomorrow marks our first day in the Meseta, a 10-day stage that is even hotter and more shade-less. I’m about 300 kilometers into the walk with 500 kilometers left to go.
I had a really great sleep in my first hotel room of the trip (shout out to Amalia for sponsoring this surprise). While I do love pilgrim albergues for their community feel and tradition, I did need a little break from sharing bunk beds and a bathroom with five other dudes.
Each day is different so I won’t bore you with a day-by-day. Instead, here are some memorable highlights, stories, and pictures:
First day: Crossing the Pyrenees
I woke up at 5:45 am on my first day of walking in Saint Jean Pied de Port in France, just under 20 kilometers from the Spanish border. I was terrified to walk alone, but luckily, I met Lynda from Canada who’s celebrating her 60th birthday on the Camino and we walked together. Lynda probably could tell how nervous I was to be alone because she was waiting outside our albergue that morning to walk with me. We ended up spending the entire day together, learning about each other’s families, interests, and goals for the trip. It’s incredible how vulnerable you can be with someone on the Camino (or when travelling in general).
Aside from the stunning views, one of my favorite parts of this route (called the Napoleonic route after one of its famous travelers), was the abundance of grazing animals. Horses, cattle, sheep, and goats would casually stroll by as pilgrims huffed and puffed their way to the top of each peak. At one point, Lynda and I took a wrong turn, only to end up surrounded by hundreds of sheep.
We ended the day in Roncesvalles, Spain, feeling famished, tired, and most of all, accomplished. That night, our albergue was an old monastery. True to form, we were awoken at 6 AM with pre-recorded Gregorian chant.
The Good Craic Society
^ Me and some of the members of the Good Craic Society, not to be confused with the Good Crack Society. The name was coined by Lorcan from Ireland. Craic = banter in Irish…at least I think.
Left to right: Will from Belgium, Lorcan, Jack from Ireland, Marcin/Machine from Poland (finally made a Polish friend, something I most definitely did not achieve in Poland), and Vincent from Germany.
It’s been such a joy to cultivate deep friendships with people from wildly different cultures (what this means is that I can swear in about five different languages now).
While my time at Harvard was marked with diversity (hi squad, miss you), most of my group was American. Due to pandemic-related travel restrictions, I find myself to be one of the few Americans travelling the Camino, making it feel like a true adventure and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make foreign friends.
A beautiful morning with Jack and Machine. We love to wake up early to beat the heat and catch amazing sunrises.
Another beautiful sunrise with Jack!
A memorable afternoon in Logroño, Spain, where the boys “borrowed” some St. Patty’s hats from the local Irish pub (which we obviously had to visit in honor of Lorcan and Jack). Lorcan has committed to taking his “borrowed” hat all the way to Santiago.
Morning Wining to Cure Morning Whining
The only way to get me through a rainy morning of hiking without too much complaining: filling up at the Irache wine fountain, free for pilgrims. The local wine is produced by the Irache monastery where pilgrim are told to drink for strength and courage on their journey to Santiago. While I’m not sure how much strength and courage I felt on that rainy day, I can attest to feeling something after drinking that bottle at 9 AM. (To my perturbed relatives: it’s tradition, I had no choice.)
The Dreamy Italians: No Pain, No Gain
My group has become pretty tight with a group of Italians walking the Camino. We often stay at the same hostels and have started sharing meals together. They’re super outgoing and are always singing and laughing along the trail. I love trying to communicate with them using a mix of Spanish and basic Italian.
Within this Italian delegation of pilgrims, there are three boys that I have taken to calling the “dreamy Italians.” (If you’re wondering, I’ve fully accepted that it’s likely the DIs will read this at some point and I have zero shame…Hiiiii boys! Bella frate!)
I’ve never actively wanted to get injured until I found out that one of the DIs (there are three) is a physical therapist.
The long-awaited day came yesterday. I got a really awful cramp along the back of my leg and started limping. The DI in question spotted my limp and called out: “Carin-eh, sit-eh down-eh” (*swoon*). I dropped to the floor without a word, never having been this happy to be in pain. He came over and knelt down, showing me how to stretch out the cramp. The sun was on his back and his hair falling was over his shoulders. I swear it was a movie scene (I felt like Lizzie McGuire: if you know, you know).
Sadly I was covered in dirt, sweat, and wearing horrendous hiking shorts…you can’t win them all.
Anyway, I walked to the next stop, feeling much better thanks to the DI (grazie mille). I arrived to see a giant smirk on Will, Jack, and Marcin’s faces. “You’ve been waiting to get hurt, haven’t you,” one of them said. Heck yeah I have!
(DI Update: the dreamy Italians are now cooking us pasta for dinner…great success!!!)
P.S. The Great Outdoors…Suck!
I’m what you would call “outdoorsy” and even “crunchy.” I like a good hike, a good camping trip. Hell, I’m basically living outside for over a month.
For all of these reasons, I enthusiastically elected to sleep under the stars one night. Lots of pilgrims camp their way through the Camino, avoiding the albergues. While we lacked the proper equipment, my group optimistically (and foolishly) decided to try this one night in an open field.
That night, we got dinner in the closest town. I was so excited to finally try a Spanish seafood paella at the pilgrim restaurant. Then we walked five kilometers in the moonlight to the campsite (well it did say “camping prohibido” but perdon, yo no hablo espanol, officer).
As we all settled into our sleeping bags, I started to get a little nervous. It was a pretty remote setting and we were totally out in the open. I think Will could sense this and told me I could share his two-person tent. I quickly accepted, only to slightly regret it when I realized that Will, all by himself, could hardly fit in there (he’s like 6’5’’). Anyway, I at least felt a lot safer albeit uncomfortable.
An hour later I woke up in a cold sweat. I bolted out of the tent.
A rule to live by: one shall not eat seafood paella hundreds of miles away from the nearest ocean. Thus commenced the longest night of my life as I spent the next six hours shivering on the ground (it was around 40 degrees) and throwing up in the forest.
I did, at one point, consider calling the pilgrim emergency services, only to remember that we were technically not allowed to camp in this field. But alas, I’m always for the boys and would never dream of ratting my group out.
As I laid in the dirt on my sleeping bag, wondering what I had done to receive such bad karma, I decided that I would have to sleep, even if for a bit; I would be walking 28 kilometers the next day.
My college roommates all know that there is only one thing that always puts me to sleep: Netflix. I always watch Netflix if I’m too stressed to sleep, especially the Great British Bakeoff. Though I’ve been avoiding Netflix during my travels, I figured this would be the one time where it was worth a try.
So there I was, covered in thorns, dirt, and hay, shivering as I stuffed all my remaining clothes into my sleeping bag as I switched on GBB. Pastry week, my favorite. Somehow watching all of these British people cry about the rise on their puff pastries made me feel a lot better about my current predicament.
And you know what!? It worked. I got a full hour of sleep.
This story ends on a heartwarming note. Marcin (aka “Machine”), my friend from Poland, comes off as somewhat serious when you first meet him. But the guy actually has quite maternal instincts behind that stoic exterior. He’s a big teddy bear. Knowing that I was feeling awful the next day, he bought me breakfast and prepared an electrolyte drink to help with the dehydration. Somewhat embarrassed, I told him not to worry about me. In a thick Polish accent, he answered: “Any kind of resistance is pointless.”
Like I said earlier, the Camino runs on the currency of kindness.