Arriving

There's the expectation of our being born. Then we are. Then there's the expectation of our life.

And there I was. Standing in the airport, I was. Ever find yourself where you want to be, planned to be, dreamed to be, and then there's that second of disbelief which consumes you? If you haven't been there, well, then I don't know what, but I'll tell you this much: disbelief feels good sometimes. This time was one of those. Standing solo between gate F-1 and F-2 amongst hordes of international travelers in the International Terminal with a giant pack of all my belongings on my back was... well, very real. All the expectation sometimes snowballs into the end (which, in case you didn't know, is the beginning).

So yes. There I was. As expected, I made it. Well, I hadn't actually made it yet. In fact, I almost didn't make it. You see, I'm quite often distracted. That's probably the explanation for my standing in the International Terminal between Gate F-1 and F-2 in the first place. But then again, maybe it's not, so let's just move along. Per usual and seeing as I'm prompt and almost always arrive ahead of time (ok, in reality, it's a rarity, but this is a blog, so I get to take liberties)... I was sitting in between gates an hour and a half before boarding time, so I decided to take a stroll around in search of a last minute camera that I had to fit the requirement of being Practically Weightless (for the record, 50 Practically Weightless items add up to Quite Heavy). Admittedly, Along the way took a look at some neck pillows, ear plugs, and bought a bottled water. I also called to confirm that my credit cards were prepared for International Swipe. Seeing as they were, I went back and decided on what would prove to be the perfectly performing camera, snapped a photo, forgot the earplugs, drank some water, and, with my 22 lb pack in tow + the Practically Weightless camera, headed back to Gate F-1. My intention was to sneak into boarding Zone 1, calmly line up, choose a space for Pack (as I have affectionately named him), and ready myself for the umpteen hour flight to Amsterdam for a layover before Madrid.

I interrupt this Blog Flow to make an important announcement: Intentions don't always pan out.

To my absolute confusion, as I approached the gate, there wasn't a line to board the plane. Nor was there a soul in sight save the lone desk attendant. I approached rather briskly and inquired as to where my fellow passengers were. I also asked if this was the gate for the flight bound for Amsterdam. She inquisitively replied, "Boarded." and "Yes?" And then she widened her eyes when I informed her that I needed to board, too. In a quick change of demeanor, she radioed someone important, did what I consider the equivalent of scolding me, asked from where I came, and told me to run. So I ran. Through the gate and onto the plane with 22 lb Pack bouncing from side to side, I ran, all the way to left-leaning window seat 39-D. No, there wasn't any room left above my seat for what would be my only definitive companion for the next 83 days. I calmly, sweetly asked the nearest steward if he could so kindly help me find an impermanent home above deck for Pack. Here's where I must say that patience and kindness go a long way. Soon, Pack was above deck in 14-A thanks to an elderly woman who only carried on her carpet bag and a deceptively large coat which Patrick, the steward, easily moved to the side.

The rest of the airplane experience went swimmingly. The day before the night before I was to begin a 550 mile hike across Spain, I was able to stay awake for 2 full length movies, accept every passing drink and food cart's offerings, watch the Big Dipper get brighter from my window, count the number of times a 78 year old chap walked up and down the isle, and change position in my seat at least 298 times - all the while failing to catch a minute of shut eye - yes, I'd say swimmingly went the flight. Then there was the 42 minute layover during which Pack and I bounced through Customs and through A, B, C, and D Gates. We made it. Someone called for Zone 1. I strolled through. Next stop: Madrid.

I got off the plane, and sat down on the first bench I found. I stayed on that bench for about twenty minutes. I watched people. I organized Pack. I drank some water. Then I went to the bathroom, took a good look at myself in the mirror, and carried on. I was bound for the #200 bus that would take me to another bus which would transport me to Pamplona. Quick update on communication skills at this point: Pathetic. Let's face it, I was going on 24 hours with no sleep. The hope of my speaking some semblance of the Spanish language was a dashed dream. Understanding it? Forget about it. English was difficult at this point.

All the people were gone. I did a lot of hand gesturing in a very laughable fashion so that, miracle of miracles, two very Spanish speaking Spaniards pointed me in the direction of the #200 bus. I sleep walked to the bus stand. The bus came. I walked on. I paid the driver 2 Euro. I sat down. Pack felt heavier than when I left. I put him on the seat next to me. I stared ahead. The bus made a few more stops. On the second stop, a man wearing sandals with socks got on board. He sat down in a seat across the isle from me. I stared ahead. I felt him looking at me. I glanced to my left. He said, "Pilgrim?" I replied, "Si."

The rest of the bus ride goes something like this: He spoke no English. None. Not a word. I? Well, I spoke no Spanish. None. Not a word. If "broken" Spanish and "broken" English mean that a slight language understanding exists, then what is the term for absolute zero language comprehension? Amputated? Let's go with that. I spoke English, and he did a lot of blank staring. He spoke Spanish, and I did a lot of blank staring. We were speaking "amputated" English and Spanish. And. It. Was. Brilliant. The man who I thought was in his late 50s, early 60s was, in fact, 72. He had travelled to Madrid from Mexico to walk his 4th Camino.

(That's why I came to Spain, by the way. I came to walk "El Camino de Santiago" also known as "The Way of Saint James").

Finally, the man from Mexico said "papel." A word I knew! I pulled out my Practically Weightless Moleskin journal and a pen. He wrote down a flurry of words. I understood the words; I understood him. He signed it "Sr. Feliz - Tijuana, Mexico" with the date. Without his help, transferring from the #200 bus to the Bus to Pamplona would have been a doable nightmare; instead, it was a breeze. I followed him and a few other non-Spanish-speaking pilgrims (who were keen on the idea of having Sr. Feliz as a transfer guide, too) to our next bus. After a two and a half hour bus ride of intermittent communication with intermittent sleep, we arrived in Pamplona. Sr. Feliz was headed on to Roncesvalles to begin his Camino there. My plan was to stay the night in Pamplona, wake up early, catch the bus to the French town of St. Jean Pied de Port, and begin my Camino. Part of me wanted to just can the idea and stick with this 72 year old Camino pro. I met him only a couple of hours before, but he had given me such assurance. We bid each other farewell, and I headed to my first Albergue.

Pamplona is a delightful city. With a population of approximately 190,000 people, it proved to be the perfect place to settle into Spain. My first albergue experience (an albergue is a hostel reserved exclusively for pilgrims on the camino) was at Jesus y Maria. I walked in and handed the hospitalteras my Pilgrim's Passport. (I registered with the American Pilgrim Office in the States, and they sent me two passports... One must have a passport in order to stay in albergues along The Way. The passport is similar to general passports; at each destination, one receives a stamp with a date.) I received a bottom sheet and pillow case.

This albergue has 114 beds and is divided into 2 rooms of cubicles... I was assigned bed #15, top bunk. For the record, I've come to realize that top bunk is where it's at. That night, I had the pleasure of an audience to the snoring symphony. At 6 am, everyone was leaving or waking up to leave. That morning was my trial run as I still had a bus to catch to St. Jean. I was out the door after a quick shower during which I had to push the knob every 5 seconds to turn the water on. It was worse than the toilet flushing and the following hot water scald.

I crossed the street for a very basic Pilgrim's breakfast for 3 Euro which consisted of a yesterday croissant, a coffee, and some juice. No one looked especially happy with it. I made a note to always have fruit for the way out so as not to be forced to endure crummy croissants. The bus wasn't to depart until 10, so after a visit to the church, I made my way to find a Spanish phone in case I got lost along The Way (which, seeing as I almost never get lost, surely wouldn't happen on a path marked with bright yellow arrows and seashells every few kilometers). After an hour speaking nearly-amputated-but-not-quite-broken Spanish to a woman named Marquetta at the Correros (Spanish post office), I left with a phone, a number that may or may not be my phone number, and a few stamps. 15 minutes until bus departure. Pack and I hustled, and made it.

The bus ride from Pamplona to St. Jean is a long, winding, uphill one. The view out the right side is vastly different from the view out the left side, so between dozing, I would occasionally glance over the isle through the window to my left. A girl sat one row behind me and across the isle. At this point, the only people whom I heard speak English were two Australians at the Correras. They were beginning their Camino from Pamplona. I wanted to join them, but the temptation of hiking over the Pyrenees won in the end. So, I'm sitting across the isle from this girl for an hour before I ask the infamous question, "Do you speak English?" "Yes!" she replied enthusiastically. "Brilliant," I responded. And with that, a Canadian girl named Angelica and I were like old friends. Soon, we found ourselves in France.

With that, The Camino began.