Lost

The church bells ring in the distance summoning the faithful to its doors. The wind races through the narrow cobble-stoned streets that twist haphazardly through Lodève. Lodève was obviously built before the slightest notion of automobiles. The streets are narrow, steep, and winding. Most of the streets in Lodève are hardly wide enough to fit one car, let alone two, but the population of Lodève seems to have some kind of esoteric system of one-way roads figured out; life flows through seamlessly.

The country has been on strike for the past 2 weeks. The door of the high school is blocked by trashcans and more effectively by the students sitting outside glaring at passersby. Transportation is unsure, trash is everywhere, and the country is concerned about its lack of fuel. Movement in the region has come to a halt, but the people seem to soak in the freedom of these open days.

As for me I am feeling the familiar pains of leaving everything behind. The solitude weighs heavy on me. In the morning I walk to the bakery for fresh bread and the occasional pastry. As I wait in line the lady smiles and greets the familiar faces in line around me. As for me, I am as of yet invisible. The strikes have efficiently cut off my only sure source of social contact. Without the brief conversations with other teachers I am just another stranger in this small town where I have not yet come to belong.

When I feel so cut off from the world around me it is hard not to give in to the nostalgia that fills my heart. I think back to the friends I have made all over the world; taking solace in the knowledge that these friendships also took time to form. I think of the families that welcomed me in Benin, and the friends that went out of their way to make me fall in love with Spain. Those times when I need a friend to talk to, lean on or just pass the empty hours with, are the times when I have no one to turn to.

It is not an easy situation to be in, my stay in France being transient and the lives of the people around me being set and full already. I know from experience that the friendships I am most likely to form are with other foreigners, others who feel estranged in this country, who seek new friendships.

Being fed up with my struggle to find a place here I seek comfort in the wild countryside outside the borders of the town. A 10 minute walk carries me to mountainous trails, calling to be explored. In the tranquility of nature I feel once more at ease, I feel alive, I feel loved and cared for by the world around me. Amongst the trees I am not a strange face; I do not feel alienated or judged. I can once more connect to the inner peace that we can so easily lose touch with. In the struggle to fit in I forget that I must let go of that nagging desire to please the world around me; forgetting that for now, until I understand the nuances of this culture, I can only please one person. Me.

So here amid the trees I find peace. In the midst of the trees the wind is no longer a bother. The wind plays a symphony for me through the leaves. I am on no schedule. Time is forgotten. I turn around and see Lake Salagou stretched out before me in the distance. Nature’s beauty mingles with the remnants of stone houses forgotten long ago. The crumbling doorways hint at stories of lives one lived amongst the wild before the charm of the Earth was overshadowed by the dazzle of the city.

Soumont

The path I walk winds up the mountain drawing me farther from civilization, until about 4k outside of Lodève I round a corner and am confronted by buildings. Soumont is much smaller than Lodève yet despite its meager population the French grandeur dominates. A large stone cathedral stands proudly in the center as old stone houses spiral outward in no particular scheme of organization. I wander down the alleys without fear, for every alley twists and turns back to the center.

All day I follow familiar signs as the yellow conch shell guides my way. I am for one more brief moment on the Camino. In France there are no yellow arrows guiding my path, in their place are a secret code of lines; yellow and blue, red and white. Like a scavenger hunt I desperately scan the stones and tree trunks for the marking telling me that I am not yet lost. As I wander further up into the wilderness I begin to lose track of the signs. Every time I must walk blindly the worry sets in. I embrace the fear letting it blossom into excitement, after all I had come in search of an adventure.

Soumont

As I reach the top of a mountain over Soumont I turn around, scanning the horizon for Lodève; but Lodève is tucked out of sight. The mountains undulate in the distance all around me guiding my gaze further until I see a bright gleam at the edge of the horizon. Up here, high above the world in which I live, I am starring out at the majestic Mediterranean Sea.

I stopped to take in the wonder of the moment, the feeling of being on top of the world, before I continued my journey. For a day my worries were forgotten. I was no longer an American, no longer trying to be French. For a day I was where I belonged, where language holds no sway. But like all things of great beauty, like the breathtaking setting of the sun, these moments are fleeting; a mere garnish to the life my feet carried me back to.

Culture Shock

I stepped off the plane in Chicago and it was instant. The arrival in America is a bit of a shock as you dive right back in the world in which you grew up. All around me I heard the strong southern drawl and for the first time in a year, nothing but English. I wanted to put my hands to my ears to drown out the sound of incessant conversation. I felt like I was being forced into the private lives of others. My first instinct was annoyance, thinking that Americans are as loud and obnoxious as people say they are. Why do they think I would care about their lives? Then I realized that my judgments were entirely unfounded. I could simply understand everything they were saying around me without any conscious effort on my own; a feeling that I had grown unaccustomed to. The truth is that people were quite friendly and it felt good to be around such a mélange of accents.

The next stop was Colorado; the time to visit with old friends and dear family. Things just weren’t as seamlessly smooth as they once had been. Before I left I could read other Americans better and flow with the natural rhythm of the States. Suddenly I found myself not leaning in for a hug, rather leaning in to kiss someone’s cheek. At the supermarket I looked down for the cheapest items when in fact the organization in America is quite unique. But I had only hours to readjust to the US before I flew off to what seemed like yet again another country, LA.

After a decent night’s sleep, my friend Marina and I flew off to LA. My wardrobe seemed entirely insufficient and people could spot at first glance that we “weren’t from around there”. That was fine with us since the people that were seemed to use to be…unique. As we strolled down Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard, or spotted the Hollywood sign in the distance I took it all in; for this is the America that the people around the world know. The movie stars, the wide boulevards, the shopping, the In and Out burgers, the eclectic styles, we saw it all. Tourists in our own country.

Rock stars in Hollywood

Home Sweet Home

After LA it was much easier. Like riding a bicycle I began to flow within the culture around me as if I had never left. My time in the States seemed like a whirlwind at times; so many friendly faces to see, catching up to be done, so much to recount to one another, plans for the future to arrange. And like a whirlwind it soon blew past and I was once again flying over the Atlantic, speaking French with the couple seated beside me. I felt…home.

Flying into Madrid felt like flying back to my own country. I entered the airport with much more confidence. I understood the world around me, the metro, the language. It was a drastic change from the year before. I let my feet carry me to my favorite sites of Madrid, wandering through the roses, stopping for a café and getting caught up in a technical conversation about the internet that was far over my head in Spanish. Luckily my skills at pretending like I am following are well tuned.

My time in Madrid was brief but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for one more night in Benavente. Oh the feeling of stepping out of the bus station in Benavente! I can hardly put it into words. I took a deep breath and caught a familiar scent in the air that I had never noted before. I saw familiar faces strolling down the street and walked familiar paths. That night I did the same circuit of town that I had walked several times before. Benavente is not a big place thus it is easy to run into old friends. We stayed up late into the night (well not too late for the Spaniards) filling in the last three months of everyones’ lives. I found that my Spanish was still strong, I could still hold my own in a conversation and it was easier than ever. I had missed the tapas, the wine and this language over the summer and I took in every moment I could. I realized over the course of the night that I had become close these people without even realizing it and found myself wishing I had a little more time to get to know people that I had overlooked. But my time in Benavente had come to an end and so in the morning I headed to Palencia to visit one more dear friend, pick up my suitcase, and prepare for my imminent move.

I arrived at my friend’s apartment armed with a handheld luggage scale and mentally prepared for the worst. I was faced with a challenge. The airline I was taking to France allowed 1 checked bag weighing up to 20k every extra kilo being 12 Euros more and one carry on, no weight limit but able to fit into the little things at the airport. I went up to the basement to weigh my bag; I knew that I would not be able to rest until I had. I looked, 50 it said. I just about fainted. It was worse than I’d thought. How was I going to get 30 k to France and still have money to survive? My friend and I searched frantically for a solution, then I looked more closely. 50 lBS is 23 kilos. Bon, 3 kilos I can do.

The next morning I dressed in my pjs, jeans, skirt and multiple shirts. My pockets were filled with electronics, and anything that would fit. My book I would hold and pretend to be reading at every moment. And thus I checked a bag weighing 20.5 kilos and barely survived the heart attack the pounds/kilogram change almost caused. Thus I put on 3 kilos in Spain.

I arrived overheated and exhausted in France where a familiar face awaited me. Soon my large bag was back in my possession and my layers of extra weight were returned to the suitcase. And thus I dropped 3 kilos in France.

It was here that my new adventure would commence. I headed to Montpellier nervous and ready to rid myself of my heavy bags. As I approached the house of the fellow teacher, who offered to host me while I looked for a place of my own, I felt the familiar worries settled into my heart. Try as I might I could not suppress the doubt that was simmering within. What if they don’t like me? What if I take the wrong bus? What if I packed too much? What if, what if… My worries were assuaged the second I entered the door, my doubt and timidity hid itself well behind an autopilot I’ve built up within myself. I made myself at home and engaged them in conversation flowing smoothly between French and English.

Then I had to pee. I tried to recall the quick tour I had been given and walked immediately to the shower. Nope, no toilet in there. I paced back and forth down the hall before throwing in the towel and asking for help. Where was it you ask? In the laundry room of course!

I enjoyed my time in their home immensely. Every meal was the paradigm of French to me. They took me to see the wild flamingos that have existed here forever yet that I’d never heard of, they showed me around the beautiful Montpellier and they gave me the freedom to explore on my own.

I went out with the Couch Surfing group of Montpellier which turned into an unforgettable adventure. I arrived at the house of a stranger unaware of what to expect. In less than an hour I would be trying to help fit a large cardboard boat down a small spiral staircase, and take the same boat across town in a small city tram. Why you ask? Well to race it against other cardboard boats of course!

Though short-lived, my time in Montpellier was memorable and left me hungry for more. Now I am in the charming small town of Lodève. But more on that later.

A bientôt!

Endings

As my 25^th birthday quickly approached I found myself surrounded by new friends staring into a camp fire. As I watched the flames dance over the embers, proving warmth in the cold mountain air, I felt blessed. As a 24 year old I had been on the move. My 24^th birthday had found me surrounded once again by family and friends from all walks of life. As I celebrated my homecoming and said hello to old friends I feared the next step. I was in the midst of preparation for Spain, but my heart was not there. My heart was home.

Leaving for Spain was never a decision I came to regret. Spain became my doorway to a new self-discovery and new friends. It was a good year. In the past year I lost my thirst to see the world, speak in foreign languages, the thirst to explore. And as I was ready to call it quits, life sent me a reminder of why I chose the life I have. Through strangers that set my soul alight in Amsterdam, to musicians that sang about life on the road in Frankfurt I learned once more what it feels like to love your life with every ounce of your being.

So here I am on a rock, water cascading down rocks all around me drowning out the incessant sounds of daily life. Glancing around I see only trees, water, and feel the warm embrace of the Pyrenees that surround me.

My first week here the mountains were surrounded in mist. They were softly rounded, unlike the jagged Rocky Mountain peaks. Trees blanketed every mountain, giving them a soft, gentle appearance. Then about a week in to camp I headed to my ESL class letting my eyes wander over the beauty. This morning was different. The mist had lifted to reveal snow-topped rocky peaks in the distance. I stood silent for a moment, taking in the overwhelming beauty of the sight, all the while marveling at my luck to live and work here amongst this splendor.

In the Pyrenees campsite I am working with younger kids that bring with them different challenges. At a lower English level you being to speak an interesting pidgin sign-language, and any joke that escapes your lips is purely for your own enjoyment. I met 5 kids in Bordeaux to escort them to camp. To this day I am not sure when I became responsible and grown-up enough to escort the children of strangers around a foreign country. But it happened.

Unlike the freshman, there is little thought of rebellion but their independence has yet to sprout and I find myself struggling to encourage them to formulate their own sentences rather than simply copying all that I do.

Though I’ve enjoyed the challenge if earning their love and respect it is the days off that monopolize my thoughts.

My last day off I was in Bordeaux. Having once again returned the campers safely to their families I was given a free night in a hotel. (love this job!)The next day was spent taking my companion on an impromptu tour of my last few years. I spotted once more the familiar signs of the Camino de Santiago and let it guide us through Bordeaux. We wandered through markets where you can find just about anything you’d like and wandered into supermarkets where I heard the familiar rhythm of Beninese French and found a fruit from Benin that I never thought I’d taste again. The un-grafted mango is a stringy, juicier, sweeter version of its grafted counterpart that you find in the stores. It grows everywhere in Benin but has a very short shelf life. Yet like a mirage there it was in Bordeaux. I bought one and we savored the familiar flavor as our feet dangled over the Garrone River in Toulouse.

La Garonne, Toulouse

It was a magical day that trapped me in the clutches of nostalgia but offered me a great chance to reflect. As my 25^th year of life drew to a close and life tumbled on like the river flowing unceasingly around me I couldn’t help but be grateful for the year I have had.

I thought back to my visit to the palm reader in Fort Collins many years ago. He had read on the lines of my palm that I would meet “the one” when I was 24. And did I meet this mysterious one? Who knows. I’ve certainly met a lot of people who have left an impact on my life, helped me to appreciate the world and myself a little more. I have fallen in love countless times in the last 12 months; with Colorado, Spain, France, friends both new and old. This past year has brought me home from Benin and carried me off to Spain. I arrived barely able to order a beer and left being able to pass the night chatting with friends over beers. A country I felt very little affection for has become a true love in my life. This year has also brought me to France, where I have always dreamed of living. This last month in the Pyrenees, visiting quaint French towns tucked away in the folds of the mountains, partaking in French wine and cheese with the locals, losing myself in the gentle rhythm of the language, my love has grown stronger than ever.

So as I begin my 26^th year, I look forward to my upcoming year in southern France and onward to the unclear future that lies just beyond the river bend. As I spend one last day in Madrid before returning to the States for a quick vacation I am filled with the familiar nerves that come with leaving the familiar for the unfamiliar. But life has shown me time and time again that the unfamiliar is not bad, just unknown. Every time I have taken a familiar leap it has brought me good things. When was the last time you took the leap? With that notion I leave you. And I will see you all soon.

Mon rêve, enfin

Summer Camp Pictures!

Fulfilling a long-lost dream can be so…fulfilling. It all began back when I first entered a French class, sat and stared at the board covered in nonsense. As a child I had watched the commercials for videos to teach children foreign languages with my mouth watering, waiting for my day. I’m not sure why I chose French, what about the language had first captured my heart, but as year after year of French classes passed by I built my dream. I had to live in France someday.

The dream soon faded as I accepted my diffidence, wallowed in my doubts. It’s hard to believe that I’m here. I think back over the journey as I walk down cobble-stoned streets, surrounded by French signs and French flags that wave proudly over my head. The journey was long, full of deviations, but here I am.
I’m sitting at a café in Paris, people watching. It’s like a Beninese fashion show. Women walk by beautiful and confident in their wild west-African fabrics. The curiosity within me is bursting, I want to ask every person where they are from, is anyone from Benin??? But there are just too many.

I had just dropped off the first round of campers, brought them safely to their families and said one last goodbye. I had the pleasure of being among the first and last faces they saw at Am Village. Tears streamed down the faces of many, some hugged so tight I feared they would never let go. Just one day away from picking up round two it was difficult for me to grasp just what an experience these kids have gone through. Immersing themselves in a foreign language and living through an American adolescence. They had no option but to trust us and to lean on each other. But that day these new bonds had to be ripped at the seams.

Some days were a challenge. They were all in their mid-teens so having learned life’s boundaries such as don’t play with fire, they’ve moved on to testing society’s boundaries. Some were overly rambunctious testing how far they could push it; others too timid, afraid of the judgments of their peers. From this view I can’t help but rejoice that I have left the teenage angst behind.

From the outside I see the many lessons that we learn after high school. Popularity is fleeting and fickle. It’s ok, even preferable to let loose and be a total dork sometimes. And as we try so hard to please these teens, who feel too cool for anything, I’m reminded that you bring your happiness with you, happiness comes from within, and we can’t force it on them.

Preparing for my role in the Spook Walk, I was being chased by a murderer

Next I must admit that these guys taught me as well. They put things into perspective for me. I saw their intense love affairs that formed and often ended seemingly overnight. I had to watch them paw at each other like there was no tomorrow. Then I watched them move on because for them there really was no tomorrow. Our job was simply to keep them in check and remind them that summer love is fleeting and all the more beautiful for that. It is the summer love that you remember for years to come because it is the love that blossomed but never dried up, never needed tending. When there is such a short time limit you need not try for a deep connection, no need for something to overcome the rough patches.

From my angle it all seems so silly. But I know that I have been and continue to be that love-sick teenage girl that dreams of something small becoming so much more.
These overly dramatic teens reminded me that it is ok to get attached, those feeling keep us alive. And I in return taught them that sometimes you just have to let go.
American Village is just what it sounds like. We recreate America in France. I arrived at the French boarding school and was told that we needed to “pimp it out”. At first the task seemed impossible, but three days later the wall were papered with American paraphernalia and clichés.

Each day carries a theme. Some purely random such as Sci Fi day, others centered on American Culture. We created Valentine’s Day, Prom, Graduation, taking them right through Rush Week. Graduation day was silly for lack of a better word. They donned cardboard graduation caps, giving hugs to all those whom I had mentored through a two week high school experience knowing that I may never see them again.

The Frat Party with fellow counselors (from the left Buffy, Kenny, Click, Meow, Yetti, Bubbles, and me, Aspen)

Cue Session 2:

I stood in the gym watching a fellow counselor, Baloo, elicit the laughs of the campers as he blew his whistle and held up yellow cards. I envied his mastery over their attention and energy, not to mention, though I consider myself a capable opponent in Foosball once you translate that to real life the rules become more like soccer and I become lost.

They seemed to be enjoying themselves thoroughly. It was one of those days when my job is easy. There is no coaxing the campers to loosen up and participate; they are genuinely having a good time. We lined them up in the gym like a foosball table, and confined them to their lines. I was fascinated by Cheese Puff. With his shaggy brown hair, collared shirt and tight black skinny jeans he didn’t look like he belonged on a foosball table. But as his foot made contact with the ball, pelting it to the other side of the gym I was humbled. You can’t read a book by its cover. Though we do just that every day.

He reminded me of a guy I met once. A musician/writer/dreamer who expanded my outlook and enchanted my world for a brief moment in time. In some ways he was exactly what you’d expect. Close your eyes and picture a member of a rock band, the kind you’d run across at the Warped Tour. What do you see? He wore the typical almost-impossibly-tight skinny jeans, black along with his shirt and shaggy hair. His skin was engraved with his life. His musical past and fulfilled dreams were forever etched into his arms, becoming increasingly beautiful as their stories unfolded. Pierced lip, pierced nose, painted nails, even his posture seemed to tell his story, but I once again made the mistake of trying to read a book without looking past the cover.

Then we began to talk, to peel back the proverbial layers only to discover that he did not fit into the character that I had envisioned. Clear-headed and focused on his dreams, aiming constantly higher, he steers clear of the typical life I had imagined for guys in bands. His years of increasing fame and tours of the world have made him more humble. As we talked I learned a lot about myself and my views of people. He opened my mind to the true depths of the human spirit. So often when you give people a chance, especially those that seem so different, they remind us that we are far from black and white, we are immensely complex when we are true to ourselves. Freed from the pressure of fitting in which is only limiting.

Then we got into childhood tales. The real earth-shatterer, he was a baseball player in high school. A good one. Once a light-haired baseball player, he had transformed into a black-haired rock star. It got me thinking about what a role clothes play in our lives. They often tell our story for us. But which comes first, the aspirations of being in a rock band or the attire? I had seen the fans of his band, the sea of black. Is it too great a coincidence that a venue full of people seem to share music AND clothing taste?

Do we become who we aspire to be and then dress the part? Or do we begin to dress the part and become caught up in the crowd?

Later that night I was invited to his show. I had a great time dressing the part. On stage he transformed. No longer the modest, hesitant guy I had spent the day with, on stage he was a performer, radiating confidence and sex appeal. It was an intriguing transformation to see, and one that happens around us all the time.

A ball flying towards my head pulled me out of my thoughts. The new favorite move in the game had become a variation of the splits, keeping one foot on the line and trying to take the ball from the opposing team. It was the one move that the girls excelled at, and Cheese Puff’s favorite move. As Cheese Puff stretched out, always repeating the same motions, going to the limits of his pants elasticity and then falling forward I was impressed by his determination to not let his attire determine how he played the game. Though he was never able to overcome the limits of his wardrobe choice, I learned a valuable lesson. He is who he is, but that doesn’t mean that’s all that he is.

Nike, another camper, can be found shooting hoops everyday at free time, and missing them. Once he gets a few through the hoop he moves on to a new sport. Struggling, learning, but never giving up on himself.

crowd surfing game

This round of campers is exhausting, but they grew on me. This group is a bit older and capable of more in depth conversations, along with more complex shenanigans. Many of them are in that awkward phase of adolescence when they demand to be treated as adults but they have yet to begin acting like adults. Craving all the perks without the responsibilities. It is a truly obnoxious time but they kept us on our toes and made me appreciate all the more where I am in life.

The Camino Part 2: ...and that's made all the difference.

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

-Tolkien

DAY 7, Ribadiso 35k to go – After a sleepless night full of snores I awoke bright and early, but this time with a group. As we walked in the fresh air of the early morning we all shared more Camino knowledge. My new favorite, one must never judge another before the first coffee.

It was a nice change of pace for me to start out the day surrounded by friends. They provided me with much needed support, quite literally. David bandaged my ankle, Christophe donated his walking sticks. I’m not sure if it was the support on my ankle, the sticks or simply the company but I felt great.

The click of my new walking sticks became almost meditational as the click click joined the rhythm of our footsteps. Our rhythms varied, sometimes one of us would walk on ahead or fall behind but we always magically found each other down the road. I realized after my stern scolding from the Belgium about walking too fast to keep up with others, that rather being around others had helped to slow me down. Alone I rarely stopped for a coffee but with them we counted down until the next rest.

As our tummies began growling we hunted for just the right picnic spot. Eventually having decided on a nice little patch of grass we veered off the path and set up. Each person offered what they had in their bag and together we feasted. There was an astounding assortment of breads, cheeses and fruits as each person pulled their personal favorite out of their packs. Bellies soon full we reclined in the shrubs and dozed off under the hot afternoon sun, shielded by the tress above. There are no words to describe how lovely it feels to wake up in a small forest clearing surrounded by new friends who are splayed out, dotted by the shade of the leaves high above. As my eyes slowly opened there was no noise beside the deep dreamful breaths of my friends and the birds singing in the distance.

Soon the itch to reach our goal stirred us to our feet. It was really hot now and there was still 9 k to walk. The afternoon heat slowed us down and we descended on water fountains like hawks. Though my body had begun to ache once more I found an odd comfort as the need to keep putting one foot in front of the other chased away the frivolous thoughts in my mind.

As we reached the top of a hill we discovered a fellow friend who had stopped at an albergue 3 k early. We raced to find a bed. And so we gave ourselves a break that day, and it was the most beautiful spot yet. Our day’s salvation.

After dipping my hardworking feet in the river and letting them go numb from the cold I took in the day’s wisdom. For my first few days I had walked alone and I had needed to be alone. Now I needed friends and they arrived and welcomed me. Natalie the cheerful French girl, Byron the rowdy Australian, David and Christophe the Austrian brothers with intensely expressive eyes, Melanie the serious girl from Switzerland, Suna the cheeky Korean and Steve the pensive Australian. What a motley crew we made, and it would not have been the same Camino without them.

DAY 8, Arco de Pino, 18k away – Breakfast was coffee and sugar, meant to sustain us through the next 5 k. We were starving by the time we met up with friends and like the day before we each offered rations from our packs and feasted on coffee, fruit and cookies in true pilgrim spirit. My knee and ankle had finally stopped complaining and I was full of energy so I walked on ahead with Christophe. It was a beautiful walk as the trees shaded us from the sun above.

Christophe talked about chemistry with the passion of someone who truly loves what they do. He had seemed so quiet and closed before, but a closer look revealed that he was quite spunky. He lit up at the thought of seeing his girlfriend soon. And as usual it got my mind going. Though I enjoy my independence I do often miss that companionship. As my mind wandered I felt a certain reluctance, almost a fear, of settling down and opening up with another person. I have a hard time accepting myself for who I am, how could I possibly expect someone else to do so? In intense situations like this I feel like I am in a zone, and I feel like another person in this zone. I look at my unadorned face and I see a fierce raw beauty that radiates from inside. In this place I feel as if I have nothing to hide, nothing to fear. But I know that this zone will soon fade away, that life and the insecurities that come along with it will soon find me once more.

Soon the others caught up and I let my steps slow and fell behind to enjoy the calmness of the day. We walked through forests, the sky thick with trees, here and there opening into a sunny field. The mixture worked well, providing us with both shade and views.

I looked back over every decision I had made along the way. What impact each had ultimately had. As I walked among friends, people with whom I really connected, I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be. My heart was light and happy. No regrets. The day I had pushed myself too far and hurt my ankle was worth the pain, worth the limping because in the end it had carried me to them. This is really a lesson that I would like to carry off the path. Decisions made may have consequences but further on down the line they may turn out to be just the one I needed to make.

It’s so hard to follow your heart sometimes. My mind interferes and I confuse the desires of my heart with those of my head and all its misgivings. Or my heart may be fickle. But when you relax, let go, just move forward and let the Camino carry you onward you inevitably follow your heart without analyzing the whys, the whiches. By quieting the mind we can set the heart free.

DAY 9, Santiago 0k –Three-forty in the morning I awoke suddenly, alert and ready for the day. I was quite shocked to be awake before my alarm. Everyone had said we were crazy to want to start so early, but waking up before my alarm, just in time, seemed to be a good sign. I walked upstairs to wake Steve only to find him packed and ready to go. No doubt remained, this felt right.

Natalie and Byron appeared in the night and off we went. At 4 am it was a new Camino, a new scavenger hunt. The air was cool and fresh. The world was tranquil and silent. We soon left the cement and lights of the city. In the black night the true scavenger hunt began. The 2 of us with flashlights began searching the ground and trees for an arrow, a sign. As we entered the forest the tree tops, which provide such relief in the day, blocked the stars. We went along, stopping at ever clearing to throw back our heads and gaze up at the starry night. The Milky Way guiding us west.

The cement markers slowly counted down to the end of our journey. 18k, 17.5, 15.5… About 8 k in to the day the craving for food and coffee began to push us faster. We entered every sleeping village hoping to find an early riser. Behind us the sun began to set the world on fire. The mountains began to glow; the dark trees around us became silhouetted against the dark blue twilight.

Giving into the exhaustion of awaking so early we stopped for a rest. Lying upon one another in the road as the rest of the world continued dreaming. In true Camino spirit our friend came unexpectedly around the corner and lay with us. There we laid, all together, watching as the sun lit up the world. Lost in the serenity of the moment.

As we moved onward our slow leisurely pace allowed the rest of our group to catch up, and back amongst familiar company we moved slowly to our final destination.

As we approached the big city my phone came back to life and buzzed with the influx of lost messages. The beeping of messages and missed called pulled me reluctantly back to reality. Each step brought us closer to the end.

In the last kilometers Natalie shared her journey with me. She had learned that everyone walks a different Camino even though we are all going the same direction. That there are times to rush and times to slow down and enjoy.

I slowed my pace as we approached the big city of Santiago. Soon I was surrounded for the first time in so long by people rushing about, their lives completely unconnected to the Camino. Life seemed to speed up as the Camino carried us through the city. The sun was high in the sky; my back was full of sweat as I rounded the last corner. There it stood suddenly towering above me. The Cathedral de Santiago de la Compostela. It seemed so silly to have walked so far just to see a cathedral, but it had become more. Over the past nine months it had been a dream, a goal, to walk here with the power of my own two feet. And there I was standing before it. I had accomplished what I once thought was too great a challenge. My fellow companions, who had been walking for over a month, who had traversed Spain, dropped their bags and sat as they stared in amazement. Though the plaza was full of tourists, full of life, this moment was ours alone.

Friends made throughout the Camino ran from every corner to greet, embrace and congratulate. Though I had walked a mere 202k they embraced me as if I had been on the journey with them all along. And in the end we had all done our own Camino. We hugged one another with disbelief and teary eyes, all slightly shocked by the sudden end of it all.

We sat and stared at the cathedral in silence until the heat moved us onward. We walked into a building that felt more like the DMV than the grande finale to an epic Pilgrimage. There I received my final stamp and Compostela, recognition for the honorable completion of my journey.

As I walked alone around Santiago I digested the week. I had learned so much in the last week. I had discovered my own personal strength, I had learned to slow down, stop and admire the view. There are times to be alone and to reconnect with yourself, since the world is so often distracting. Yet just as important are the times to connect with others, to be with friends. Everything will work out as it should. There is always a sign. Life has a way of giving you what you need. Ask and you shall receive.

I had been craving a song over the past few days. A song a new friend had sung to me in Frankfurt, which was a rare song that I could never find on the internet. But I loved the song, it had stuck with me.

After spending one last night with my friends I hugged them and since there were no words for this final goodbye we wished each other a “buen camino”. As I walked back to my hostel with my last two friends I turned a corner and heard, of all things, my song being sung by a street performer. I paid him well, sat and sang along. My last bit of Camino magic. Though the physical Camino had ended, the true camino goes on and on. And it was time for the next step.

“Walk, rest, silence the heart, contemplate, explore, discover, rediscover, enjoy.”

Santiago