Laurie Sunderland – Page 8 – I-70 WEST AND BEYOND

My final wrap up for the Portuguese Camino and the whys behind the delay.

Clueless that we were totally lost and still with that day 2, filled with encouragement and anticipation glow. Our “losts” did take us to some good spots though…

This is not a good place to be walking….

This is a very good place to be walking!

I’ve been home from my Portuguese Camino adventure for a long time, close to 4 months, but have been slow in my final wrap up post, which I can’t dismiss with claims of being too busy or uninspired. Honestly, re-entries from big trips like the Camino, have become the hardest part of the journey for me and although my life returned to a normal quite a while ago, until I put my final thoughts into words, it feels like a little piece of me is still there. And therein lies my excuse. I guess I wasn’t quite ready to add the final period and close that chapter.

This post trip, slow re-entry behavior isn’t new for me, although recently I’ve started taking notice of it as there definitely seems to be a pattern going on here, starting after my volunteer trip to Perú in 2009. I realize that this is my wrap up post to a Portuguese trip, not a Peruvian one, but I feel like I’ve got to lay some ground work as to the beginnings of this odd re-entry pattern of mine. So, here goes….

When I got home from my time in Perú, I fell into the strange habit of getting up in the middle of the night, wandering into my closet, putting on a heavy sweater, then crawling back into my bed. I was in a dream-like state when I’d do this so was always surprised the next morning to see that once again, I had added unnecessary layers. It wasn’t because I was cold, but rather, I wasn’t hot enough. It was very hot when I was in Perú, and those who know me well, know that I don’t love the heat. So, in my nocturnal wanderings, I was trying to recreate what I had felt in Perú, at least as far as my physical body was concerned. This was the beginning of a pattern that has repeated itself with every big trip I’ve taken since, in one form or another.

My time in Perú was spent volunteering at a center for the poor and or abused elderly in a suburb outside of Lima. Many of the women I friended were originally from the mountainous regions of Perú, a much different climate from the coastal region where they now lived. Regardless that they were in a climate that often rose into the high 90’s in the summer, they continued to wear the clothing they had worn in the mountain climate, still, several decades later. That, and a genuine fear of being cold for health and cultural reasons, had them dressing in multiple layers of sweaters and something I certainly had never seen before, 2 or even 3 long, wool skirts. It’s just what they did and it became what I did as well, post trip. This odd behavior continued off and on for a few weeks and when it finally stopped, so did my dreams of being back in Perú. I was relieved and sad at the same time.

There were many other trips after Perú that had this kind of effect on me, but none as much as my trip to Greece to volunteer in a Syrian refugee camp last summer. Upon my return home, for several nights, I’d dream that I was in the camps, only not as a volunteer, but rather as a refugee. The same people I volunteered with were in my dreams, but they didn’t seem to know who I was and as they’d all leave at the end of the day, I’d try to explain to anyone who would listen to me that I was one of THEM and not a refugee. Of course in typical dream frustration, I had a difficult time speaking and when I finally would find the words, they were never in the right language. My psyche was working overtime and felt the need to tie up some loose ends with me before filing the experience away. For weeks, I would wake up in the middle of the night with my heart pounding and out of breath. The not being heard, or understood was very real. I was beginning to understanding a tiny bit of what the refugees were experiencing each and every day, by living out a small montage of it in my dreams. Those nights were difficult and long for me, but ended up being the punctuation point on my experience.

My past two times walking the Camino, brought me the same type of experience in my dreams after returning home, and this past fall after was no different. I would pace myself around parts of Portugal and Spain each and every night in my sleep, but never seemed to make any headway as I was either walking in circles or totally lost. I’d wake up exhausted. So although I had been home for a a few weeks, I had hardly closed the books on the trip, or at least in my dreams I hadn’t. It was a tiring re-entry. I think my psyche needs a vacation. Without me.

I’ve learned after my time on the Camino that it is a journey not only of the physical body, but of the heart and soul as well. The physical body takes the lead during the journey itself, and the heart and soul, though never far behind, are more of a 2nd act situation – continually making their presence known long after the boots are off and the packs are put away. It really is the journey that keeps on giving. That’s not to say that other travel experiences don’t stay with me and present themselves as a thought or a memory later on in time, but the Camino feels different for some reason. The miles logged will still present themselves when I’m finding myself in a struggle. They remind me of what I can do, whether on an emotional or physical level, and give me the confidence to trudge ahead. They became the metaphor to the bigger picture of my life, one step at a time.

I have to give credit to my physical body during that journey, who worked very hard and hung in there when my mental body was quietly chanting, “I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.” It walked on boardwalks, dirt, cobblestones ( a lot of that), tile, sand, more cobblestones, highway shoulders, grass and rocks. It wore sink-washed clothes that underwent a ritual of being washed every few nights, which seemed to give me more peace of mind than actual clean clothes. It put on not yet dry underwear under not clean pants because it was raining outside and the laundry hanging out the window didn’t fare well in those conditions nor did it dry when hanging off the pack with safety pins. It went weeks without washing its hair, wore the same socks for longer than I care to admit, drank water from a camelback mouthpiece that I realized weeks in had been dragging the ground every time I set it down, wherever that may be, and then was promptly picked up and put in my mouth to hydrate. It ate potato chips for dinner, peeled breading off of fish to eat the insides only (I’m gluten sensitive…yeah, try that in bread loving’ Spain and Portugal!) and went to bed hungry. Thank you, body. Thank you for keeping me whole.

Once again, one of the lessons learned on the Camino was that I have far more fuel in the tank than I even begin to tap into. I learned that last year on the Camino, and the year before but continually forgot it until at the end of a very long day when I didn’t feel like I could even make it up to the check in counter at the hotel. A quick shower and a legs up the wall recovery and I honestly would feel 100% ready to go and as if the last 8 hours had not been spent walking with 20 plus pounds on my back. Recovery is quick and truly amazing and thankfully, it’s not only the physical body that can show such resilience but the emotional body as well. Well done body team. Thank you.

We spent more time on this Camino being lost, but not in an “oh no, we’re lost….now what?” but rather in a “well I don’t think this is the right way, but that restaurant ahead looks like it has a nice view” kind of way. That’s not to say we didn’t have our frustrations. Day two was the most challenging of all of our Camino walks combined, much of it on a busy two-lane road with blind curves and a very narrow shoulder that was hemmed in by a knee high stone wall. That, thankfully, did not last long. We stopped at the first cafe we could find, tried to communicate about the route and what was ahead with the only customers there, who unfortunately all spoke Portuguese. Lucky for us, the one late to the table just happened to be French. Susan was able to get us sorted out in French, while in this small, Portuguese-speaking town because my Spanish wasn’t making any headway. Team work and some luck, just when we needed it. 10 minutes later we were in a cab on our way to our hotel. Thoughts of “are we cheating?” kept coming to mind, but as far as milage goes, we had already put in a full day of walking milage-wise, mostly in circles, mostly by 11:00 am. So no. There was no cheating involved that day.

When it’s your sisters you’re traveling with, you can be totally honest, whether that means fessing up to exhaustion rather than muscling through it and punctuating it with complaints of a pack that is too heavy. There’s no needing to compete to be the strongest, the most energetic or even the cleanest for that matter, because I was with my sisters and I could speak with pure honesty.

“My feet hurt, I’m exhausted, my pack is too heavy and oh, there’s something green in between your teeth.”

After 3 weeks of walking together, averaging around 8 hours a day, that open honesty was truly was a gift. “Oh and by the way that hunk of whatever it is in-between your teeth? It has been there all day.” Freeing. Easy. Sister-speak.

We rediscovered the odd phenomena of physical body time officially not starting until the sun comes up, which meant that if you walked 2 hours pre-dawn using the light of your headlamp to light the way, it was almost as if those 5 or 6 miles you covered were given to you without any physical effort. The body only seemed to start tuning into the miles once the sun was up and it could clearly see what was going on. I know. Crazy. It absolutely made no sense at all but it was a sure thing that Susan and I discovered last year during our longest days on the Camino. I also found this phenomena to translate into the road trip arena when my daughter, grandson and I made a road trip from Ft. Collins to Santa Fe. We left 2 hours pre-dawn and honestly, the tiredness, the hunger, the boredom, the are we almost there?, were magically postponed by at least two hours. Again, whether walking or driving, the efforts don’t seem to start tallying up until the sun comes up. Besides, there’s that wonderful perk of seeing a sunrise, something that every single time I see, I question why I don’t see it more often because seriously, it happens every, single day and is quite the gift.

The scenery was spectacular, the people warm and friendly and the time spent creating memories with both sisters, priceless. We each logged difficult days, fortunately none of them at the same time, giving us ample opportunity to rally around the weakest as needed. There can be two days of the exact same physical skill, but one day will beat you up and the other feels like a walk in the park. I’ve no explanation for that short of your mental state when the day begins.

There was plenty of time for pity parties and we each took our turn when we needed it. Mine was about mid-way through our journey on a long, hot day, a few miles outside of our destination town. I was tired, annoyed that we were still walking, and wanting my pack and boots OFF. Of course once you’ve hit that mind set, it’s very hard to claw your way out. Susan recognized the behavior and stopped and waited for me in front of a small store. As I caught up to her, she handed me a package of Lays potato chips. She knows. Sisters know.

Robin’s day came in a pharmacy trying to find a cure for a pretty bad sun rash she had started developing on the back of her legs. Robin tried to explain to the pharmacist what was going on and rather than struggle with descriptions and fight a language barrier, the pharmacist came around the counter to have a look. When Robin pulled her pant leg up, the pharmacist literally reeled back, took a breath to compose herself then went about the task of finding the proper ointment for the job. It’s possible that Susan and I re-enacted that reeling back motion a few more times than it was necessary. You catch the laughs when you can. They become vitally important. Susan had a toe issue about half way in that presented itself on one of our longest days. Given that we were on rural, remote path in the woods, there was literally nothing that could be done short of continuing to walk while offering up any words of encouragement we could scrounge together, including re-inactments of the pharmacist reeling at the sight of Robin’s leg. We were only as strong as our weakest link on any given day so it was always an all hands on deck in an attempt to scoop up the one who needed anything extra that we had.

Those many memories collected became woven into the tapestry that is my life; a tapestry whose pattern is not always predictable, or neat or tidy, or even always pleasing to the eye, but collectively these rows of tattered and wonderfully rich experiences are nothing but beautiful to me. I spent a lot of hours on the Camino, in my head, envisioning myself sitting in a large room with piles of different colors of yarn, weaving each and every travel experience into a tapestry, row by row. It’s a picture I think of often and with great comfort, knowing that each thread of a memory is woven into a greater fabric and not forgotten. As much as the feet were moving during our journey, the mind certainly did its share of wandering as well and long after my return home, I find myself recalling those imagined places such as the large room with the tapestry yarns, just as much as I recall the real ones.

Although I’m putting a period to this latest Camino experience, that’s not to say that I won’t still have a random moment when I’m taken back to a time and place so specific that for a moment it feels like I’m actually there. Back to a trail or a road or along the narrow shoulder of a busy highway, with two sisters walking ahead of me, and once again my heart will feel full and content. Until the next time…

Our arrival to the cathedral in Santiago was exciting but truly it was the journey, not the destination, that had the biggest impact.

Volunteering in the refugee camps – final thoughts.

Nearly one in 100 people have been pushed out of there homes due to political instability or war.

4.9 million Syrians, half of them children, have fled their country and are now refugees.

Greece has over 62 refugee camps, housing over 62,000 refugees in total. Although the media coverage on this has dwindled, the crisis is far from being over.

This seemed like an appropriate start to my wrap up blog post regarding my time spent volunteering in the refugee camps in Greece. And now for the more personal:

I’ve been home from Greece several days, and the question, “How was it?” is still a struggle for me. No matter how much thought or effort I put into finding the right words, they will never be sufficient. That being said, I’ll start with the easiest… the physical descriptions.

The camp at Oinofyta, where I spent most of my days, was housed in a large warehouse, which had been subdivided into small housing units (or rooms) that line long hallways, all connecting a main center hall. As far as the size of the rooms, I went into a few that had a double mattress on the floor that took up about half of the space. I’m assuming they were all of a similar size, with some of the larger families inhabiting two adjacent rooms. The hallways in front of the rooms were filled with miscellaneous items that wouldn’t fit inside, such as strollers, empty boxes, clothing, stray pieces of furniture, trash and of course a variety of shoes right in front of the door as shoes were never worn inside. In the mornings, I’d see women sweeping out their individual spaces and tidying them up, yet no one seemed to tend to the hallways, which were filthy. Most of the common walls had been painted, some by kids with colorful hearts and words of love and others by more skilled painters with poignant messages of both hope and hopelessness. The living units were numbered, in a somewhat logical order, starting with 1 and ending with 105, although 105 was a room I never found, hard as I tried, when I was doing community outreach for the eye screening. My wanderings up and down the hallways in search of rooms became my way of meeting the residents, who were always quick to help me out in my search (we were told to refer to the refugees as “residents” rather than refugees as it was much more positive). This was when I had some of my most memorable conversations and began to feel less and less like an outsider curiously peeking in. Although the children often couldn’t tell me how old they were (birthdays are not a day that is cerebrated in the Muslim culture) they never hesitated when I asked their room number, and could usually give me the room numbers of everyone with them as well. An outside flight of steps led to a bank of small bunk rooms, each housing 8 to 10, where the single men slept (ages ranging from 16 on up). I spoke with one man after embarrassing myself by waking him and all of his roommates up when I knocked on his door to let them know about the eye screenings and had to ask,

“How late do you guys sleep anyway???

He told me usually until early to mid afternoon. The reason being, they don’t go to bed until 6:00 or 7:00 in the morning because it’s quieter and cooler in the camp at night. There is very little for the men to do, especially the single men, so boredom and depression have become the norm. There are a handful of tents outside of the warehouse that housed the men who did not care to be around the children. Their tents looked pretty basic, like Army issue, but I was told that that was what they preferred. They pretty much kept to themselves.

Ritsona, where I also spent some time doing vision screening, is a camp of approximately 750 residents, who were originally housed in tents but now are all in ISO boxes, or mobile units. They are predominately Syrian and because that they fled a war torn country, they have full refugee status, which allows them to receive help from organizations such as UNICEF or the IRC (International Rescue Committee). Refugees are still coming into both camps and some are leaving to be re-settled in other parts of Europe, although the leaving is happening at a much slower rate.

The children seem to have free run of the camp and at a third of a total population of around 600 at Oinofyta, there are quite a few of them. Even kids who are still in diapers are seen wandering around by themselves, finding whatever they can to entertain themselves with. These kids were so independent and creative, out of necessity, that they could entertain themselves for hours with a piece of string if that was all they could find. On one of my last days at Oinofyta, 3 kids hung out with me and entertained themselves for an hour and a half by taking turns spinning each other around in an office chair. That simple. They were a laughing, sweating, shouting trio of joy who moved back and forth between Farsi and English (the English to include me) with unbelievable ease. Kids are kids are kids, sometime regardless of their past, their present or their very unsure future. I marveled at the simplicity, the imagination and the raw joy that these kids were able to indulge in on their own. No coaching, no supervision, no props necessary.

Having so little also led to a lot the kids “stealing,” which I’m putting in quotes to soften the word a bit. While I realize that stealing what is not yours is in no way excusable, I can certainly understand where their motivation comes from. Notepads, pens, sunglasses, water bottles and anything else that wasn’t nailed down was at risk of walking out of our space. It became a bit of a game for the kids and often they’d return the item shortly after it had walked out of the door, usually with a coy smile and a hug. The kids gave up everything they had to make the dangerous journey and that need to recoup belongings was ever present. While helping some of the volunteers out with a craft project at the summer camp, this really came into play for me. I had cut up bits of paper to be used to decorate signs and had placed them in piles in the center of a work table while waiting for the kids to join in. The first girl to the table immediate scooped up all the paper bits with her outstretched arms and pulled them towards her, carefully covering them to insure no one else would get any. When I told her she needed to share, she looked me straight in the eye and with an intensity that I hardly thought possibly from this tiny, sweet child, shouted, “NO SHARE!!!” And she meant it with every bit of her 3 feet of being. We solved the problem without tears or tantrums, and as frustrating as incidents like that were, they were also so easy to understand. Part of me wanted to remove the girl from the craft table, step in with some discipline, tell her to think about what she’s done and all that, and the other part of me wanted to give her more paper bits, my shirt, my shoes and whatever else she wanted. These kids have gone through situations that we can’t even begin to imagine, crossing countries on foot then getting into overly crowded boats to continue the dangerous journeys on water, with many of them having to throw all of their belongings overboard because the boat was sinking with weight. Keeping their entry in mind made frustrations as such seem very trivial.

These kids have no boundaries, no structure (short of the a few hours of school in the morning and afternoon camp sessions the volunteers provided) and very little to play with or occupy their time, yet I rarely heard the whining cries of boredom and “there’s nothing to do…” One of the regulars to the vision screening room was a 2 year-old who the residents called “moosha” or “mouse” in Farsi, which was an appropriate nickname for her as she was tiny and quick. She’d wander in, often with a cucumber or a big piece of fruit in hand that she was munching on, looking for something to do but even more so, looking for attention. My last day there, she wandered over to the computer, picked up the mouse and started pretending it was a telephone. She’d hold it to her ear and say “Hello??? Hello???” then would hand it off to me giggling, and I’d do the same. This went on for quite some time. She spoke Farsi and I don’t, but language wasn’t always necessary to communicate.

Now for the harder part on my “What was it like?” descriptions…

The emotions…

Getting to know some of the faces behind the stories that I had read so much about before hand, of dangerous crossings across countries on foot then across water in overly crowded boats, was humbling to say the least. Conditions in the countries that were fled (in Ritsona, primarily Syria and in Oinofyta, mostly Afghanistan), had to be so horrific that families were willing to put themselves and their family’s lives in incredible danger, only to end up in a psychological and legal state of limbo that has been going on for most for over a year – far longer than any had anticipated. Babies have been born in the camps (27 at Oinofyta to date) who are now walking and talking and are considered stateless – children with no country. Germany, a country that many of the refugees hope to immigrate to, does not automatically grant citizenship to those who were born in the camps, leaving these kids without citizenship to any country. There really was so much heartbreak and frustration that I felt like I became a gatekeeper to a sea of emotions, knowing that there was only so much I could take in for the sake of my own sanity. That process has continued for me, even after settling into my regular routine for the past several days.

These refugees are not statistics or headlines or political fodder, but rather, they are real people. They are the sad and hopeless eyes of the mothers who would hold their baby out to me with pride, wanting to know if I wanted to hold him/her. That was especially hard for me when one woman’s baby was the age of my grandson. They are the fathers, who made a point of proudly showing off their English to me with “hellos and how are you?” in English as I passed them in the hallway. They are the sticky hands of the children who would grab my hand, and walk along side me, always desperate for any attention they could get. They are the families, grasping onto whatever hope they can find while days become weeks, and weeks become months and now over a year has passed and still they wait. I was told by so many that they feel forgotten and unwanted. Those were times I was grateful to not speak their language as I had no words to give in response, whether Arabic, Farsi Urdu or English.

My first night back, I dreamt I was back at Oinofyta, only not as a volunteer, but rather, as a resident. The volunteers I had worked with for the past 2 weeks didn’t recognize me as part of their group, but instead thought I was a resident. I tried to explain to them who I was, but hard as I’d try, I wasn’t able to speak. I was without a voice and felt I had been forgotten. I woke up in a sweat, out of breath, my heart pounding. The same thing happened again on my 2nd night home, only I seemed to be more accepting of not having a voice, and spent much of my dream wandering up and down the hallways, trying to find the room where I belonged. I’m still struggling nightly in my dreams, which is a pattern with me that started the first time I volunteered in Perú, over 10 years ago. It seems to be part of my processing mechanism and although it does not allow for an easy re-entry, it has become a predictable part of my journey. I really don’t know what these refugees are going through on a daily basis emotionally, physically or spiritually, but for one brief moment during my sleeping hours, my psyche seemed to be trying to give me a small taste of what it feels like to feel totally forgotten and unheard. And for these past few nights, if only in my dreams, it has been terrifying.

Since I’ve been home, I feel like I’ve only been present as a physical shell, my emotional system still residing in Greece, not quite ready to join me. This re-entry seems especially difficult for me and maybe that’s the reason why it seems to be taking my heart so long to catch up to my physical body. We are not yet in sync and that’s ok, as this is a process that moves at its own pace, and for that, I’m patient.

It would be easy to paint this whole experience with a large brush of sadness, despair and hopelessness, but that wouldn’t be totally accurate. There was joy… on the faces of the children as several volunteers would make their way down the main hallway, led by a song and a guitar, to indicate that it was time for summer camp, Pied Pipper style. This was the highlight of each and every day at Oinofyta and one that makes me smile just thinking about it. The kids and parents as well, would come out of their rooms, smiling and clapping along with the song. Moments like those helped cushion the underlying pain of feeling forgotten and unwanted that has become so much a part of these people’s lives.

There is an NGO (non-government organization) that is involved in both Ritsona and Oinofyta camps called “I AM YOU.” I was so struck by that name and how appropriate it was. I AM you, and you ARE me and we have to be in this together for the sake of humanity. Another NGO, and the main one at Oinofyta, is called “Do Your Part.” And so I try. I know that what I do is only a drop in the ocean, but if that drop can send ripples out far enough to open up the heart and mind of even one person, than I’ve done something, not near enough, but something.

It will be a long time before I completely process the magnitude of this experience, but for now, as I work through it, those sweet innocent faces of the children and the pained faces of the adults come into focus for me nightly and have claimed a piece of my heart.

Eye checks, check.

Yesterday was good… my eye check partner, Tim, and I checked a dozen or so eyes yesterday of children ranging in age from 5 to 18. 2 failed. We had hoped to see a lot more kids but Mohamed said it may take a bit for this new program to catch on. He tried to drum up some “business” for us by going into the living quarters and knocking on doors. Many of the mothers simply said their kids eyes were fine. I’m sure vision problems are not first and foremost on their minds right now. But word eventually got out and we had a bit of a rush at the end of the day. I’m sure as the days go on and more and more find out about it, we’ll get the numbers of 30 screenings a day, which is our goal. Shae and Lynette are next door to us, doing the same thing, also seeing about 12 kids. There are over 300 in Ritsona and the hope is to get most of them screened in the next few weeks then the process will move on to the 18 and older crew.

The kids caught on quickly to the process, and we were surprised by how many of them had a grasp of English, though limited, enough to understand the directions the antimatter bear gave them on the computer software (the Arabic language didn’t seem to work so we were stuck with the English, which was just as well as we did have a handful that didn’t speak Arabic either. Only Kurdish, with limited English.

I think my biggest takeaway from the day came from watching the behavior of the boys, especially the 8, 9, 10 age group. They were extremely aggressive with one another – throwing rocks, fighting and circling each other in real animal stances to show dominance. I had tested two of them, who Mohamed referred to as the “baddest boys in the camp” and to say they were a handful would be quite an understatement. While I tested one, the other was running around the room, grabbing things, throwing them, taunting me with threats to push different computer buttons etc. I know boys will be boys, I had two at those ages so know the score, but this felt very different to me. They would go from charming, adorable boys to aggression so quickly. Eventually, they left to go join up others in their age group (where volunteers from our group would have the opportunity to corral them…) and two younger (five or six?) boys became the show for us. They would circle one another in acts of dominance then the rock throwing began (much of the ground is rock, much larger than gravel and just the right size it seemed for throwing). They would pick up a rock and reel their arm back as if to throw it at the other boy then slam it onto the ground, almost as if they had gotten caught once and were told never to throw rocks AT someone. When I mentioned it to Mohamed, he pointed to one of the little boys and said, “Him?” When I answered, “Yes,” he told me that only moments earlier he had seen that boy’s mom throw a rock at him out of desperation because he wouldn[t come when she called him. Kids learn.

So often throughout the day I had to circle my thought pattern back to the understanding of where these kids, and their parents, have come from and what they have been witness to. These are clearly acts of PTSD . The kids have few boundaries in the type of living situation they are in and seem to wander around the camp without any supervision (I watched two toddlers, pacifiers attached to their clothing, who were climbing on chairs with absolutely no one watching them). It is so hard not to place my own value system on their behavior, which keeps me in constant check of remembering the horrific violence these families have been through, especially the innocent children. They can’t unsee what they have seen or unfeel what they have felt and so such emotions are played out in the aggression I witnessed yesterday.

I skipped the group dinner in our “assigned” restaurant last night and had dinner with Lynette and Michelle, two sisters who I’ve really come to enjoy, and we talked about the aggression over dinner (while watching the sun set over the Aegean Sea – had to throw that in…). Michelle works with 5 to 8 year olds and said she saw a 5 or 6 year old boy constantly bullying one of the girls. This isn’t easy. I’ve got to remember the history of where these people have come from and don’t want to paint with too large of a brush here as this kind of behavior and those “baddest boys of camp” were definite the exception, and not the rule. The kids overall were a delight. They are beautiful with their big brown eyes, olive skin and black hair. In addition to our vision screening, we also did BMI scores (height and weight ratios) and many were underweight or very over weight, which no doubt could be attributed to poor nutrition.

I have found a nearby coffee shop and my morning routine is to walk there, get a latte, then walk along the boardwalk and watch the sunrise while I relax and contemplate the new day’s arrival. Although not quite the exercise I was getting before with my hour walk around the horseshoe-shaped sea walk, it comes much closer to giving me the gentle start to the day that I need.

I feel very safe here in Chalkida and really enjoy the pace of life here. It’s a nice oasis to return to every day.

Ritsona Camp – day one.

Today I felt like I entered a parallel universe… one I knew was there, but in reality, had no idea. I spent most of the day at Ritsona, the Syrian refugee camp, working with 3 other volunteers on honing our skills with a vision check computer program to test the 300 plus kid’s eyes at the camp beginning tomorrow. We then went to another camp about a half an hour away where we met up with the other 2 in the vision screening program and spent the last few hours sorting and cataloging hundreds of donated glasses (most from the 70’s I might add…). This camp, Oynofyta, is primarily refugees from Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iraq so the languages vary immensely, only adding to the language barrier. The camps are very different (I’ll likely spend a week in each) both in their size and set up. Ritsona is larger, 750 residents (it is suggested that we refer to the refugees as residents, not refugees as it’s far more positive…) who are housed in ISO boxes, or caravans as they refer to them. They look like a small trailer and are placed very close together, two or 3 of them sharing a small kitchen and bath. We aren’t allowed to go into their living area for privacy reasons so only saw them from a distance. The other camp has 500 or so residents who are housed in a large warehouse. Their living spaces are partitioned off by I believe heavy fabric with doors that aren’t much more than shower curtains. Given that they are all under one roof, in very tight quarters, I felt a much greater sense of community in my short time there, with kids running in and out of the room we were working in, desperate for our attention. They are, by the way, adorable, and more than anything, I wanted to scoop them up and just hold onto them as long as I could. Of course we are discouraged from that as some of the parents may object and they already have deep seated separation issues. Still, there were a couple of girls that just loved trying on the big-framed glasses while we laughed and played along with them. I’m not sure the language they spoke (several…as there is such a mixed bag of countries represented) but there is some English. One of the girls asked me if I was Greek and when I told her no, she said well you have clothes on like a Greek. I asked her where she was from and she quickly responded, “Sweeden!” With her olive skin, black hair and dark eyes, I hardly think she was from Sweeden, but my guess is that that is where they are hopeful to be processed.

Kids are kids, no matter where they are from and the experiences they have had, and it delighted me to see them being goofy, laughing and simply having fun. Some of the other volunteers who worked with the older children (mostly boys) did comment on aggression issues, which is not surprising given the tight living conditions they are in and the horrific violence that they have been witness to.

I found it hard to let my mind wander to the conditions the kids as well as their parents, came from, but it couln’t escape me and that’s when I became vulnerable to my own emotions. Overall though, it was a very good day and I feel ready to start testing eyes tomorrow! This is a huge project that CCS (the volunteer NGO I’m working with) has undertaken and we are the first ones to use this program. If it works, and if they can procure the necessary funds, this will be an ongoing and growing endeavor throughout the world. I’m so proud to be a part of it!

On a side note, my gluten restriction paid off today…. my gluten free lunch was forgotten and although I said no worries, I’ll eat fruit, Mohammed insisted he could do better and the two of us went to a small hut where a man fixed me the most amazing falafel with salad, no bread. I got to sit with the local men and Mohamed, on cushions and absorb it all. Truly, it was the best lunch I’ve had in a long time. I’m reminded at times like those who cultural anthropology spoke to me so much and why it was what I majored in in college. I hope they forget my lunch again today…. I’m onto something much better!

I’ve arrived…Chalkida, Greece. Home for the next 2 weeks.

After what seemed like days of travel – KC to Minneapolis to Paris to Athens then an hour drive to Chalkita I have arrived to my home for the next two weeks. It was a shot in the arm to see Mohammed at the airport (Mohammed was the director of the program in Rabat, Morocco, where I volunteered a few years ago). The woman who was seated next to me on the flight from Minneapolis to Paris asked me about my travel plans while we were exiting the plane. I told her and her eyes geared up. She was American but from Israel and was headed there to see her family. She praised my efforts, we said brief goodbyes, then were on our separate ways (we didn’t talk at all during the flight, so it was a rather quick “introduction”). She later caught up with me in the airport as I was finding my way to my next flight, and gave me a hug and wished me a safe journey. That was an encounter that will stay with me. Her gesture meant so much, especially as I’m entering a huge unknown here….

I’m staying in a small hotel a short block from the water. Chalkida is on an island just an hour away from Athens so is a popular vacation spot for the locals. I’ve not yet been to the camp where I’ll be working, but can already say that this spot will feel much like an oasis at the end of every work day.
Our room (I’m sharing with a woman from England), is small, but adequate, and “air conditioned”, although I do have to put that word in quotes. It’s hot, exceptionally hot for this area, I’m told, and after today’s projected high of 109, we are supposed to be in for some cooling tomorrow. 90 will never feel better. The camps are totally exposed, no trees, so it will be much worse.

There are 25 or so of us, all staying in the same hotel, most from the USA and a few from England. Today will be an orientation day – learning more about the camps as well as our job assignments.

I’ll have much more to day tomorrow, no doubt, but so far, I’m feeling content, happy and filled with anticipation….

They left, and I missed it.

Is that nest that’s nestled in the back of the wreath still a nest if it’s no longer in use? Or is it just sticks and grass?

The babies have left the nest, and I didn’t even see them leave, which makes me sad. And to add to the sadness, I don’t even recognize them any more. My baby robins, not my kids. And yes, I call them “my” baby robins because even though it was just a step stool pushed up to the door and a whole lot of observing while trying to stay hidden from a mother who was scared to death of me, for some reason, I feel like I’ve got some skin in the game and can claim some sort of accolade in their entrance into the world, if only for providing the Christmas wreath for the foundation of their nest.

My five baby robins were just days from their first flight, I’m just sure of it, as I saw them begin to flutter their wings while their mama shouted directions from a near by tree. How do I know that’s what she was doing? I don’t. I really have no idea. She could have been yelling at them to tidy up that pig’s sty of a nest or just fly already and start pitching in on the food gathering, but my instincts tell me otherwise. And I missed it. All that time peering into the nest, while watching them get bigger and stronger and begin to open and flutter their tiny wings and I missed it. I missed their very first short flight to the dogwood tree just feet away. Did they all make it? Did they take turns or did they all leave en mass? Was the first one to exit a show off or did he/she help convince the others that it was a good thing and to go for it? I actually even thought about delaying my trip by a day but snapped myself out of that bad idea as my trip was to be with my daughter who was days away from having her first child! Still, as I watched that morning, and saw fluttering wings, I hesitated, but quickly came around when visions of explaining to my daughter why I missed the birth of my first grandchild because of a nest of 5 robins in my Christmas wreath who were oh so close to their aeronautical debut. Yeah. I made the right decision. Now here I am, 5 weeks later, with a bird poop encrusted back door window, an empty and now rather disheveled nest perched in a Christmas wreath that is still hanging on my door at the end of May. I’ve learned that robins will often return to the same nest more than once, which may be part of the reason I’m hesitating. But a Christmas wreath on my door all summer?

The baby birds, the leaving the nest, the instructing mama, all seem so relatable to my own role as a mother. Granted, I was a front and center witness to all 3 of my kid’s exit from the nest, and most likely their driver to take them away, but once they landed in their own nests, I had to rely on faith and good measure that they knew what they were doing and would stay on the side of safe and secure since I was no longer privy to their comings and goings. Metaphorically, for their first 18 years of life, I stood on a stool and watched all 3 of my kids through the window of life as they began to spread their wings, and I knew, as their mother, when to reel them back into the comfort of the nest and when to give them a little push. Again, there was a whole lot of relying on faith and good measure, which I got pretty good at through the years. However, that was tested when my middle child came home from college for the first time and questioned why he needed a curfew because in reality I had no idea what time he came home when he was away and why would it all of a sudden make any difference now? Well played, son, well played, but I got you on a technicality that we never addressed before…. my house, my rules, which really means, I won’t totally go to sleep until I hear the garage door go up and know that you’re home. The hold on tight, let go, grab again while trying to loosen your grip part of parenting is hard – on the hands, on the heart, but we persevere. And although it gets easier with time, it is always a challenge because we watched those babies hatch, grow wings, spread them and fly, and proud as we are as parents for those accomplishments, we still have that urge to call them back to the nest. Birds, babies… I’m grouping them all together on this one. With 3 kids, living in 3 different spots, all at least a good day’s drive away or more, I’ve learned to set aside my worries (well, most of them) and let go as much as I can while trusting them and the decisions they’re making. They are, after all, all adults. Still, I’m their mom and just a tad bit of worrying seems to stick, no matter what.

While out working in my yard today, I saw more than one robin and realized that it was possible that I’m no longer able to distinguish the adults from the children. I’m guessing they grow up that quickly. So when I saw that first robin today and a big smile came to my face thinking about the babies in the nest and how far they had all come, I had to stop and rethink the situation. That could have been the mom or the dad or for Pete’s sake, even the uncle or maybe, just maybe, it was one of my 5 baby birds, all grown up and doing exactly what nature intended.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do with the nest, I mean wreath, and if I’ll leave it on the door with hopes that I’ll get to do this all over again with another generation of robins, or if I’ll take may chances with a new wreath next Christmas ( and a new one would be in order as this one is not “clean up-able” enough for saving purposes, but a small price to pay for the enjoyment it provided).

So, baby birds who likely look like adult birds by now and baby kids of mine who are tall and shave and drive cars and are having babies of their own and hardly look like babies either, you remind me, always, about the cycle of letting go and trusting. My child who just had a baby a little over a month ago, will soon begin to understand this and more relevance may begin to come into play when it comes to baby birds and nests and hovering and protective mamas. At one point, it will begin to not only make sense, but become eerily familiar…the continuous and cyclical nature of life, both beautiful and difficult at the same time.

In the meantime, I’m enjoying the many robins in my yard and am pretending to know who they are, or at least the ones I watched so intently from the step stool in my laundry room. If I could get them to make eye contact with me, maybe, just maybe, they’d recognize my face as the one that peered down on their nest, several times a day, through the window of my laundry room door, and whispered words of encouragement and bursts of “you can do it” when I saw the first wings begin to flutter and spread. This. This amazing miracle of nature and life, I have witnessed so often and whether with baby birds or my own children, it never, ever, gets old.

Yeah, the wreath is staying. I want them to remember where they came from.

Nesting. Birds and a baby.

My viewing perch and the place where I’m not doing laundry.

Some of my anticipation was relived last week with a birth… baby birds, not a baby boy, but as an involved observer, I feel like I’ve got enough skin in the game (my door, my wreath), to make the proud announcement. I’m not sure of the exact hatch date as I was out of town for a few days, but I left with eggs in the nest and came home to tiny, fuzzy-headed, baby robins. My bigger anticipation is still actively working on me in my dreams, my thoughts and with every baby from newborn to toddler that I’ve seen for the past few months (always wondering is that what my grandson will look like???) I’m anxiously awaiting while my subconscious seems to be working hard at finding ways for me to satisfy my strong need right now to align with my maternal side. The baby belly I want to rest my hands on right now to feel any kind of movement or simply to connect, is 677 miles away, so a robin with hatching eggs has come to my defense as a needed standby.

I found my family of robins while in the process of taking down my Christmas wreaths, 3 months past due, but this time my procrastination paid off. I was half way to the basement with one of the grapevine wreaths, when I realized that there was a small nest with 5 blue eggs tucked into the back side of the wreath. It was so perfectly formed that for a few seconds I wondered why in the world I would have attached a craft store piece to the back of my Christmas wreath. I’ve had some crafts go wrong situations, but this one made no sense whatsoever. Then it dawned on me… holy cow, it was real and I was the terrible person who was in the process of taking this beautifully constructed home and it’s five blue eggs down to my basement to shove it on an already full shelf of Christmas decorations. The mom, who I’m sure flew away in fear when I whisked her home off the door, had no doubt been tending to the eggs beforehand. With extreme caution and much regret, I carefully paced the wreath back to my laundry room door and rehung it, then waited in hiding, for the mom’s return. Thankfully she did return and I spent more time than I care to admit that day keeping watch over her and her growing family. The way the nest was positioned on the wreath, I could only see her tail feathers but that was enough of a sign to me that all was well and she hadn’t rejected the nest or the eggs because of the human contact. Every time she’d catch sight of me sneaking into my laundry room, it would send her flying away in fear, so I held off on doing any laundry, placed a step stool in front of the inside of the door and watched for eggs to become tiny heads peeking out, while she was out fetching food. I have spent a lot of time simply standing on the stool and looking at the back of the nest while witnessing what little I could, of this incredible miracle of nature. I think it has done my soul good.

During those nesting days, I also saw who I believed to be the dad (seriously, I have no idea how I came to that conclusion except for the fact that he looked rather proud as I’m guessing any soon to be new dad of some baby robins would be!) preening himself on a nearby rock. After watching mom, tirelessly tending to those delicate eggs, I felt involved enough in the situation to give my opinion and actually stopped my car while pulling out of my drive way, looked him eye to eye (kind of), shook my head and said,

“Seriously? Shouldn’t you be doing something to help??? She’s been sitting on those eggs for 12 days!”

This small mother robin has won my heart, taken a lot of my time and has provided me with an interesting outlet for the maternal part of me that is in desperate need of resting my hands on the expanding belly of the last person I birthed but haven’t been able to because of the miles that separate us.

As a little girl who didn’t really like to be read to, there is only one book that I clearly remember enjoying sitting though and that was “Horton Hatches the Egg.” Even as a little girl I knew that there was something very wrong with that Mazy the lazy bird’s need to be in Miami rather than in her nest, seated on her eggs. Maybe it is my love for that story (seriously, that Horton…he still makes me sigh…) that has drawn me to similar scenarios, with the opportunities to watch the incredible process of birds hatching from carefully guarded eggs then beginning their slow process of taking flight and finding their independence. I’ve watched while crouched under a kitchen window and now while standing on a stool and have always felt like there was some manipulation from the universe to give me such an “insider’s view” and with such impeccable timing. My last egg hatch was enjoyed with my daughter during graduation week of high school. It was so timely that the tiny cardinals took their first flights to the nearest tree on graduation day, under the close guidance of the father. We felt sad to see them go that morning but happy to see their return, shortly after we returned home from the graduation. Yep, the parents, mom especially, thought they were ready to fly the nest, but she was also ready to welcome them back. I understood. As a mom I had also taught my children how to use their wings but hoped even more so that they wouldn’t forget their roots. Nature, still, is my best teacher.

This robin, who sat over her eggs for 12 days became what I needed to see, to watch, to feel while my 37 weeks pregnant, 677 miles away, daughter is about to enter a time in her life and her heart that will change her forever. It is a role in life that has me looking at that mother robin and sees the maternal instinct that ties us together. I’ve been overwhelmed by watching her dedication to those 5 blue eggs that have now become 5 tiny fuzzy headed birds, only leaving them for minutes at a time to find food. My view is pretty lousy but when she is away from the nest, I stand on the stool and can peer into the nest and see a few tiny beaks open and can hear their cries for food. It feels primal and familiar at the same time as I remember those cries and my responsibility to feed my own babies, thankfully one at a time though and not a nest full. The timing of all of this is so auspicious, presenting itself to me at a time when I’m watching my own baby enter into the process of mothering. I can’t help but think back to those early mothering roles with the deepest of love and also a bit of sadness that those days are over and so quickly it seems, especially now that I see my youngest on the same journey. The maternal instinct to care for your young is so strong and watching the process of seeing this mother robin, so dedicated and fiercely protective of her nest of 5 eggs, now tiny birds, brought it all home to me, once again. Mothering is mothering, whether a bird or a human.

Newborn photos are never all that great…

All of this has put my maternal instincts into a tailspin, while giving way to some letting go at the same time. I’ll always be my daughter’s mom, but she will soon become a mom herself, and with that there will be a shifting in our roles. That patient robin, dedicated to her eggs, has become a timely metaphor of my own daughter and the way she’s cared for herself and the baby she is carrying. Thankfully, her baby’s father has not been off preening himself on a nearby rock, but rather has been with her every step of the journey. Thank you, Miles. You make the letting go for me a little bit easier. The best of everything is about to come for you both.

I could hear the squeeky cries from the tiny open beaks this morning while tiptoeing around in my laundry room. The mama was out searching for food so I spent some time on the stool looking down into the nest. The view is poor but I could see 3 beaks open and a pile of fuzzy little heads. Their journey out of the nest, starting with short trips to the nearby dogwood tree will be next (dad may step in for that one… kind of like the dad who takes the kid out for his first time behind the wheel, I’m guessing) followed by short flights around the yard and then they will be gone and eventually the wreath, nest free, will be stacked among the other Christmas decorations and I will regain complete access to my laundry room. I may miss their first flights as I’ll be with my own baby bird as she enters her journey into motherhood.

The circle of life. The handing over of the roles. The love. It just keeps growing.

El Camino. Final thoughts…

I had good intentions of writing a follow up Camino post shortly after I got home but the shortly turned into two months which has quickly grown into four. I could easily blame the holidays or the unpacking and resettling – oh wait, I only brought 9 things, or a host of other excuses for my delay in getting my Camino “in the books,” but in reality, I simply wasn’t ready to write or even share. Instead, I needed to go inward, and spend some time absorbing the experience. Years of anticipating this journey, which started for me with curiosity after reading Shirley Maclaine’s book on her Camino experience, gained momentum slowly. It was a thought that got tucked away and took several years to grow into a plan. When my sister, Susan, threw out suggestions of walking the Camino, I knew I had the universe working with me on this one. Within a year from that “hey, here’s an idea…,” our plans took shape and plane tickets were purchased and packs were packed. My Camino began long before I even laced up my boots or followed my first yellow arrow. This long entry of anticipation and well thought out planning and training gave me more skin in the game than I usually have when I travel, making the last few days of this incredible journey difficult and my transition back even more so. Re-entry was going to be a tough one. I had put so much of my heart and soul into this and wasn’t sure what I was going to with that space, that emotion, that huge amount of anticipation that the Camino had occupied for so long. My Camino journey, no surprise, has become the undisputed winner on difficult re-entries.

My reluctance to let go of the Camino once home appeared nightly for several weeks when my dreams took me straight to the Camino, and once again I would walk and walk and walk, while I pushed myself towards an elusive goal that kept moving just out of my sight. I struggled with finding my sense of familiar once home, after spending 35 nights, each one in a different town, a different room and in a different bed. The only constant was that my sister, Susan, was in the room with me. More than once after my arrival home, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and wouldn’t be able to find Susan. Fearing that she had already left for the Camino, I’d find myself wandering around in my dark bedroom in a panic while I searched for my boots and my pack so I could catch up to her.

My lessons learned on the Camino didn’t really present themselves until my boots are off and I was home and they were hardly the “aha!” that I had expected, but rather were gentle nudges and quiet whispers that seemed to present themselves unexpectedly yet exactly when I needed them the most. Case in point, when a few weeks ago I found myself in a fearful position of traveling through the mountains, at night, in a snow storm, all elements that scare me on their own, let alone together. I couldn’t find anything but static on the radio so began to spontaneously sing as a nervous reaction, the volume increasing with my fear. Add to this odd scenario, the very familiar song I was belting out was the alphabet song. It hadn’t been all that long ago when I last sang the familiar tune while I walked across a very tall bridge with water on one side and high way traffic on the other and a guard rail that came up to my knees, which was hardly reassuring. We were in our final days on the Camino and felt like by this time, added to our lifetimes, we had to know just about everything there was to know about each other. Well, unbeknownst to me, Susan has the same go to with the same tune when she is scared. Once safely landed on the other side of the bridge, she told me she was singing the exact same thing, from A to Z. While driving on that snow packed mountain road, in the dark with the snow coming down and my pre-schoolish singing of the alphabet, I was taken straight back to the Camino, straight back to the bridge and right there between L, M, N, O, P, I discovered one of the greatest gifts that the Camino had given me and that was that I was far more capable than I ever realized. That’s when “You’ve got this…” made its way into my alphabet song and my heart rate slowed a bit and I couldn’t help but smile. That. That one realization alone, was worth every step of the 500 mile journey and I know I’ve only begun to scratch the surface.

I met a woman from England at dinner one night a few weeks into the Camino, who told me that she was walking the Camino for the 3rd time. She had done it every other year for the past 6 years, but this time was her last. I had to ask her why she continued to walk the Camino when there were so many other walks she could do all over the world (by the way, I’d not ask this question today, as I’d know the answer and I’m guessing anyone who had walked the Camino would agree… it gets under your skin and I certainly understand that itch to return). Her answer surprised me. She said she wanted to do it perfectly this time. Really? Like the kind of perfect that you stretch more every day, drink more water, eat less bread, slow down and look at you surroundings, stop and talk to more people, wear cuter outfits kind of perfect? Naturally, I was curious as to how her 3rd endeavor was going so I asked and with a nonchalant shrug and sigh, she said,

“Oh pretty much like the last two times, but I’m loving every minute.”

This woman, who wanted to “get it perfect” this time, was a vision of perfection to me, while I sat across from her at dinner. She was in her late 60’s or early 70’s and was walking the Camino alone. She had a tattoo of a shell (one of the signs of the Camino) on the inside of her wrist, which I commented on, and she told me she got it after her first Camino and she wanted it in a place that she’d see it often. She told me that it made her smile, still, every time she looked at it. Is that not perfection? I’ve thought of her often, wondering if while back in England, if she’s started wondering if maybe she needs to go a 4th round. Maybe her need for Camino perfection is simply her wanting to return to something that just didn’t quite feel finished to her. That, I get. I also get that maybe there’s not supposed to be a finished when it comes to the Camino. I walked to the end, which was the cathedral in Santiago, but in many ways it was when I left Santiago that my real journey began. The Camino simply gave me more insight into the life map that I had in my hand all along.

Sharon, who I met along the way told me me that while on the vast expanse of the meseta, she spied a lone tree off in the distance and decided to make her way over to it to sit and enjoy a snack and well… the world. The meseta is a good place to enjoy the world as you can see so much of it right from where you’re standing, or sitting. It’s as barren as it is vast and hauntingly beautiful, but that may be the Kansas girl in me speaking… truly not everyone’s cup of tea. Funny, but I knew the exact tree that Sharon spoke of as we passed so few of them on that day of several while walking across the meseta, something you become very mindful of when you need to go to the bathroom, but that’s another story entirely. I remember hesitating a moment when that tree came into sight, also thinking it would make a nice place for a break, but my reluctance for adding any more miles to an already long day won out and I kept on walking, putting the lone shade tree behind me. I suppose if I was to go back to “get it perfect” the next time, I’d stop under that very tree and think of Sharon, while simply enjoying the scenery around me and the many gifts from the Camino. That, of course would mean I’d have to quit doing the making good time math, while figuring out my shower followed by beer eta’s. So yeah, woman from England whose name I forgot, in your quest to get it right the next time, I get it, but I also see the perfection in the imperfection of it all.

Maybe my struggles in writing this final Camino post are because although the boots are off and the pack has long been emptied and put aside, my Camino hardly feels like it’s over to me. I walked the Camino to its end in Santiago, Spain, but feel like I’ve just stepped into a beginning rather than an ending.

To be continued…

Our routine…

Our basic digs… not unlike our little twin beds we grew up with…

We’ve got this gig down pat, but it didn’t happen over night. For some reason or another, this was what I thought about while walking 25 km’s on the Camino today. I thought about how clumsy we were with packs and poles and packing and repacking and that without really being aware of it, one morning we woke up and we were spot on, in sync. Our morning routine, to get our walking gig going, has almost become a dance for the two of us. We’ve got it down. So, with only a few days left, I want to post our day and how it rolls. I feel like I may be a bit late to the game on this, but it’s what came to mind today so will roll with it…

Our mornings start at 6:00 or 6:15 on a “sleep in” day (a day with less than 24 km’s to walk). We know the shuffle of who to the bathroom first while the other is on their phone, checking to see what happened in the world while we were “gone” then we change places. Our laundry that was washed in the sink the night before with packets of shampoo or bar soap, because we no longer carry soap (I left it behind many towns ago on accident), is checked to see if it is dry, and it usually isn’t so is safety pinned onto our packs. It’s a good system, and I’d do the same thing again if the opportunity arises, but it’s not fail proof…. (I’ve lost 2 socks and a pair of underwear somewhere along the Camino). We lay out our “outfits” for the following day the night before, which isn’t all that difficult as we have 2 or 3 to choose from depending on weather, which basically has been the same every day, which has been absolutely perfect…chilly in the morning turning into warm, but not hot, and sunny by afternoon. For me the whole laying out the clothes is even easier, as I sleep in my “fresh and clean” outfit for the following day, with a bit of modifying to make my clothes seem more like jamies, i.e., taking the pants off, but other than that, I’m set. Susan, the more dignified of the two of us, has proper sleepwear, but I simply couldn’t be bothered by the extra ounce or two of weight. Besides, I’m so much more streamlined on my getting ready in the morning than she is, allowing me more time to write posts like this!

We have the packing and re-packing down pat, and can maneuver through that whole process in a matter of minutes before doing our final final on the room, which means Susan reminding me to look under the bed, in the bathroom, under the bedspread and so forth. I’m lousy at this. Case in point, I’ve left behind a watch, a night retainer, a night guard and some lotion. Seems to be my thing that if I’m going to lose stuff, I pick the expensive stuff, with the exception of the lotion.

After the check, double check on the room, we make our way down to the hotel restaurant (and with some, but not all, of the posada/hostel/albergue places we’ve stayed, I have to use the restaurant word generously, just to keep this a bit more “real”…. it is more like a bar that serves coffee and maybe someone in the back will bring out a tray of toast). Our hopes, enthusiasm and anticipation of a proper meal showing up started waning at about day 4. We have now gotten real and usually try to buy yogurts and a banana the night before and share a plastic spoon that we got 2 weeks ago to eat the now warm yogurt, which sadly broke this morning. It’s not ideal or even kind of good, but it is something our bodies need far more than 14 pieces of toast, which is actually a true and sad story. We don’t complain about the coffee, however, and have grown to love Spain’s cafe con leche… our basic of basic morning fuel.

Because we start so early, we usually walk in the dark for the first two hours, using our head lamps to light the way. It always feels far earlier than it is, (7:00ish) as the streets are vacant and all is so dark. It doesn’t start getting light until 8:30 or so and who knows when people start coming out of their houses given the weird schedule of the Spaniards!

The layers of clothing come off one by one, quicker if we leave with an uphill exit, slower if it’s on even terrain, and we both seem to know exactly the time to shed first the outer down jacket, then the over shirt and for me, switching the fleece hat out for the bandana then eventually for the hat, when the sun becomes strong. We passed some “newbies” to the Camino the other day, who had started in the city we had just left, and they were continually taking off the jackets, putting them back on, taking them off again and so on and so forth. Susan looked at me, shook her head and said, “Rookies.” We know the timing on this, through trial and error, and don’t waste a minute with unnecessary removal or adding onto.

Our routine is to stop at the first bar (cafe) that we come upon, but not before at least an hour or so of waking. This is not always a given, especially during our time on the meseta, when we had to walk 4 hours for that first cup of coffee as the hostel didn’t serve breakfast until 8 and we were long on the road by then. We have a little more hope of finding “real” food at our “second breakfast” and often will have an egg sandwich or a tortilla con potatatas (potato egg dish), but lately we are so tired of both of those that we will get our cafe con leches and will dig through our packs and snack on crackers, cheese, fruit, bits of candy bars and whatever else we have leftover from what we bought the night before. The theme here is, we are hungry!!! We spend a good deal of our day either talking about food or in search of it, neither of which is very satisfying. The pilgrim dinners, that are served earlier than their usual 10:00 starts for dinner, are basic, predictible and pretty boring… a piece of chicken or pork and french fries with a glass of red wine and yogurt or flan for dessert. It will do, but is never much to look forward to after walking 5 or 6 hours when we are famished. We do like the beer though, and the wine, provided we spring for a decent bottle (less than 5 euros). IF there is a bar that we pass, early to mid afternoon, we will stop for lunch, but if not, we finish off the food in the packs and improvise. Three times, we have been lucky enough to find lentil soup for lunch, a rarity among sandwich-heavy menus, and an absolute delight given the very heavy bread diet here in Spain. It made such a happy impact on us that I can clearly remember each of the bars where we had it!

14 pieces of toast kind of seems like a lot… but they love their toast here!

We usually arrive in our town around 3:00, then there is the whole ordeal of finding the hotel/hostel/posada/albergue. There is such a relief of “Oh we’re finally here!”…. but if the town is “big,” we could have another few kilometers to walk to to actually get to our place. This is when the feet and the knees and the back all sing in unison and it’s not a pretty song. There’s a lot of anticipation as to what kind of town we will be in… what it will look like, feel like, and would it be a place I’d return to. I really do enjoy that part. We’ve been pleasantly surprised far more than disappointed in the towns we’ve stayed in. We both have come to love the smaller, quainter villages (less than 100 people, far more than the larger towns.

We find our room, dump our packs, boots off and legs up the wall on our respective beds. When enough time has passed, 10 minutes or so, we take turns with the shower and wash underwear and socks in the sink with whatever is available (thank goodness for packets of body gel get as few places have bars of soap). After scrounging for any remainding crumbs of ANYTHING in our packs, and with our “clean” clothes on (and I use that word generously), we make our walk through town to see exactly where it is that we’ve “landed”, find a grocery store to replenish our pack food then find a place, preferably outside and in the sun, for a beer, and simply to enjoy the moment. We find what we can for dinner, which is not usually memorable or really even good, but we are hungry and our bodies need the fuel.

We usually head back to our room shortly after our dinner, finish up on emailing, social media etc. and lights out by 9:30, simply because we are exhausted. By morning, we both feel ready to do it all over again.

We’ve got this down pat. It will be a big adjustment both physically and emotionally for the both of us when this comes to an end. Right here, right now, I can positively say that I’m not near ready. We’ve got 4 more days of walking though so will have time to ease into it a bit.

I can’t end this post without saying what we say to so many others and what is said to us countless times each and every day and what has come to mean so much to me….”Buen Camino.” And it is.

Facing my fears…

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I have a fear of birds…maybe even an irrational one, that somewhat parallels the fear I have of rodents. Maybe my fear of birds should be greater (or less??) as they will eat the mice, but so much for keeping things even. I fear them both. Not that long ago I was playing the game with my sisters of “What would you do and for how much?” That’s not the official name of the game, as I don’t think there is one, but that pretty much sums it up. The question posed in that particular game was… “How much money would it take for you to spend the night in a small car (think Prius or smaller) with a raven?” I didn’t have to think long on this….

“Minimum to even begin to think about it…$100,000”

“Final answer?”

“Yes.”

When I asked one of my kids this, their first response was,

“Can I kill the bird?”

“Kill the bird????? Are you SERIOUS??? I don’t even want to touch it!!!”

“Mom, calm down. We’re just trying to assess to game rules…”

So, this is how I preface my blog post. I’m afraid of birds…

Today, while making our way to Rabanal del Camino from Astorga, our last few km’s was a rambling hike through the woods, a scene very familiar to the both Susan and me given our love of hiking. Not long into the trail, we came upon a falconeer, in a small tent, trail side, and dressed like a character from Camelot, complete with a big falcon (I need some assistance on this one…. falcon is the only word I can come up with… I can’t be specific on a type here..). He was collecting donations for an organization that provides funds for children with cancer and for a monetary donation of your choice, you could hold his beautiful creature. I immediately said, “NO.” Upon hearing that, he began to push me a bit to the point that I was beginning to feel somewhat defensive so began to walk away. I’ve got to say that he was a very kind man, and all thoughts of “pushing” were coming from my perceptions, not the reality of the situation, especially given the fact that my defenses were up and fear was temporarily during the car. After a few steps, I hesitated, then turned around and meekly said, “OK. I’ll do it.” Granted, I was still terrified, but felt the need to push myself. I had to see this as an opportunity that had presented itself in the most unlikely of circumstances and on the Camino, no less….seeing it for the gift that it truly was.

So, I put the glove on and he set “Julia” on my hand. I’ve got to admit that feelings of terror, quickly melted into, “I’m doing this! I’m holding a big bird!!” This all fell into place nicely with what I’ve been going through for the past 2 weeks on the Camino…. pushing my edges, finding my fear, walking into it and realizing that I’m not going to die or drown or be attacked by a big bird, but rather come out of the situation just a little bit more strengths than what I had entered into it with. The more those thoughts sunk in, while holding the very large bird on my gloved hand, the more comfortable I felt. The falconeer sensed that and in a joking gesture and with an exaggerated wink, said he was just going to walk away and have a break for a bit and would be right back. I smiled but gritted my teeth and of course he understood, smiled and retrieved Julia from my outstretched hand.

After the falcon had been returned and the glove removed, he gestured me back to his table and asked me if English was my language of “choice.” When I said yes, he showed me a paper with a sentence typed in several different languages that in English read,

“If you want to see the most beautiful thing in the world, look here…”

Next to the paper was a closed box. He then motioned for me to open the box. I opened it and not all that surprised me, found a mirror. “Oh, a mirror….nice…”

To which he answered, “No, not a mirror at all. It is YOU. It is you.”

He said he only does this with women as he’s tried it before with men and they either make fun of it or will look at the mirror and comment on the sky or the trees or the people in the background, rather than the person looking back at them.

This was a gift today. Truly a gift. I faced my fears, then looked at them in the mirror and lo and behold, the person looking back at me looked just a tiny bit stronger than the one I saw earlier that morning… the one who was anticipating a new day with new experiences and a journey to a new place, but in reality had no idea.