How Did It End?

Well, that was an anticlimactic ending to a blog, wasn’t it?

The last I wrote, I had just glimpsed the Pyrenees and was joyfully happy that the flat forest of Les Landes was behind me.  A couple of days after that I arrived in St. Jean Pied-de-Port to an overwhelming amount of pilgrims and tourists, and the start of a new kind of adventure, abruptly transitioning from a solitary journey to a shared one.

I’d like to say walking the Camino Frances exceeded my expectations, but it didn’t.  I enjoyed it, I met wonderful people, I sighed dreamily over the Spanish landscape; but I had already experienced months of beauty and tranquility, without the Pilgrim-littered trash behind every bush.  My meditative days were over, and I was just another in the crowd.  A different journey, a nice one, but different.

The reason I didn’t update my blog again wasn’t because I had nothing to write, but because I was having back problems and I sent my netbook home to La Coruña.  Without my tent, sleeping pad, and netbook life became much easier, although my sciatica left me struggling through Spain for the rest of the month.  (Even now, I cannot get back to running because my back is too messed up).

As for the month of September, most of that I’ll keep private.  I love writing about my travels, but keeping some things only for me is nice as well.

I hope you enjoyed reading something about my adventure, and I hope that it showed some hesitant travelers that crazy-sounding ideas really aren’t that crazy at all.  Doing something outside the box brings great rewards.  Sleeping in a tent every night should be seen as a blessing, not a struggle.  Sometimes all you need to be happy are some good walking shoes and a block of cheddar cheese (my main food source in England).  That cool things happen when you walk for a long time alone, like someone picking you up on a motorcycle to give you a private chateau tour.

In closing, I want to thank everyone who donated to the Trailblazer Foundation.  Traveling is an integral part of my life, and my happiness, and it means a lot to me to be able to give back to a place which I have traveled through.  I hope by donating you also felt connected to the world, wherever you may be reading from.  We are all a lot closer than you think.

August 20: Flat and Straight

I went to Bordeaux, and here is what I saw!  I wandered around and around and finally headed on to Cardingan.

 

Since Bordeaux I have taken two photos.  One is this one:

Almost there, right?

I haven’t taken photos honestly because there really isn’t anything to show you.  I could pick out some details of the refuges or campsites I’ve stayed in, or take a photo of the long, straight, flat road through plantations of rows and rows of pine trees, but in the heat of southwest France, reaching for my camera is too sweaty an endeavor.

Having nothing to take a photo of doesn’t make it an unworthy place though.  A lot of us, myself included, are always looking for the next thing to photograph, especially now that every man, woman, and child has a camera phone.

I’ll remember this section of Camino as the Meditative Phase.  With hours of flat, straight walking my mind enters an almost trancelike place.  It’s a very relaxing place.  Some people may only see boredom.  I never really feel bored though.  I feel hot and tired, but not bored.  I think after days and days of walking my mind very easily falls into a tranquil state, where I forget about walking and start working out problems that I’ve been thinking about, or things I never knew was a problem in the first place.  Memories from long ago, and that I haven’t thought about since, pop into my head.  It’s like my mind is searching for something to occupy all this time, and so it sends me memories to amuse myself with.  I also talk to myself a lot, admittedly, not usually in full voice, but in mouthed whispers, so if you see me I probably very much look crazy.  And then when I need a little bit of energy I sing loudly to the trees.  It’s hard to sing and walk with a big pack on, so sometimes I just stop so I can sing a verse or two, and then I move on.  In a week I’ll be in St. Jean Pied-de-Port, with many, many other pilgrims, so I should sing now while I have the chance.

 

 

 

 

 

August 16: Wine Country and a Chateau Detour

Vineyards are now in site, acres and acres of them.  Much of the Camino has been through the fields, which are mercilessly free of shade.  The southwest of France is getting hotter and hotter, and I will soon have to do something that is very hard for me, which is get up earlier.  I am already getting up by 6:30 every day, (and my earliest waking was a record 4:15), but it takes me about an hour to get packed up, especially if I’m camping.  By 7:30 or 8:00 the sun is already up, and the temperature is already rising.  If I was wise I’d start walking by 6.  I’m not that wise.

Vineyards in all directions

Last night I camped in Blaye, in the coolest campsite I have seen yet.  It was a hot, long day of 35 km, and I had just powered through the last two hours at a brisk 3 miles per hour.  I arrived into a shuttered town, searching for the campsite sign, which I found eventually.  It pointed towards the citadelle.

One of the entrances to the citadelle

The citadel in Blaye is a fully intact walled fort, with a beautiful view of the sun setting over the Gironde estuary, and a small “medieval”, pedestrian-only village inside.  Through the fort walls is also the entrance to the campground, and I was enthralled at the idea that the city of Blaye was forward-thinking enough to designate part of the citadel as the municipal campground, instead of renting it out to a more commercialized campsite.  My night there was an affordable 5.50 euros.    Since it is literally surrounded by a moat, it was completely free from traffic noise-pollution, though not so much by my neighbor’s crying child.

Citadelle Entrance

The camping office– literally inside an old fort

Another eventful thing that happened in Blaye was that I ate a whole pizza.  I don’t usually eat at restaurants, but I decided that that night was a pizza kind of night,  and I walked around until I found a pizza place, and even had to wait an hour and a half for the restaurant to open, but I HAD PIZZA!!.  And I was the first one sitting down at a table, until the entire patio was full.  Then I was a little self-conscious about all the people watching me eat a table-sized pizza alone.  Eh, who cares.  Pizza is amazing.

Then this morning, somehow to my surprise, (my guide book finished in Mirambau, that’s how), I got to take a boat!  In order to cross the estuary, that is. It was fun.

Here’s a photo of me, alone in the “Grand Salon” of the ferry, if you’re wondering what I look like these days.

Then I walked through woods and the vineyards.  The sun was particularly scorching when a man on a motorcycle drove by one of the gravel vineyard paths.  A little while later he came back the other way and stopped besides me to chat.  We had the usually Pilgrim-Curious person conversation, and I asked if he lived there in the little house up the path, and he said no, he was at the chateau a couple of kilometers away, and would I like to go visit the chateau?  And, yeah, since I always say yes, I said yes.  Of course.

So I awkwardly climbed on the back of his BMW, and the three of us (him, me, and my pack “Pit Stains”) rode off to Chateau Lascombes, in the village of Margaux.

Now jealously view my private trip to a chateau, in which I drank a beer and pretended I was rich, and my private tour of the wine cellars. (I even saw the four remaining bottles of an 1881 vintage.  It sounds cool, but I don’t know how I’d feel drinking something that old).

Chateau Lascombes

wine cellars!

So, thanks Dominique, for the chateau visit!

Unfortunately, the day was far from over, and I still had to make it to Le Bouscat, on the outskirts of Bordeaux.  Thankfully, the refuge “housekeeper” was there when I arrived, (after a happy English speaker on a bike stopped for a chat and gave me directions), and took me in like a mother hen nursing her tired and heat-stroking chick.  Seriously though, the volunteers at these halte jacquaires are saintes.  Not a lot of pilgrims pass through this route, but the refuges have been so nice and welcoming.

Anyway, she gave me the advice, and pretty much made me swear that I’d follow it, to take my time tomorrow, and SEE Bordeaux.  She very much emphasized that I was to wander around Bordeaux happily, eat breakfast in the city center, take in all the sights, and then leisurely make my way to the next refuge, a measley 17 km away.  That’s fine with me.  Bordeaux is supposed to be beautiful, so tomorrow I will unleash the tourist side.  Bon Nuit!

August 12: Cool Things About Saintes

Well Saintes sure was a sight for sore feet!  Just shy of 36 kilometers walked today, but I’ve been worse.  Across from the Tourism Office is the Arc d’Triumph, a long river park, and an arching pedestrian bridge, with the top of St. Pierre’s Cathedral peaking out across the river.  So, well done for good first impressions.

Another thing I like is the refuge des pelerins which is actually connected to the church of St. Eutrope in a little annex.  It’s a tiny cupboard sized room with 3 bunk beds, and all of them are full!  6 pilgrims at once!  That’s more than I can get my head around.  Four are going off in another direction tomorrow and the other one is Cyprien, who I’ve caught up with.  I’m still the only one who doesn’t speak French.  The host of the refuge welcomed me literally with open arms, pulling me into the little room and sitting me down at the kitchen table.  She then brought me a vase of cold water and some mint syrup, a mix which is very popular here.  She was such a wonderful warm soul at the end of a long day, I absolutely fell in love with her, as I’m sure many a weary pilgrim have.

Another thing I like about Saintes:  When I was walking to the boulangerie to pick up my daily pain au chocolat, I passed an open door with a sign “CRYPT”.  Well I’m not one to turn down a crypt!  My day just got suddenly much better!  The last time I was in a crypt, in Dublin, I got to touch a mummified finger, so this one had some competition for Best Crypt.  Oh, and it wins the prize.  First of all, this crypt is so cool, that it literally is cool.  Upon entering I felt an icy draft coming out of the doorway.  Spooky.  Two people exited as I entered, and then I had the place to myself.  It was dark with high arches and air so chilly it gave me goosebumps (or maybe that was the ghosts).  Seriously, it was a different climate down there.  It’s a crypt so cool, it creates its own weather.  Candles flickered with orange light and a tomb dominated the middle of the crypt, a macabre centerpiece.  It was right out of Phantom of the Opera. 

Another cool thing is that Saintes has a Roman amphitheater.  But since I’m a cheapskate, I refused to pay 3 euros to go inside, and was satisfied with the view outside the fence. 

And a final good thing that happened in Saintes, was the nice lady at the boulangerie who let me hmm and hah over what I wanted to eat, and asked my silly questions and made suggestions, and didn’t laugh at my “French”.  People make good days better, don’t they?

Bon nuit!

August 7: Keeping Company

Cyprien and I were the only ones in the Refuge Jacquaire last night in Lusingan, which was a big, airy upstairs apartment in one of the historic buildings next to the tourism office, overlooking acres of woodland from the old city’s perch on an abrupt little hill.  The refuge had two bedrooms with bunk beds, a bathroom with a toilet, a giant living room with two more beds, and a kitchen, where past pilgrims had left ice cream in the freezer.  Cyprien brought me a beer from the store and retired with his to the bathtub.

Walking with Cyprien wasn’t bad, but after 17 miles that day my French had already been stretched to its limit.  I did learn to say “Do you want to go see it?” as well as “There’s a pebble in my shoe.”  Upon my request we had stopped once for café au lait and pain au chocolat in a local bar, where I asked if it is normal for men to be drinking port wine at 10 in the morning.  Apparently it is.  Later we stopped for a picnic lunch in a cemetery, after which I napped on a bench and he on top of someone’s tomb, until a dark storm cloud caught up to us and we walked for the last hour in heavy rain and thunder.

I feel bad that I can’t offer him some more substantial company.  Even if I did speak French, I can feel myself wanting to be alone again.  The thing about walking with a 65 year old man, is that I think there is no avoiding his wanting to assume the role of taking care of me.  For a day it’s fine.  But soon I need to take care of myself again.

Ironically, it might even be harder to learn French with him around.  To my great consternation, now when someone starts asking me questions, he immediately interrupts them to tell them that I don’t speak French, I’m American, and this that and the other thing.  What I really want though, is to embarrass myself trying to speak French, because I firmly believe I learn the most when I embarrass myself.

It’s all well-meaning, and I do like the guy immensely.   Today he called ahead to the town hall (la mairie) in Chenay, which was closed for vacation, but the answering machine gave him the number of some woman, who met us in town in the afternoon.  She gave us the key to the rec hall where we could sleep inside for free.  I chose to camp outside in the yard though because I missed my tent.  She also gave us the key to the church to go take a look around.  Everything else in Chenay is closed, so there was nothing to distract me from taking a hard two hour nap.

August 3: A Campground, a Hotel, and a Police Compound

Still in France!  Here’s a recap:

After the first day of getting lost and then found, the next day was an exhausting 24 miles or so, what with all the looking for places to stay and all.  My guide book said there was a campground in Sainte-Catherine-de-Ferbois, what it did not say was that it was 44 euros.  So I psyched myself up for a little bit more walking on an extremely hot day, and stumbled into Sainte-Maure-de-Touraine, a big town with no visible campsite.  By this time my brain had entered the “fried zone” and I was no longer a human being.  I saw a sign for camping but abandoned the route after walking for a while and seeing that the road continued into a bungle of highway.  

I turned back into town, thinking maybe if I stopped by the church someone there would take pity on me and point me to a cheap chambre d’hote.  There was nowhere there.  I took a few meditative moments, and went back to find a hotel.  Not a regular thing for me, checking into a hotel room is a very exciting moment.

I decided on the Cheval Blanc, because while it’s neon sign probably knocked it down a price notch from the fancier hotel in town, the restaurant still looked nice.  And it had some character.  Which was proven by my room, painted a bright mint green over what have would have been the original, rustic wood.  

I used all my French on the receptionist, and then went down to the restaurant and used some more on the waitress, who bless her soul, was kind to me despite my mangling of her language, and with a pitying smile nodded and took away the menus.  

So now I was staying in a hotel, AND I was eating in a real restaurant.  This is life at it’s finest.  I’m also not sure I’d done this since Cambodia, where a room was $20 which I split with my friend Heather (with aircon and a pool!), and the food was so good and cheap I usually ordered two meals at once.  

The next day was the hottest day yet, and the hottest day for France this summer, I have been told.  Walking through acres and acres of sunflower fields is beautiful, but it doesn’t make a lot of shade.  I stumbled into a peaceful campground in Les Ormes, practically falling across the reception desk, gesticulating wildly about how hot and terrible it was outside.  Concerned, the receptionist brought me some water, and later, a chair.  I couldn’t think straight and I just ended up laughing madly over everything, which made her laugh, again, pitifully.  

Because I’m camping, splitting the Via Turonensis into sections is a little difficult, since it makes for awkward days: if I don’t want to walk 21 miles to the next campground, then the only option is to walk only 6, for instance.  Yesterday, I decided to make it a long day, and just push through to a campsite a few miles outside of Chatellerault.  The day wasn’t too eventful, but long, and my feet are no longer my own, but some devil feet always in pain and having been transplanted onto me without my knowledge.  So I stopped for a well-deserved beer in a town a kilometer of the trail, Ingrandes.  Thankfully, as most towns are “shut” for the month of August, there was a friendly bar right outside the beautiful church, and I took my time airing my feet out and sipping a Leffe.  

Down the trail about an hour, when I had just reached the northern industrial area of Chatellerault, a car pulled up and clearly the driver wanted to talk.  As it turns out, he was a guy I had seen at the bar in Ingrandes (who I thought smiled a little too enthusiastically) and he had been wondering if I was a pilgrim.  Indeed, I told him.   After about 20 minutes of terrible French and terrible English flying back and forth, he said he lived in Chatellault, in a police compound (he was in the gendarmerie) and that I could crash there if I wanted to.  Of course I said yes.  

So thank you to Frederic and his French bulldog Elliot for hosting me!  He even gave me a juice box in the morning.  Kind people.  

Now I’m in Dissay, in a campsite of course, and while sleeping in real beds with clean sheets is nice from time to time, I must say I always feel glad to be back in my tent.  You may not believe me, but it’s the best sleep I’ve ever gotten.  

July 29: Oui, Oui!

Not a moment too soon, I have arrived in France.  It may sound weird to you, but I feel like I’m traveling again.  I had never stopped travelling—technically—but it felt like I had.  England was feeling all too familiar, and without a concrete destination to walk towards, I was lacking purpose.  Not to mention the last few days which I’ve spent “resting”, which is really hard to do, because it feels more like wasting time than resting.  I did do some things:  I saw two movies (Despicable Me 2 and The Wolverine; I have now met my yearly movie theater quota.  By the way, I loved them both.  I’d like to say that each speaks to a different side of my personality…)  I got a haircut.  Now I don’t have that “matted” look anymore, as the hairdresser termed it; and I went to Bath for a couple of days.

Visiting the Roman baths was worth the long bus ride—it was by far the best museum/ interactive exhibit I’ve been to.

It also made me miss living in the “hot springs neighborhood” of Busan, (which is how my old neighborhood, Oncheonjang, would be directly translated to.  Living in a spa neighborhood made the bitter Korean winters much more bearable, as in my third year I pretty much shunned my shower during the winter and did all my bathing in the bathhouse.  And if you’ve never been in a Korean or Japanese bathhouse before, learning to be comfortable bathing naked with a bunch of other women is one of the best experiences I’ve ever had.)

Back to France.  After Bath I needed to go back to Poole to catch the ferry to St. Malo in the morning.  I wonderful couchsurfer, Tom, pulled through for me, and although he couldn’t host me, he passed me off to another wonderful family who had just recently decided to start hosting.  After a little chit-chat in their orange dining room, Daisey led me back to the “shed” where there was a comfy bed, and I fell fast asleep.  Too soon it was time to wake up, and they drove me to the doorstep of the ferry terminal, which I am so grateful for, since that saved me an early morning bus journey.  The beauty of couchsurfing.

The ferry wasn’t as long as I thought it would be, only 5 hours total, but my ticket said 9 hours which had me believing that I was going to do a lot of reading that day.  Then I was informed that we’d be stopping in Guernsey for 4 hours, and yes, that was the first I’d heard of Guernsey.  I’m embarrassed to say I wasn’t quite sure upon disembarking whether Guernsey was in the U.K. or France.  (It’s in the U.K.)  In fact, I was handed these beautiful Guernsey pound notes in change after buying a Guernsey ice cream (that’s for you Rachel).  I said, “Oh, WOW THESE ARE SO COOL!” and the ice cream lady replied by saying, “thank you!”

Guernsey pounds

Only two hours away from Guernsey we arrived in St. Malo, where my travelling met a bit of a hitch when I couldn’t contact my couchsurfer and hadn’t received an email for a few days.  After telephoning unsuccessfully I decided to find another place to stay, which had me walking around St. Malo for about 3 hours looking for WiFi and then walking to a youth hostel (full) and finally a campsite.  (I just kept repeating my mantra: it always gets better, it always gets better.)

This is when I start speaking French.  Or “French”.  Some strange sounds have been coming out of my mouth, which some endearing Frenchpeople have been pretending to understand.  And then they say things back, which makes me think that these weird sounds are actually words; however, sometimes I say words which I was positive were French, but apparently not, and we just look at each other with awkward misunderstanding.  In that case I just yelp a big French-sounding “Hohn, HOHN!” and we move on like nothing happened.

But really, France has me excited.  After a bit of a worrisome search for accommodation yesterday, today could not have gone smoother, considering the amount of information I had (little).

I decided to hitchhike from St. Malo to Tours, where I’m starting the Camino, and only four cars, five hours, and 320 kilometers later I was there!  It must have been the smoothest hitch-experience I’ve had, and took less time than it would if I had tried public transportation.  It included a nice seaman who drove me to a better spot in St. Malo in which to wait for cars (I love when people do that); a couple of young ladies heading to Rennes on a shopping trip; a technician for Mercedes driving to Paris for work, who didn’t mind when I continuously dozed off; and a chatty guy heading to Tours for work (I want to say he was a vending machine repairman?  But there’s my French for ya), who probably gave me the equivalent of an hours French lesson through his patient listening.  But then again, we were stuck in a car together.  Miraculously, although he spoke no English, we talked about quite a lot, which is definitely a confidence booster.  He had even been to Portland!

Making things even smoother, he dropped me off right at the tourist information center in Tours, and much to my delight, inside was a “Walking Specialist” who lit up when I said I was starting the Camino and needed a guide book or map (I said that in French!  Wah!).  He selected one for me, and I bought my Pilgrim Passport, and headed off to the Cathedral to pay it a visit and get a stamp in my passport.

Only 5km down the Camino, and there’s a nice campsite.  A full day of travel, yet I hardly felt stressed.  Not only that, but now I feel in the company of others.  Although I’m good at being alone, I need to talk to people, and have those people understand what I’m doing.  That’s why it was good to talk to couchsurfers Julie and Tom and Daisey (hey guys!), because couchsurfers generally don’t think crazy trips are weird, they think they’re awesome.  That’s the same reason it’s good to be on the Camino, because I’ve already met other pilgrims (although they’re bikers) and that makes me feel like I’m walking with people, although I’m not actually walking with them at all.  It’s the feeling of common purpose, camaraderie, meaningful social interaction, in which I’m lacking.  Greatly.  Come talk to me.

Buen Camino! 

July 19: Dolphins

I’m glad I had that little pep-talk with myself a few days ago, because I snapped out of my funk and tried to go back to appreciating just what was in front of me.  I tried to stop focusing on how sweaty I was and just immersing myself again in nature, like I had been doing in Scotland and Wales and somehow lost along the way in England.  The simplicity of just putting one foot in front of the other, taking a breath and looking around, is so relaxing, so gratifying, incredible how little you physically need in order to be in awe of the world.

I decided I needed to get back to what I loved, and I decided to wild camp.  It took a little planning, since the day was sweltering, and I had to wash off my layers of sunscreen the best I could in a pub restroom, and then filled up all my water containers, since the biggest roadblock to wild camping has been lack of water and feeling disgusting after a hot day.  I waited for the sun to cool in Portreath, and then started hiking again, and before too long found an acceptable spot on the cliffs with room for a tent.

The sunrise woke me early and I was just about to eat breakfast when Nature rewarded me for wild camping.  Past me swam a pod of dolphins, jumping out of the water, swimming off towards the rising sun.  I was so surprised I both laughed and cried.  It feels good again, to be out here.

Walking over the dunes

Long hot stretch of beach…

good morning

joining me for lunch

got the campsite picked out

it was a day of beautiful heathered cliffs

July 13: On the Cornish Coast

Here in Cornwall!  What a beautiful walk this has been.  The scenery is mile after mile of stunning cliffs and coves and rock formations.  I’ve seen a fox, a peregrine falcon, and a deer who barked at me.  The sea is a shimmering blue, but this beauty doesn’t come cheap.  Every day is a grinding up and down clifftops.  Everyone I meet likes to tell me, “Oh, the next part is the hardest.”  I try to tell them that every day is difficult, but they are always certain that no, this next bit is the hardest.  It really is very similar: up, down, up, down, dramatic view.

I know I have blabbed on and on and on about the heat, but it’s really making things difficult.  Yesterday, a 16 mile day, was spendidly beautiful and remote.  I saw only a handful of people until the more accessible beaches at the end of the day.  A walker’s dream, except there isn’t any access to water.  Around mile 13 I was feeling faint and pretty worried, but luckily there was a long-awaited refreshment stand where I gulped a liter of iced tea.  Even then, when I finally found a campsite and a grocery store, I was completely beat, and felt it the next morning.

It’s interesting what has happened to my feet.  They generally hurt, which you can probably understand, but in the morning they have a way of seizing up over night, so as I stumple out of my tent in the morning towards the bathroom, I feel like a newborn deer learning how to walk, and stumble in the early dawn to the toilets, limping and moaning much like a zombie hungering for brains.

But, what a beautiful part of the world.  So, it’s worth it.  Here are photos!

July 9: It’s Hot. Let’s Take a Day Off, Shall We?

I’m not really one for hot weather.  As I may have mentioned before, I become absolutely depressed and miserable when two things happen: 1.) Lack of sleep, and 2.) when it’s hot.  I don’t know how some people manage to keep their heads and power on when they haven’t slept for 24 hours.  I can’t do it.  I’d miss my own wedding to take a nap if I was tired enough.

And for when it’s hot.  I also think all of you people who prefer the searing heat of say, Phoenix, to a temperate, if rainy, day in Portland.  Oh, but it’s a dry heat you say?  Who cares!  It’s in the desert!  It’s hot.  Throw in some humidity and I’m toast.  Soggy toast.  I will never get anything done in the heat.  You can see how my summers in South Korea were a bit depressing, when it’s 90 degrees and the only respite is the beach, but then OH HERE COMES A MONSOON!

So walking in the heat, with layers of sunscreen upon sweat upon sunscreen, is like a slow, slimy death for me.  Out here on the cliffs of Devon there isn’t much tree cover, and my 40 pound pack suddenly becomes the chains binding me to a hot and sweaty death.

Add to this that everything I own smells, because (and you might find this a bit disgusting) my clothes have had only one proper wash in more than five weeks, and you get the idea I’m stuck in a sweaty, smelly cycle of being hot and dirty only to shower off and start it all over again.

Alright, I’m really not that miserable.  I just wanted to paint the picture about how being sweaty, slimy, and smelly can get to you after a little while.  Which is WHY!!!

DAY OFF!!! WHOOOO!!!

I wouldn’t have chosen Westward Ho! as a place to spend a day off, but the YHA is on the hill above the pesky tourists, with a deck and a view of the ocean.  And you read that correctly:  Westward Ho! is spelled with a !.

Now all of my clothes are clean!  Ta-dah!  Westward Ho!  I sponged down my backpack, and aired out my sleeping bag, and washed everything I own, and though maybe it’s all scruffy around the edges, I’m no longer the person people avoid standing next to because of that strange smell wafting of her.

You see what I’m saying about backpacking?  It makes the simplest things a cause for celebration.

For instance, I haven’t had very much access to internet, which I in fact enjoy a lot, but last night Rachel and I were online AT THE SAME TIME!  Which hasn’t happened since we parted ways a month ago, so it was a surreal feeling, and renewed my love for internet.  Rachel is arriving in Santiago de Compostela TODAY, at the end of her long Camino, and she has far surpassed me in miles, has survived a heat wave in Spain, almost died of thirst, walked through a FLOOD, and hasn’t injured herself or even had a rest day.  So dear reader, please say out loud to yourself, Congratulations Rachel!

So enough writing already.  It’s my rest day, and War and Peace awaits.