The following is the second entry in my little flip-top journal for Wednesday, September 26:
Day 2
St. Jean Pied de Port, France.
Jambon de Bayonne. Ham is in every meal in Spain. Breakfast desayuno, butter stick con chocolate. Protest 9/26 in Pamplona. Many people. Bloody head of a photographer. Shots fired. France: Citadel on hill, mountains dark birch forest. Met rude young americans Chris + Michael, California + Florida. More ham for dinner. Pression 1664 beer. Beautiful town.
Early the next morning Alice and I took our long awaited first steps on the famous pilgrimage road to Santiago. Up the mountain we climbed– It felt like straight up. About three-quarters up the mountain we stopped to stay at a small French aubergue called Orrison. The only aubergue you need a rsvp for. Alice knew we would need two days to get to Roncesvalles on the Spanish side of the Pyrennes.
That night a communal dinner was set up. Bottles of wine lined up on long tables for us to enjoy with soup and bread. During dinner we took turns standing and telling our reasons for being on the Camino de Santiago. There was no mention of God or Jesus or the apostle James. Everyone had a social reason that involved their friends. When it came my turn to stand and talk I said some mindless stuff because I was nervous and then, “I just want to take myself out of my comfort zone.” When the group of pilgrim diners and future bunkmates were finished I said to the Irish woman named Helen sitting to my right that I thought all the declarations of pilgrimhood were on the athletic/party-with-me -mates type of responses.
“I thought this is a religious pilgrimage,” I said.
Helen, who has walked the camino before, looked at
me and said, with a classic Irish accent, “They all have back stories. They’re just not telling them.”
That left me speechless.
Helen appreciated that I admitted that I have a comfort zone.
