Show Me The Way

I'm directionally challenged.  If you're giving me directions I need left or right. North, south, east, west?  Means nothing to me.  I don't do too bad in familiar places -- as long as the place is small, I can relate to landmarks. Where I live the river is to the west so everything is in relation to the river. But put me somewhere I've never been and I have no idea which direction I'm facing. Unless it's sunrise or sunset.  At high noon, I'm hopeless.  So how did a directionally challenged girl hope to walk across northern Spain?

Getting off the bus in St Jean Pied de Port, France, I simply followed the rest of the back packs to the pilgrim office.  And for the first part of the Camino that was all I had to do.  There was always a steady stream of pilgrims to assure me I was going the right way.  But as the days passed and the pilgrims started to spread out it wasn't unusual to spend many hours walking without seeing a single other person.  But I'm happy and proud to report that I didn't get lost once, not even a teeny little bit.  Oh, one morning in the total darkness I headed off on my own and decided after about a kilometre that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't on the right path.  I started walking back the way I came until I saw the approaching head lamps confirming I was on the right track after all.

It's really quite impressive how well the Way is marked.  Sure, there are lots of sections where getting lost is simply not an option.  I mean, if this is the view in front and behind you, just where exactly are you going to make a wrong turn?










Big cities were a bit tricky.  You had to keep your eyes down and watch for the brass shells...

There were a lot of "official" markers.  Some old...

...some new...

...and sometimes enterprising pilgrims took matters into their own hands.

But it was the yellow arrow that brought comfort and relief just when you were thinking you must have screwed up somewhere...

The most amazing thing about the yellow arrows?  Someone has to maintain them, make sure they are visible, repainted as needed.  Who does this?  And consider this -- pilgrims rely on these arrows to make their way to Santiago de Compostela.  What's to stop marauding bands of vandals armed with yellow spray paint from wrecking havoc?  I mean, seriously -- what could be more entertaining than watching unsuspecting pilgrims wandering in circles? Ending up in Madrid or Barcelona.

That this doesn't happen, speaks volumes.

Book Review:  I'm sure there is no one, in the reading population at least, who does not know that Robert Galbraith is the pseudonym for JK Rowling of Harry Potter fame.  Being a huge fan of all things Potter, it was a no-brainer that I would read whatever came next.  After being disappointed with The Cuckoo's Calling, the first in the Cormoran Strike series, I was a bit reluctant to read number two, The Silkworm.  But I have to say I enjoyed it much more than the first and Strike is starting to grow on me.  I like that Galbraith has given him a huge handicap to deal with, his having lost a leg in Afghanistan. But the head hopping between the main characters -- sometimes within the same paragraph -- drives me nuts.  And when he/she slips into the omniscient narrator voice?  Well, don't get me started.  

The Last One

I walked right on by the big beautiful cathedrals in Burgos, Leon and Astorga...

I was saving myself for the grand finale.  The church in Redecilla ruined me for anything that would follow.  I wanted that jaw dropping moment when I entered through that simple wooden door to be my defining church experience on the Camino.  So I only went into two others.  One was in the sad little town of San Juan de Ortego.

There was nothing special about this church to draw me in except for the fact that SJdO boasted a population of twenty and there was little else to do there.  No wait, "little else" is a gross exaggeration.  There was nothing else to do there.

The next was the Knights Templar Church of Santa Maria in Villalcazar de Sirga.  Partly because of the history and mystery surrounding the Knights Templar.  And partly because my guide book stated, "If visiting churches along the way is not your 'thing' make an exception for this one."  I made an exception.  I even broke my own cardinal rule about not paying to go into churches and shelled out a euro.  It was worth the euro.


And that was it until the grand finale, the end of the line -- the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela.  But first, a word about scaffolding.  Yeah, scaffolding.  When I visited New York City back in the early 80's the Statue of Liberty was totally encased in it.  When I visited the Sphinx in Egypt? Scaffolding.  The Parthenon in Greece?  Scaffolding.  You see where I'm going with this?  So it was no great surprise to walk into the square in Santiago after thirty-one days walking 800 kms to find the cathedral behind a facade of scaffolding.  Oh and those printed panels that are supposed to fool you into thinking you're seeing the real thing.

Oh well.  It held no religious significance for me.  I was a pilgrim in name only.  I'm not among the many who believe that the bones of the apostle St. James are housed there (although I did go and take a peek at the box that allegedly holds someone's bones.  Sorry no photos allowed.)    And even I have to admit, it was pretty cool inside -- once you got past all the scaffolding that was in there too.






First the mullion.  (Yeah, I googled that.)  Behind barricades.  No touchy.  Hundreds of years of pilgrim's hands have left their mark.  Damn, I really wanted to fit my fingers into those grooves.

There was a bunch of other cool stuff...

And the piece de resistance -- the Botafumeiro.  Filled with charcoal and incense and originally swung through the air to mask the smell of a bunch of stinkin' pilgrims. Confession time (we are in church after all) -- I didn't get to see the botafumeiro swing.  Not that I didn't have the opportunity.  I waited with the hundreds of others packed like sardines in the cathedral.  It was hot, the smell of smoke from previous swingings was nauseatingly heavy in the air. I lasted through a good part of the pilgrim mass, slowly working my way to a back wall to lean against and finally to sit against.  Then I had to admit defeat and bail.  You see, my stomach was feeling a little, shall we say, delicate.  Too much "yay, I made it to Santiago" celebrating the night before.

Perhaps I should have stopped here on my way out.

Book Reviews:  What I Was Doing While You Were Breeding, a memoir by TV writer Kristen Newman, starts out like this -- I am not a slut in the United States of America -- or words to that effect.  She then details how she is a slut when she is traveling everywhere else in the world.  Mildly entertaining.

Our April book club selection was Harvest by Jim Crace.  Yawn...zzzz...

Joseph Finder has written a bunch of books, like ten or something. Bestselling mysteries.  Suspicion was an okay read.  Nothing to jump up and down about but entertaining.  I may try another.

If you picked up a book written by a French speaking novelist who lives in Geneva, Switzerland, where would you expect that story to take place?  If you guessed New Hampshire you'd be right.  I didn't.  The Truth About The Harry Quebert Affair by Joel Dicker was a translation from the French and maybe it lost a little something in translation.  Highly touted in Europe, it was a mystery with what I think was supposed to be comedic dialogue.  Fell kind of flat for me.  And it was a little too long with one twist too many.  Okay, maybe about five twists too many. Yeah, that kind of book.

The First One

You've no doubt heard of doing an ABC tour of Europe, you know, Another Bloody Church or Another Bloody Castle.  Well, when you go on a long walk billed as a pilgrimage, you have to expect to encounter a church or two. Personally, I'd rather go on the castle tour.  Castles I can go into.  After all, they're just houses, right?  Okay, really really really big fancy houses, but houses nonetheless.  But churches?  I feel awkward going into churches. Feel like I shouldn't be there.  Like I don't belong.  Like I shouldn't be gawking and snapping pics.

So it wasn't until Day 9 of my trek that I finally went into my first church.  I'd spent a long day walking 32 km mostly alone.  I just couldn't bring myself to stop in some of the forlorn little towns I'd wandered through but for some reason when I walked into Redecilla del Camino (Pop. 150) it felt right.  I got my bed in the albergue then headed straight to the bar for a beer followed by a tour of the town.

This is looking one way up main street...

...and this is looking back the other way.

And that was pretty much it.  So it was either back to the bar or...

My first church.  It wasn't all looming and grand and intimidating.  And, miracle of miracles, the door was actually open.

What could be more inviting?
A simple wooden door...

...plank flooring and basic wooden pews.

And then this...

...and this...

...and this...

...and this...

I can count on one hand the churches I went into after Redecilla and still have a couple of fingers left over.  It certainly ruined me for anything that would come after.  In a place this small (did I mention the town has a population of 150?)...the gold, the opulence...it was all too much.

Definitely time to head back to familiar territory...

Book Reviews:  Can't really say I liked or disliked The Weight of Blood by Laura McHugh.  It was certainly highly readable but as mysteries go it lacked a lot of suspense.  And I'm almost embarrassed to admit this, but a mere two weeks after finishing, I can't really remember a lot about it.  That in itself does not bode well.

I don't like to read award winning books, they are usually too "literary" for my tastes.  So I kind of see what all the kerfuffle was about when the Pulitzer went to Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch.  The literary world slammed it for not being literary enough.  I can see that.  But OMG...after slogging through its 771 pages I can definitely pronounce it too literary for my tastes.  Yes, there was a story line.  But the endless pages of description -- at times doled out in small random disjointed bites, at times taking half a page in one long run on sentence -- spoiled just about any enjoyment I would have found in the reading.  Top that off with characters I didn't really care about.  Okay, Boris...I liked Boris.  But hey, at least I finished it. 

I Am Who I Am

I learn a lot about myself every time I travel.  I'm also learning a lot about myself now that it's my kid who's heading out to see the world.  And the number one thing I've learned is -- I'm a Control Freak.  Yup, big time.  And to be totally honest, deep down inside I think I always knew it.  Oh, it's been called other names, but let's just call it what it is.  I try to reign it in, but with the kid just days away from leaving for Australia, the freak is rearing its sometimes ugly head.  I thought maybe it was just a Mom thing, but looking back I realize I've been a freak a lot longer than I've been a mom.

When I was younger, the freak was disguised as organized.  My friends even dubbed me The Princess of Organization.  And they meant that in the best possible way.  When a control freak puts on her PofO tiara, things get done. Things they ultimately didn't have to worry about doing.  Yeah, who doesn't want to sit back while the freak takes cares of it.  Everyone could rest easy as we headed out on our weekend camping trips because they knew I wouldn't have forgotten a thing.

Fast forward to the married years.  Now the freak is disguised as responsible.  The budget was always balanced, the bills paid on time because I was in charge of the finances.  There's no way I could not be.  

But now, as I help the kid get ready for her trip, I realize the freak may have done her more harm than good.  She is more than content to sit back and let me find the best deal on travel medical insurance, research the hostels, drag her off to the travel agent.  The freak has to know if she's validated her Hostel International card (that the freak finally went out and picked up for her), if she's registered on line for the tour she's starting out with.  Has she figured out what she's packing yet?  Narrowed down her list of shoes?  Done a practice pack so she knows it all fits and isn't overweight?  No, no, and no are the answers to those questions.  It's enough to send a freak over the edge.

I'm trying hard to bite my tongue and not ask anymore.  Just tonight as she was heading out of town to spend the night with friends, I noticed she was still wearing her flip flops.  Sure it's been warm during the day but the nights are quite chilly.  Did she have another pair of shoes?  Uh, no.  Well, was she going to take another pair of shoes?  Then, realizing what I was doing, I put my hands up and zipped my lip.  What's the worst that can happen?  She'll get cold feet.

Frankly, I'll be glad when she's gone.  Far away on her own, out of the reach of the freak.  Because I know she'll be fine.  She'll be better than fine.  She'll blossom and grow and reach the height of her potential because the freak will no longer be there to take over.  She'll learn from her mistakes, more so because she was allowed to make the mistakes in the first place.  And in a year or so, when she finally comes back, I probably won't even recognize her anymore.

Hopefully she won't recognize me either.

Book Reviews:  Behind the Beautiful Forevers:  Life, Death and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity is a meticulously researched account of several families living in a Mumbai slum.  I continually had to remind myself that this was taking place in 2008, not decades earlier.  That people continue to live like this is unimaginable.  As someone who values honesty above all else, the rampant corruption that exists was the hardest part of the reading for me.  A real eye-opener.

Although The Garner Files is credited to James Garner and Jon Winokur, I doubt Garner actually wrote any of this.  More like an "as told to."  Poorly written and superficial.  The only interesting tidbit I gleaned about Garner's life is that he smoked marijuana for 50 years.  Huh, who knew?  And note to self:  Stick to autobiographies.  I prefer to read about someone's life through the filter of another set of eyes.

Beware of Dog

I live in a semi-rural neighbourhood where city by-laws do not apply to dogs and the SPCA has no jurisdiction.  The kind of place where you build a fence to keep other dogs away, not to keep your own contained.  Now in all honestly, the majority of people control their dogs, walk them on leash if they don't play nice when other dogs are around.  Most of the dogs in the first circle of my neighbourhood are the small, yappy, 'I'd kill ya if I could get to ya' type.  But move out into the next circles of my area and things change dramatically in size and disposition, a la Dante's nine circles of hell.  I'm thankful for the fencing every time I walk by two very specific properties with the prominently displayed Beware of Dog signs while the dogs race barking and snarling along the fence line, all teeth and asshole.  And I walk very quickly and quietly -- trying not to let the tag on my dog's collar jingle -- past a few more.  These are the places where the dogs roam free.  The kind that approach with hackles raised.  The kind that wait until you walk past before launching a rear attack.  The kind where the dogs come racing out intent on quenching their blood lust -- even when their owners are standing there saying nothing until I yell at them to call off their dogs.  I'm not afraid of dogs.  I can snarl and bark too, let them know who the alpha dog is.  But they scare the crap out of my dog who will yelp like she's having a limb amputated and try to escape if she so much as detects hostility from an approaching dog.

Which brings me to the Camino, oddly enough.  In all the books I read before I left, I continually encountered a common theme -- 'Beware of feral dogs.' Apparently they roam in packs in some of the small, near abandoned little towns that dot the Way.  But like I said before, I'm not afraid of dogs (says she who has never run into a feral dog, let alone a pack.)  I figured I would be safe, armed with my long pointy walking stick to defend myself.  No problem...right?

Well, let me introduce you to The Feral Dogs of the Camino...

This little guy was mooching at a cafe but he wanted to be patted more than he wanted to be fed.  Sure, he was matted and dirty and kind of gross, but hey -- that's what hand washing is for...

Three guesses what this guy wanted...

This handsome fellow would't even make eye contact...

And this happy duo were the resident dogs at one of the most fabulous albergues we stayed at...

Here's the closest I came to a 'feral dog' -- and he ran in the other direction when I called out to him...

The one place I heard had a reputation for the marauding ferals was a very small semi-abandoned village called Foncebadon.  I managed to walk on by before these killers even knew I was there...

All this isn't to say that there aren't feral dogs lurking about, waiting for straggling pilgrims on which to dine.  It just wasn't my experience.  As for my own neighbourhood, methinks it might be wise to start arming myself with a long pointy stick.

Especially when I venture out into the seventh circle.

Back To It

Well, it's been over four months since I walked into Santiago de Compostela and almost four months since I landed back in Canada so I hardly feel I can announce, "I'm baack."  There are plenty of reasons -- nay, excuses -- why it's taken me until today to get back to this blog.  But that's all they are. Excuses.  Why is is that good habits are so hard to maintain but the bad ones creep up like ill-fitting underwear until they are once again a regular part of life?  Probably because the bad ones take no effort at all.  Not that I've been a total slug.  I've done some writing and some glass work.  And lots of walking.  Can't get that out of my system.  So I do have some Camino stories I want to share, but for today I'm gonna ease back into it and update my book list.  Here goes...

Promise Me - Harlan Coben:  I call this one a throwaway because I can't remember a damn thing about it.  Read it cover to cover on the trip over -- on the ferry, the bus, the plane, the train -- and left it in a hotel room in Bayonne.

Before I Go To Sleep - SJ Watson:  One of things I missed the most on the Camino was having a book to read.  Didn't want to add the weight.  So by the time I reached Santiago I was craving a book fix.  Not much selection for English books in Santiago and this looked as good as any.  Figured it out pretty quick.

The Ghost - Robert Harris:  I'd already seen the movie (The Ghostwriter) so kind of remembered the story.  But it's my kind of political thriller -- I understood the whole thing!

The Storyteller - Jodi Picoult:  I'm not a big fan of Picoult but this was an excellent story centred around the Holocaust.  One of the best surprise endings ever.  Didn't see it coming.

Longbourn - Jo Baker:  Think Carson and Mrs Padmore and Mrs Hughes from Downton Abbey.  A story of the downstairs folks from Pride and Prejudice, if you're into that sort of thing.  I'm not. 

The Fever - Megan Abbott:   Huge disappointment from every aspect.

To The Grave - Mike McIntyre:  Subtitled - Inside A Spectacular RCMP Sting. The infamous Mr Big scenario.

The Madman's Daughter - Megan Shepherd:  A YA novel and a bloody strange one at that.  Some very bizarro stuff here.  The first in a series.  I may read the next.

The Burning Room - Michael Connelly:  #19 in the Harry Bosch series. Connelly seldom disappoints and he didn't here.  

Face Off - editor David Baldacci:  Short stories.  Take the best in the crime writing biz and pit their detectives against each other.  The stories were hit and miss.  Picked it up because I wanted to read the Connelly vs Lehane story.  It was far from my favourite even though it's since been nominated for an Edgar award.

Miss O'Dell - Chris O'Dell:  For our December book club we read autobiographies.  This one read like an overly long People magazine article. Totally trashy exploits of a girl in the 60's who somehow got to work for bands like the Beatles and the Stones.  The only interesting part for me was her friendship with George Harrison.

The Secret Place - Tana French:  I'm a big French fan, but even though this book started out well, it was hugely disappointing in the end.  Not her best.

The Drop - Dennis Lehane:  A fairly short, simple offering.  I'm thinking it will be a better movie.

Sharp Objects - Gillian Flynn:  After loving Gone Girl, I decided to go back and read Flynn's previous work.  This was her first novel and I give it two thumbs up.  Loved her supremely flawed protagonist.

Revival - Stephen King:  Y'all know I love me some Steve.  Even when it's not the best thing he's written, I still love to read his words.  It's his voice.  No one can duplicate it.  Fair warning though -- this book probably has THE bleakest ending I've ever read.

Life After Life - Kate Atkinson:  The main character is born and dies repeatedly throughout the story.  Once you get your head around that, it's a fascinating read, albeit a tad tedious in one section.

As Chimney Sweepers Come To Dust - Alan Bradley:  #7 in the Flavia de Luce series.  Flavia is a great child protagonist -- ballsy enough to be entertaining without being precocious or annoying.

Dark Places - Gillian Flynn:  Another great read by Flynn, but she threw what I consider to be a curveball in the ending and that was a strikeout, not a hit, for me.

We Are Water - Wally Lamb:  I wanted to sit down and read this book cover to cover in one sitting.  I didn't, but I wanted to.  One of the better books I've picked up in a while.  And totally out of my genre, so that's saying something.

And there ya have it, all up to date.  Next up -- random shit from the Camino.

This Is It Then

I've dodged a couple of bullets over the past week.  The first one was my back.  Woke up one morning with it aching all down one side.  For no apparent reason.  Because I was keeping a low profile, remember?  Not doing anything during which I could hurt myself.  It wasn't until several days later when I threatened my back with a visit to the chiropractor that it stopped hurting.  Bullet #1.

Same day as the aching back I was convinced I had blown the rotator cuff in my left arm.  Having blown the one in my right arm, I knew what it felt like. Aching, throbbing pain.  Unable to life it to the side without the help of my other arm.  Lying in bed at night and not knowing where to put it.  Out came the bag of frozen peas and the exercise bands.  A week later it feels right as rain.  Whew!  Bullet #2.

Bullet #3 I wasn't even aware I was dodging.  I've spent the past week not knowing if I'm excited, nervous, hungry or sick.  Queasy stomach, light headed, massive heat waves -- not hot flashes...trust me, I know the difference.  Figured it was just nerves setting in.  But the thought of getting on a plane feeling like that was less than appealing.  Today, the day before lift-off, I feel fine.  Had it been nerves, I think today would be the worst.  So now I'm thinking I had a little touch of something which has miraculously disappeared.  Whew!

Final bullet -- the wart.  While I don't think the freezing has killed it, at least it doesn't hurt anymore.  Well not more than it did before the freezing anyway.

And so I'm ready to go.  Oh I'm not packed just yet, but hey, how long does it take to stuff a T-shirt and an extra pair of socks and underwear into a backpack.  The house is clean, the beds are changed, the towels are freshly laundered.  I've figured out why I clean before I travel -- burns off energy but doesn't require fine motor skills.  No way would I have been able to cut glass this week.

In reality my Camino starts with my first step out my door.  But before I take that first "official step" in France I will have traveled by car, boat, plane and train.  I've got Steven Martin and John Candy beat by one.  People ask why I'm doing this "pilgrimage."  I understand it's a major topic of conversation on the Camino itself.  Definitely not for religious reasons.  I think my standard answer will be, "Ask me when I'm done."  Because I don't really know why, other than I feel drawn to it.  I'm leaving behind reading material and my IPod because I want to be present and "in the moment."  So I'm just going to let the universe be my guide and "enlighten" me as to my purpose.

Maybe in the end it will just be a nice long walk.