Learning Lessons

The physical challenge of walking the Camino always carried rewards that seemed to pick me up the next morning and carry my backpack once again to my shoulders. Walking brought me intimately close to my surroundings--and there was such history around me that I never lacked for stimulation. Few of us take the time to move as slowly through our lives as I did for five weeks. I'm sure that everyone is occasionally amazed at the rudeness of drivers on the highway. Wrapped in the protective anonymity of their cars, some people will tailgate, cut in front of other cars, cross lanes, and generally endanger themselves and others. I've often tried to imagine them outside of their cars acting in the same manner--do they shoulder their way to the front of the movie ticket line, or swerve back and forth with their shopping carts in the grocery? Walking reveals you to your fellow travelers, exposes you to the elements, and places you within easy contact of the beauty of nature. Yes, I was rained on. But I photographed a rainbow arching miraculously above the church of Santiago in Villafranca del Bierzo. Yes, I got hot. But I saw tiny blue flowers that broke the sandy soil outside of Hontanas. How often do you hear the expression, "I've got to run"? How about "I'm going to run to the store." It's an old fashioned lament to claim that there's too much "running" going on. Many years ago, I memorized a sonnet by Wordsworth that expressed these thoughts best; the first stanza is greatness:

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

That moving slowly is a gift and a luxury was one lesson that I learned on the Camino. Here, have a few other, random lessons.

Limitations--in the month prior to leaving for my trip, I began to walk around my neighborhood. I started at one mile, and within two weeks, I could comfortably cover six miles in a morning. I pushed myself as far as almost nine miles, but that's where I stopped. Somehow, I always turned for home with the thought that I had gone as far as I could go before I had exceeded nine miles. So, how did I average almost 15 miles per day? I don't know. I didn't plan on it. In fact, twice the going was so difficult that I thought about just dropping my pack on the trail. On the first day, while trying to cover not only distance but also the long climb up 3,000 feet to Orrison, I remember collapsing on the path, rolling over onto my pack, and thinking, "I'm going to have to crawl the rest of the way." But I didn't. Somehow, and despite what sense would have told me back in Dallas, I always went on. As long as the road was before me, I would walk. In fact, some of the places I visited couldn't be reached any other way.

Distance--when I first told my wife that I'd like to walk this pilgrimage--that it was 500 miles--she thought I was crazy. Heck, I thought I was crazy. I couldn't conceive of walking that far. While driving down to Austin to visit my daughter one Friday, I imagined walking the 200 miles between my house and hers in 20, 10-mile stages. 500 miles seemed utterly out of reach. Yet, there I was in Compostella--one step at a time.

On Being Alone--Days walking with company--Mike, Neils, Derby--were nice. Other days I was alone--never lonely.

On My Needs--after a couple of weeks, these were pretty spare. Good socks. Dry clothes. Fresh fruit in my pack. It's illuminating how little I really needed to be happy. Spain provided all my entertainment needs.

A Definition Learned on the Trip: "Dry"--1. can't wring any more water out of it. 2. not so wet I won't wear it.

On the Process of Walking--Almost every trail we used was also used by goats, sheep, cattle, dogs, and wild animals--some of them people. I learned that there is nothing you step in that doesn't come off your boot eventually. I learned that everyone's feet blister, but that calluses don't begin to form until the flesh is stimulated to do so by use.

On Greeting the Unexpected--I expected to see the Valley of Roland, a piano that Hemingway played, a Roman road, and a cathedral or two. I did not expect to play like a kid on a Templar castle, touch the sublime at Santa Maria la Blanca, or get run over by a hurricane. Travel is fun.

On Burdens--I carried too much weight. This is a common fault of almost all novice walkers. I mailed stuff home twice until the walking became easier and my need to inventory my stuff each morning became non-existent. Even lightened, somehow the pack becomes heavier as the afternoon wears on. It is sweet to loosen your straps, to unclip your belt, and to lay your burdens down in the evening when the walk is over.

Lastly, I learned that for every journey, there is a time to go home.

Favorite Moments

It's 500 miles from St. Jean Pied-de-Port to Compostella. To the best of my figuring, in 32 days I walked 472 miles. In order to make an appointment at the University of Leon, I did ride the train for about 30 miles. Twice, I hopped on a bus for about 7 miles each time in order to arrive at a particular historic site before the siesta closing at 2:00. Three times, however, I walked off the Camino, adding miles in order to visit sites--the chapel at Eunate, the convent at Samos, and the church at Vilar de Donas. So, 472 miles on foot. That's almost 15 miles per day. Some days and miles were harder than others. Here are 5 places I'd go back to in a second--these are places I carry with me in fresh and vivid memory.

Estella--I had been in the country for four or five days, and I'd already seen the beautiful city of Pamplona with its wonderful sites and splendid gardens. Nevertheless, Estella was the first place that I really encountered the people of Spain. I took a room on the second floor of a small Pension (locally run, low-cost hotel) that was located on the town plaza. That night, the people came out to walk and play. The inside-out culture of Spain was enticing--everyone emerged from his or her un-air-conditioned homes to socialize, and I was invited. The next day was a Thursday, and I saw my first plaza market. In Estella, Spain became more than old buildings and books.

Astorga--everything my academic heart could desire. It had Roman ruins--a villa, bath, Roman gravestones and markers, and old gates. It had been a medieval town with walls and towers existing since the 10th century. Three churches built in the 12th century and a cathedral in 15th-century gothic with a museum tantalized my interest in religious history. What about living history?--Benedictine brothers invited me to say the Matins overnight, a ritual they have kept for 1,200 years. Fantasy and Art?--it had the surreal palace built in the 19th century by the designer Gaudi. Mystery?--the brotherhood of the gonfalon is reputed to still have the 8th-century flag of Saint James . . . but no one has seen it publicly for nearly two hundred years. Plus it had the Museum of Chocolate! How could Astorga have been better?

O Cebreiro--the steepest climb of the trip. A brilliant, sunny day with the mountains of Galicia revealed in their full glory. And at the top of the climb, a village with stone, peasant huts remaining since the 8th century--a step back through time. A 12th-century church containing the chalice associated with a communion miracle validated by the Vatican. A Celtic bagpipe player piped old tunes while the stars emerged in a pristine sky; mountains became looming, dark forms all around, and villages glimmered as distant clusters of light in valleys mile away.

The Long Walk--Burgos to Castrojeriz. Possibly my most crazy day on the trip. I walked across Spain's high desert. It was just over 100 degrees, and the landscape was flat and brown and reminded me of home. I just kept walking down the narrow, dusty trail with the best company available to me--myself. I felt home. Hontanas emerged, a depression in the desert floor. All I could see was arid plain, and suddenly over a rise the trail sank into the town that seemed to lay like a mirage or an oasis in a depression. I walked on to San Anton, the long-deserted ruin of a great church dedicated to a 3rd-century saint of the African desert. San Anton had a huge rose window at one end of its collapsed sanctuary. It was a Tau window--once brilliant with stained glass, its framework was constructed from stones shaped like the Greek letter "T," a symbol of Christ and of the Knights Templar. By 8:30 that night, I finally came to Castrojeriz, too late to visit the old castle on the hill. I had walked 42 kilometers.

Santa Maria La Blanca--Frank Drenner was right; he commented in my blog weeks ago that this was my favorite day. I sat in the cavernous church that had been the 13th-century court of Alphonso X, El Sabio, and listened to the music of the Cantigas de Santa Maria. History, music, and literature were there, combined in sublime beauty. Whispers of three cultures blending in the spirit of an age. Even after three hours stay, the ability to leave Santa Maria was hardly within me. If you haven't had to opportunity to find the musical group Cantiga, my blog manager (my daughter, Kathleen, of course) has happily added a link to their site. Just look to the right under "Links" and click on "Cantiga: Renaissance Festival Band." Listen and imagine the music and the culture that created it being more than just echoes of the past.

I almost feel like apologizing for the sentimentality of rehashing my feelings for these places. Maybe I'm a little embarrassed at how much I loved some days on the trail. I miss the simple objective of walking down a marked trail and the joy of discovering the lives and spirit of the past revealed each day. Tomorrow, my last blog--I promise. I'm going to try to examine what I am bringing home--other than 1,200 digitally recorded photographs.

Globalism--Conclusions, pt. 2

The Chancellor and the Board at Tarrant County College initiated a program three years ago addressing the need to infuse our classrooms with a greater understanding of the world community. Currently, the campuses are accepting applications from among the instructors for a summer seminar in globalism conducted, appropriately enough, in Salzburg, Austria. The idea is that in order to instruct our students in globalism, the teachers themselves might first develop a broader understanding of the issues concerned.

For more than six weeks, I have been smacked in the face with this critical need--but the need runs in two directions. Increasingly, Americans need to develop a better concept of the world as a community. Additionally, however, the world at large needs examples of Americans who help break the stereotypes that others have constructed about us. Concerning the first issue above, beyond all the historical, literary, personal gains that travel has offered me recently, one clear gift has been a better understanding of those little cultural anomalies that contribute to the national character of the many different people whom I have met. For example, walking is an integral part of many of the cultures whom I encountered. In a previous blog, I mentioned the grandmother from West Cork with whom I walked on the third day of my trek to Santiago. Her habit at home is to walk 15 to 20 km three or four days a week. Most of the Europeans talked of their joy--their need--to reserve a Sunday each week or a weekend a month for a long ramble. I could list a dozen similar cultural habits that separate Europeans from Americans--their ability to make a meal out of a hard baguette and cheese, their love of wine, their casual acceptance of the aged monuments that surround their lives.

But more than these minor cultural elements, no quality stood out more than the Europeans' broader worldview. Their geographical centrality provides them with an opportunity to reach out to other countries and cultures. Interested in my fascination with antiquity, many friends on the trips asked, "Well, you've been to Rome, haven't you?--or Venice?--Florence?--London?--Paris?" They had. These cities were all within easy reach of a train ride or a two-hour flight on Easyjet or Ryanair (the equivalents of our Southwest Airlines). Ads in subways offered $800, seven-day excursions to Egypt and $300 getaways to Moscow. Buses in Leon were plastered with offers of $30, round-trip shopping flights to Africa, and Qatar and the United Arab Emirates enticed travelers with low-cost flights to the world handball championships and tennis tournaments. Europeans have the opportunity to see a world that most Americans only read about but have trouble locating on a map.

These cultural elements are connected to the second issue that I raised--that they need to understand us by close contact. Their perception, for example, is that Americans simply do not like to walk; we are, in their estimate, great lovers of our cars. This perception is so strong that I always met with surprise when I revealed that I was an American. On the trail and in the alberguge, we and the locals played a kind of game that involved guessing nationalities. Just as I or anyone would walk up to a group of pilgrims or Spanish locals and before a word was spoken, someone would always guess a nationality. Time and again, I approached and someone with a knowing smile would say, "Alemania!"--Spanish for "Germany." With my fair skin, blue eyes, and size, that's not a bad guess--especially considering my English/Danish heritage. When that guess failed, the next was almost always that I was Dutch. When I answered a clear, "Nope, try again," they knew they had me--"Canadian!" In six weeks, no one ever guessed American.

On the journey to Compostella, I met hundreds of people; they came from every nation in the European Union and from Russia, South Africa, French Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the former Soviet Union, and Asia. And exactly eight Americans. Europeans have come to expect Americans only at major tourist attractions--and for good reason. The Globalism program at Tarrant County College is an effort that the people of Tarrant County can be proud of helping to sponsor. In order to understand the day-to-day intricacies of being Spanish, Finnish, or French, we need opportunities to walk a mile in their hiking boots.

Tomorrow--five favorite moments.

Some Conclusions, pt. 1

A few days have elapsed since a posting; I thought since I was really busy with the getting-ready-to-come-home part of my trip, few of you would be interested. Nevertheless, here, have some stray observations about these Europeans with whom I've lived for more than six weeks.

The European community is becoming more of a community than I had previously observed or imagined. Their sheer proximity to one another doesn't make them homogonous any more than the various communities in a large American city are homogonous. Yet, they are better informed about international news and concerns than most North Americans are--or, perhaps, have the opportunity to be better informed. Evening news in England, France, and Spain carry local stories to be sure, but they also feature events in Africa, the Near and Far East, and throughout the European Union. American news seems parochial by comparison. The obvious reason again, is simple geography. Paris is nearer to Jerusalem than Phoenix is to New York City. Time and again, for example, the pilgrims with whom I had dinner conversations expressed their concern for situations in Israel, Iraq, and Afghanistan. To a person (admittedly, only a sample of a few dozen persons), they believe that whatever America does, eventually, we will pull out of Iraq, and the country will fall to a state of civil war. I'm not reaching for a political statement here; I simply want to characterize their heightened concerns over what they see is the impending chaos on their doorstep--to Americans, a country half a world away. The day I flew out of Spain, a Compostella newspaper carried a headline story about the English and Australian service men killed in fighting in Iraq; I doubt that you could find that story anywhere in the "A" section of the Dallas Morning News.

Nor is war the only issue that we share with Europe. Having left some weeks ago when America's debate over Mexican immigration was still a hot issue, I was most interested to find that news agencies in the three countries I visited addressed their own concerns about immigration. Following the recent threats against international flights on British Airways, the United Kingdom is not only engaged in a renewed search for terrorists within their borders, but they have also raised concerns about immigration from Islamic countries. One story from the Times indicated that illegal immigration from those countries may have increased four fold over the past five years. Additionally, Parliament is debating what measures to take when Romania and Bulgaria enter the EU. It seems that illegal immigration from those countries has already climbed to an alarming high, and when the borders fall next year, a general flight from the former communist nations is expected. In France, immigration concern includes these issues along with mounting apprehension over the rising tide of immigrants from Africa. The Bordeaux newspaper admitted that former French possessions in Africa are now pulsing their populations into Europe, and the loss of jobs and drag on public services (sound like familiar arguments?) is intolerable.

The Spanish, however, took the prize for disquiet over immigration; they worry about Islam, Romania and Bulgaria, Africa, AND the Far East. Yes, because of the low cost of living and easy entry, Spain has been the European country of choice for Asian immigrants. In Pamplona, there was a genuine rant against their presence in the country. The particular complaint had to do with the jobs that Asians took and how they performed. Every little neighborhood street in Pamplona had a bar, a pandalaria (pastry and bread shop), and a small grocery store. Asians had taken to owning and operating the mom-and-pop grocery. The particular offense that drew the attention of the evening news while I was there was that the Asians were not observing the siesta--the customary closing of shops between 2:00 and 4:00 in the afternoon. In fact, many of those hard-working Asians chose to open an hour earlier than their Spanish-owned competitors (9:00 am), to work through siesta, and to close an hour later (10:00 pm). In the eyes of many locals, this amounted to unfair competition. In Compostella, the entrance of Asians into the lucrative souvenir trade drew the complaint that they shouldn't be allowed to sell memories of Spain since they weren't "really" Spanish. Of course, the fact that many of the souvenirs had been manufactured in Hong Kong didn't enter into the discussion.

The ideas that conflict has ramifications that reach beyond the borders of the participants or that population movements cause stress on indigenous communities are not new--look at the history of American immigration between about 1890 and 1920. However, the truism that "the world is getting smaller" brings me to the conclusion that world communities share common problems and could well be advised to seek common solutions. Tomorrow, I'll add another word on this topic--then a last word on a favorite moment. Cheers.