Jillosophy

I hit the wall this day, mentally and physically. Kent, too. And it wasn’t like it was our longest day, either. But this day, in addition to our standard “tired,” we added sore and crabby. To add insult to injury, our inn was off the trail by another kilometer, and when we finally had it in our sights, we saw that it was at the top of a hill, and we were standing at the bottom, with at least the length of a football field left to climb. The inn looked cool from afar. It had been built as a

First, I think it’s only fair to point out that our daily mileage count comes from Kent’s pedometer (and if you know Kent, you know it’s been accurately calculated to the nth degree). As such, our mileage includes the “extra” meandering we do at various points, like ducking into a shop, or checking out a cemetery, or the exploration we do when we reach our final destination for the day. But honestly, our “meandering” and “exploration” is fairly limited, given that we’re muy cansada* (very tired) by the end of the day. Anyway, on Tuesday, because we were feeling cocky

We were the only people in the hotel dining room at 8:00pm on the eve of our Camino, having decided on an “early” dinner since we wanted to get a good night’s rest in anticipation of a very long hike. An older woman entered the dining room, sat down and ordered. She was at least a decade older than us, and when she finished her meal and got up to leave, we assumed she was a local, or a tourist who most definitely wasn’t going to be walking the Camino. Her gait was unsteady, stiff and tentative, like a colt

Our first day on the Camino began like an Edgar Allan Poe poem, or something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. A chill permeated the morning air and dense and heavy fog, like wet cotton, obscured the morning light. We set out alone; one backpack between us, the damp settling onto our shoulders as we hiked down the murky path. And then, she appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, dark hair, pale face, a young woman alone on the trail. “Hey, are you from Milwaukee?” she said, falling in beside us. Damn, I thought. Is our Midwestern accent giving us away

Why is our train going backwards? The announcement over the PA system provided no clues. The rapido delivery of the announcer was no match for my college Spanish. Even when she switched to heavily-accented English, the only words I could make out were “train,” “flood,” and “bus.” Thankfully, a young, bilingual British woman sitting across the aisle filled us in. “The train can’t go all the way to Sarria,” she said brightly, as if this unexpected wrench in our travel plans had won each of us a lottery ticket. “They’re putting us on a bus to get us there.” She