Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
79: the pilgrim shelter in Güemes
Long before I had started the pilgrimage, I had had vague imaginings of what I would encounter along the road. I often indulged in an image of a tavern out of an Asterix book or Lord of the Rings or whatever: Massive wooden tables, a roaring fire with an entire boar roasting on it, colorful anachronistic characters drinking and singing.
I really don't know why I kept coming back to that image. It probably had to do with the idea of being a Pilgrim, and all the medieval associations one has.
The shelter in Güemes was the first one that seemed to me what a pilgrim shelter should be. The sleeping room was nothing special, just a few bunk beds crammed into a room.
But then there was the eating area.
This included a small, rustic kitchen, an antiquated fireplace area where you could easily imagine an entire boar on a spit; a large solid table with chairs around it; and then an entire hanging out area. On the walls there were exotic posters from all over the world. There were shelves with random artifacts like fossils and mining lanterns. There were cushions around a small table with some interesting books on it. There was a puma hide on one wall. There was a great view of the valley outside from the large double door.
I was still looking for the "hospitalero". That's the person who runs the shelter. Outside in a sort of courtyard I found Matthieu, hanging out with some locals who were singing and laughing. Singing and laughing? Does that sound anachronistic or what?
I eventually got inscribed, took a shower and washed some of my clothes. In the meantime the hospitalero had gotten busy making us a dinner. Lone arrived, and two French women were already there. The six of us had dinner together. Afterwards we got a fire going in the large fireplace, and hung out talking for a while. We heard about the priest who ran this place. He was a traveling soul, and had actually taken most of the photographs and collected the artifacts that adorned the walls. He was, we were told, currently in Santo Toribio, where the year of jubilee was just coming to an end. Santo Toribio de Liebana is another one of the most frequently visited pilgrimage sites in the world, especially on the years of jubilee, like this year was. Apparently you can obtain special pardons.
This is one aspect of the Roman Catholic Church I've never understood.
I really don't know why I kept coming back to that image. It probably had to do with the idea of being a Pilgrim, and all the medieval associations one has.
The shelter in Güemes was the first one that seemed to me what a pilgrim shelter should be. The sleeping room was nothing special, just a few bunk beds crammed into a room.
But then there was the eating area.
This included a small, rustic kitchen, an antiquated fireplace area where you could easily imagine an entire boar on a spit; a large solid table with chairs around it; and then an entire hanging out area. On the walls there were exotic posters from all over the world. There were shelves with random artifacts like fossils and mining lanterns. There were cushions around a small table with some interesting books on it. There was a puma hide on one wall. There was a great view of the valley outside from the large double door.
I was still looking for the "hospitalero". That's the person who runs the shelter. Outside in a sort of courtyard I found Matthieu, hanging out with some locals who were singing and laughing. Singing and laughing? Does that sound anachronistic or what?
I eventually got inscribed, took a shower and washed some of my clothes. In the meantime the hospitalero had gotten busy making us a dinner. Lone arrived, and two French women were already there. The six of us had dinner together. Afterwards we got a fire going in the large fireplace, and hung out talking for a while. We heard about the priest who ran this place. He was a traveling soul, and had actually taken most of the photographs and collected the artifacts that adorned the walls. He was, we were told, currently in Santo Toribio, where the year of jubilee was just coming to an end. Santo Toribio de Liebana is another one of the most frequently visited pilgrimage sites in the world, especially on the years of jubilee, like this year was. Apparently you can obtain special pardons.
This is one aspect of the Roman Catholic Church I've never understood.
Monday, May 12, 2008
78: What I Want To Do With My Life
One of the monks at Taize had encouraged me to ask myself what I wanted to do with my life. I wrote down the suggestion, and I doubt that I would otherwise have remembered it now because it had been so unpleasant to me that I had forgotten it soon afterwards. But I had now spent the walking day -- which, in spite of some pain, had been significantly better than the two days preceding it -- trying to keep returning to the question.
When Jona was chilling outside of Niniveh waiting for the city to go up in smoke, a vine grew near him and gave him shade. Then the vine died, and Jonah, lying in the hot sun and scorching wind, got to where he wished he were dead.
This sounds melodramatic. Over a vine. Over a hot day. But I go through far pettier melodrama every day. The smallest inconveniences trigger the response in me that I wish I had not been born. I notice that I've double-booked my Thursday afternoon and I have to call someone and cancel with them. I notice that my shifts begin at 5:30 AM the coming week. I have to ride my bike home and it's pouring rain and I didn't bring a jacket. That kind of thing. I sit there thinking, "why do I have to put up with being alive?"
I'm so glad that bit about Jonah is in the Bible. I'm so glad that Ecclesiastes is in the Bible, with its passages like
"And I declared that the dead,
who had already died,
are happier than the living,
who are still alive.
But better than both
is he who has not yet been,
who has not seen the evil
that is done under the sun."
Without such passages, I would feel very lonely. Many people around me pretend that I'm the only one who has such thoughts, so it is comforting to see that some of the heroes of the Bible were already saying these things.
But if this is the way I feel, then what is the point of asking what I want from life? Whatever I want from life is only my secondary choice; it's like the guy who gets drafted into military service being asked what he wants to achieve while in the force. Maybe he has some goals; but maybe his greatest wish is to go home and have nothing to do with the war. How can he get passionate about any of his military goals if his inmost wish is that he hadn't been drafted in the first place?
It feels like anything I do in life can be compared to that point in a sleepless night when you realize that you won't fall asleep anyway and you resign yourself to being awake. At that point lying in bed becomes unbearable; it is pointless when you know that hope for sleep is in vain. Maybe you start reading, or doing some paperwork, or cleaning up, or watching television. But the fact is, you don't really have a strong desire to do any of these things; it is just that the thing you would like to be doing is not being granted to you as an option, so you fill your time with other things.
In this life I have resigned myself to not being allowed to rest, and I fill my time doing things that I may have some half-hearted interest in. Sometimes the interest is a lot more than half-hearted -- sometimes it could even be genuine desire, at any rate something that I bite myself into with a frightening tenacity -- but that is always embarassing. It is usually some minor issue, like getting a new lamp at my workplace; or it is something sinful, like envy or lust; or it is something utterly self-aggrandizing, like world fame.
What do I want to do with my life? Not live. But since I have no choice but to live it, what do I want to do? Well, there's Option A or Option B or Option C and so on (one of the curses of our blessed Western upbringing is that infinity of options). I could do any of them. I may have bit more interest in some than in others, but I don't really want any of them. On a practical level I'm just looking for a way to pass the remaining decades without increasing the pain and bitterness unnecessarily.
I bet that wasn't the answer the monk had been looking for when he asked me the question.
When Jona was chilling outside of Niniveh waiting for the city to go up in smoke, a vine grew near him and gave him shade. Then the vine died, and Jonah, lying in the hot sun and scorching wind, got to where he wished he were dead.
This sounds melodramatic. Over a vine. Over a hot day. But I go through far pettier melodrama every day. The smallest inconveniences trigger the response in me that I wish I had not been born. I notice that I've double-booked my Thursday afternoon and I have to call someone and cancel with them. I notice that my shifts begin at 5:30 AM the coming week. I have to ride my bike home and it's pouring rain and I didn't bring a jacket. That kind of thing. I sit there thinking, "why do I have to put up with being alive?"
I'm so glad that bit about Jonah is in the Bible. I'm so glad that Ecclesiastes is in the Bible, with its passages like
"And I declared that the dead,
who had already died,
are happier than the living,
who are still alive.
But better than both
is he who has not yet been,
who has not seen the evil
that is done under the sun."
Without such passages, I would feel very lonely. Many people around me pretend that I'm the only one who has such thoughts, so it is comforting to see that some of the heroes of the Bible were already saying these things.
But if this is the way I feel, then what is the point of asking what I want from life? Whatever I want from life is only my secondary choice; it's like the guy who gets drafted into military service being asked what he wants to achieve while in the force. Maybe he has some goals; but maybe his greatest wish is to go home and have nothing to do with the war. How can he get passionate about any of his military goals if his inmost wish is that he hadn't been drafted in the first place?
It feels like anything I do in life can be compared to that point in a sleepless night when you realize that you won't fall asleep anyway and you resign yourself to being awake. At that point lying in bed becomes unbearable; it is pointless when you know that hope for sleep is in vain. Maybe you start reading, or doing some paperwork, or cleaning up, or watching television. But the fact is, you don't really have a strong desire to do any of these things; it is just that the thing you would like to be doing is not being granted to you as an option, so you fill your time with other things.
In this life I have resigned myself to not being allowed to rest, and I fill my time doing things that I may have some half-hearted interest in. Sometimes the interest is a lot more than half-hearted -- sometimes it could even be genuine desire, at any rate something that I bite myself into with a frightening tenacity -- but that is always embarassing. It is usually some minor issue, like getting a new lamp at my workplace; or it is something sinful, like envy or lust; or it is something utterly self-aggrandizing, like world fame.
What do I want to do with my life? Not live. But since I have no choice but to live it, what do I want to do? Well, there's Option A or Option B or Option C and so on (one of the curses of our blessed Western upbringing is that infinity of options). I could do any of them. I may have bit more interest in some than in others, but I don't really want any of them. On a practical level I'm just looking for a way to pass the remaining decades without increasing the pain and bitterness unnecessarily.
I bet that wasn't the answer the monk had been looking for when he asked me the question.
Monday, April 28, 2008
77: Walking to Güemes
The German man who was already at the pilgrim shelter was a strange one. He spoke a lot, and the conversation revolved around him and what a groovy guy he was. Even though his English wasn't that good, he refused to speak German with me. He had done the Camino and was now doing it backwards, mostly by bus, but still staying at the pilgrim shelters.
The character of the Camino is suffering from people who behave like tourists. It is generally frowned upon to be staying in the pilgrim shelters if you travel by bus or car. During high season the shelters are packed to overflowing, and sometimes people who have walked all day cannot go in for a shower and a bed.
Matthieu arrived much later. He had had no luck getting the ferry across to Santoña, and so he was spending the night here as well.
We all left at separate times in the morning. I followed the trail markers for a while, but I saw on the map that there was a great bulge in which the trail led to the place where the ferry would drop you off in Santoña. I didn't feel like doing that extra distance, so I headed generally westwards along the carretera hoping that I would eventually find the trail again further along.
This ended up leading to a full day of walking random country roads. I passed the ubiquitous construction zones, and walked on highways that weren't meant for walking. I took a lunch break in a village that had picnic tables in the shade. The roads and villages got smaller and smaller, which made it feel more and more like a pleasant nature walk. I stopped in one village to ask if there was drinking water, and they led me to a small fountain just outside. I took off my shoes and bathed my feet. I drank and filled up my water bottle. A middle-aged couple drove up and the lady got out with some water containers that she filled up at the fountain. We talked a little, I told her about the pilgrimage and asked her how far I still had to walk to Güemes. She didn't know kilometers, but told me it was not far. She left me with an admonishment that I should become a vegetarian.
I did eventually find the trail again. As circumstances would have it, there was that older Spanish couple again whom I had met in Castro Urdiales. We walked together for a bit, following a trail that grew fainter and fainter until all that was left was a trail marker boldly pointing into an open field.
The man consulted his guide book. "Yes," he said, "we just walk right across this field and join the trail at the other end."
But the other end of the field did not seem to have a trail leading from it. After a few failed attempts to find it, we decided to continue on the country road.
I let them continue walking when I found a park beside the road. There were some shady spots in the grass that looked promising for a siesta. But after laying there for over 40 minutes without falling asleep, I decided to walk on.
It was late afternoon, and everything was bathed in golden sunlight. There were green hills, there were pastures and fields, and sometimes the road led through a bit of forest.
This, I thought, was what I had imagined my pilgrim walking to be like. Beautiful landscape in the cool of the evening. Ever since Gernika I had always had a bit of a fear that if I walk too late, I'll arrive at the closed doors of an unattended shelter once again. So I had not taken afternoon breaks for as long as I had wanted to.
Even now I was a little afraid that the shelter would be closed by the time I arrived. It was evening when I entered the village of Güemes. An old lady was working in her garden. "Ya casi has llegado," she called to me.
I had spent the whole day thinking about what, ultimately, I wanted to do in life.
The character of the Camino is suffering from people who behave like tourists. It is generally frowned upon to be staying in the pilgrim shelters if you travel by bus or car. During high season the shelters are packed to overflowing, and sometimes people who have walked all day cannot go in for a shower and a bed.
Matthieu arrived much later. He had had no luck getting the ferry across to Santoña, and so he was spending the night here as well.
We all left at separate times in the morning. I followed the trail markers for a while, but I saw on the map that there was a great bulge in which the trail led to the place where the ferry would drop you off in Santoña. I didn't feel like doing that extra distance, so I headed generally westwards along the carretera hoping that I would eventually find the trail again further along.
This ended up leading to a full day of walking random country roads. I passed the ubiquitous construction zones, and walked on highways that weren't meant for walking. I took a lunch break in a village that had picnic tables in the shade. The roads and villages got smaller and smaller, which made it feel more and more like a pleasant nature walk. I stopped in one village to ask if there was drinking water, and they led me to a small fountain just outside. I took off my shoes and bathed my feet. I drank and filled up my water bottle. A middle-aged couple drove up and the lady got out with some water containers that she filled up at the fountain. We talked a little, I told her about the pilgrimage and asked her how far I still had to walk to Güemes. She didn't know kilometers, but told me it was not far. She left me with an admonishment that I should become a vegetarian.
I did eventually find the trail again. As circumstances would have it, there was that older Spanish couple again whom I had met in Castro Urdiales. We walked together for a bit, following a trail that grew fainter and fainter until all that was left was a trail marker boldly pointing into an open field.
The man consulted his guide book. "Yes," he said, "we just walk right across this field and join the trail at the other end."
But the other end of the field did not seem to have a trail leading from it. After a few failed attempts to find it, we decided to continue on the country road.
I let them continue walking when I found a park beside the road. There were some shady spots in the grass that looked promising for a siesta. But after laying there for over 40 minutes without falling asleep, I decided to walk on.
It was late afternoon, and everything was bathed in golden sunlight. There were green hills, there were pastures and fields, and sometimes the road led through a bit of forest.
This, I thought, was what I had imagined my pilgrim walking to be like. Beautiful landscape in the cool of the evening. Ever since Gernika I had always had a bit of a fear that if I walk too late, I'll arrive at the closed doors of an unattended shelter once again. So I had not taken afternoon breaks for as long as I had wanted to.
Even now I was a little afraid that the shelter would be closed by the time I arrived. It was evening when I entered the village of Güemes. An old lady was working in her garden. "Ya casi has llegado," she called to me.
I had spent the whole day thinking about what, ultimately, I wanted to do in life.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
76: Laredo
Matthieu parted ways with Lone and me. He was going to go look for a ferry on which he could cross the bay. It seemed like a sketchy proposition -- the guide book said that there was no schedule, just a man in a little boat whom you had to wave at and hope that he was looking your way.
Lone and I went to the tourist information center, which was still closed. I lay down on the grass to try to sleep, but it didn't take long until the information center opened. We went in and inquired about internet access and the local pilgrim shelter.
Internet access was free in a local cafe, but only if you bought something. And they only had one computer. Lone let me go first, and I wrote this blog entry and a few eMails. When I was finished, she was gone. I suddenly realized that I had taken a long time. I went to pay for my orange juice, but the waitress said that it had been paid for by the lady that had been sitting there.
Great, I thought. Not only did I rob Lone of her internet time, she also paid for my drink.
I sat down in a small park and wrote in my journal a bit while chewing on an apple. Then I went the remainder of the way to the next town where the pilgrim shelter was. Lone was already there. I showered, punctured my blisters, and went out again. There was a store and I bought bread, yoghurt, chocolate, tuna and an apple. These were rapidly becoming my staple foods. I walked to the seashore to find a good bench to sit on and eat.
My muscles and joints were so stiff and sore I could hardly walk. I looked like a cripple. I heard one woman say something to her child which sounded like, "watch out for that drunkard." I laughed inside.
I had expected to have a nice park bench picnic facing the sunset over the water, but I hadn't counted on the cold wind. It had been so warm all day. Now I was shivering, and couldn't really enjoy the view or the food.
Something's always imperfect, I thought.
Lone and I went to the tourist information center, which was still closed. I lay down on the grass to try to sleep, but it didn't take long until the information center opened. We went in and inquired about internet access and the local pilgrim shelter.
Internet access was free in a local cafe, but only if you bought something. And they only had one computer. Lone let me go first, and I wrote this blog entry and a few eMails. When I was finished, she was gone. I suddenly realized that I had taken a long time. I went to pay for my orange juice, but the waitress said that it had been paid for by the lady that had been sitting there.
Great, I thought. Not only did I rob Lone of her internet time, she also paid for my drink.
I sat down in a small park and wrote in my journal a bit while chewing on an apple. Then I went the remainder of the way to the next town where the pilgrim shelter was. Lone was already there. I showered, punctured my blisters, and went out again. There was a store and I bought bread, yoghurt, chocolate, tuna and an apple. These were rapidly becoming my staple foods. I walked to the seashore to find a good bench to sit on and eat.
My muscles and joints were so stiff and sore I could hardly walk. I looked like a cripple. I heard one woman say something to her child which sounded like, "watch out for that drunkard." I laughed inside.
I had expected to have a nice park bench picnic facing the sunset over the water, but I hadn't counted on the cold wind. It had been so warm all day. Now I was shivering, and couldn't really enjoy the view or the food.
Something's always imperfect, I thought.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
75: Pictures, between Castro Urdiales and Laredo
Matthieu disappears into the distance
Matthieu and Laredo (I must apologize to him for this picture, which is not really all that flattering to him).
Sunday, April 6, 2008
74: The Alibi
Is the pain worth it?
Well, what am I gonna do, turn back? Life is equally lame no matter where I go.
So why am I here, of all the places in the world where I could be equally miserable? Does the experience validate the difficulty?
It isn't that I'm a burden to the world. This talk about being a burden is simply an alibi. A justification. The fact is that I don't want to live. It doesn't seem worthwhile.
But I cannot easily admit that.
And why is that? It is because I cannot point at any great pain that I have to endure. I am not an African war child who has suffered nightmares of brutality from Day 1. I have not even lost a family member, I don't have any diseases or deformities, I do not live in need, I have not had to endure anything that could remotely qualify as "suffering".
But the smallest things -- really really ridiculous things -- make me wish that I weren't alive. Moments when someone disagrees with me and refuses to see my point of view. Moments when I lie awake thinking about the work load of the next few days and wishing I could at least face it in a well-rested state. Moments when I remember random hurtful things I have done to others. Moments when I realize that I probably have to walk this planet for a few decades yet, and that the good years are over. My default response to all this is: "I wouldn't be having this problem now if I hadn't been born."
Moments when I'm walking through a beautiful landscape with blisters on my feet, an injured knee, a heavy and un-ergonomic pack tearing my back in unnatural ways, and a collection of sore and stiff muscles.
It's not that the pain of my life is great; it's just that it's not worthwhile. I don't know what I'm getting in return.
Others would see a lot that I'm getting in return. They would say my life is great. They would go through much greater pain to achieve some of the joys that I take for granted. Others have very very difficult lives, and would gladly trade with me.
I know that, and it never fails to make me feel guilty. But it does not evoke my sympathy. If others' lives are more difficult but they want to live, then why should I feel sorry for them? They are in a transaction that, in spite of the price, they consider worthwhile. They are the lucky ones.
But I do not know how to make myself consider a transaction to be worthwhile. You either feel like you're paying a fair price for something or you don't. How can you make yourself feel the opposite? All my life I've been told to be thankful for what I have, but in spite of all my attempts I have never been very good at it. I've felt guilty for what I have -- I felt like resources were being unevenly distributed to favor those (like me) who have no appreciation for them -- but that is not the same as gratitude.
It seems that gratitude consists in part of realizing that you are the recipient of something good you do not deserve, and also in part of having the ability to enjoy this good. How do you achieve that? How do you learn to enjoy something? How do you convince yourself that you don't deserve it? By looking at the misery of those less fortunate than yourself? How do you convince yourself that they don't deserve something better? How do you do that without feeling guilty, and allowing the guilt to destroy your enjoyment?
I don't know what gratitude means.
Well, what am I gonna do, turn back? Life is equally lame no matter where I go.
So why am I here, of all the places in the world where I could be equally miserable? Does the experience validate the difficulty?
It isn't that I'm a burden to the world. This talk about being a burden is simply an alibi. A justification. The fact is that I don't want to live. It doesn't seem worthwhile.
But I cannot easily admit that.
And why is that? It is because I cannot point at any great pain that I have to endure. I am not an African war child who has suffered nightmares of brutality from Day 1. I have not even lost a family member, I don't have any diseases or deformities, I do not live in need, I have not had to endure anything that could remotely qualify as "suffering".
But the smallest things -- really really ridiculous things -- make me wish that I weren't alive. Moments when someone disagrees with me and refuses to see my point of view. Moments when I lie awake thinking about the work load of the next few days and wishing I could at least face it in a well-rested state. Moments when I remember random hurtful things I have done to others. Moments when I realize that I probably have to walk this planet for a few decades yet, and that the good years are over. My default response to all this is: "I wouldn't be having this problem now if I hadn't been born."
Moments when I'm walking through a beautiful landscape with blisters on my feet, an injured knee, a heavy and un-ergonomic pack tearing my back in unnatural ways, and a collection of sore and stiff muscles.
It's not that the pain of my life is great; it's just that it's not worthwhile. I don't know what I'm getting in return.
Others would see a lot that I'm getting in return. They would say my life is great. They would go through much greater pain to achieve some of the joys that I take for granted. Others have very very difficult lives, and would gladly trade with me.
I know that, and it never fails to make me feel guilty. But it does not evoke my sympathy. If others' lives are more difficult but they want to live, then why should I feel sorry for them? They are in a transaction that, in spite of the price, they consider worthwhile. They are the lucky ones.
But I do not know how to make myself consider a transaction to be worthwhile. You either feel like you're paying a fair price for something or you don't. How can you make yourself feel the opposite? All my life I've been told to be thankful for what I have, but in spite of all my attempts I have never been very good at it. I've felt guilty for what I have -- I felt like resources were being unevenly distributed to favor those (like me) who have no appreciation for them -- but that is not the same as gratitude.
It seems that gratitude consists in part of realizing that you are the recipient of something good you do not deserve, and also in part of having the ability to enjoy this good. How do you achieve that? How do you learn to enjoy something? How do you convince yourself that you don't deserve it? By looking at the misery of those less fortunate than yourself? How do you convince yourself that they don't deserve something better? How do you do that without feeling guilty, and allowing the guilt to destroy your enjoyment?
I don't know what gratitude means.
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