I asked a few passersby if they wanted a guitar, and they declined -- probably finding this just a little too weird. I thought that perhaps the best option would be to donate the guitar to a local church. I went to tourist information and asked what churches there were in Ondarroa. Obviously, there were several Catholic ones, but I had the feeling that they wouldn't have as much use for a guitar. I asked if there were any Evangelical churches in Ondarroa, and got a somewhat blank stare. She looked in her files and said that there was a Jehovah's Witness temple, is that what I mean? Oh, and there's also a lot of African sailors, and they have some spiritual get-together of some sort every so often.
Africans, I thought, and I asked where I could find them. She pointed me to a call center nearby.
After getting lost in the narrow streets a few times, I found the call center. The place was packed with dozens of African men and women placing calls to their families back in Ghana or Senegal or wherever.
I sat down with one of the men and asked him if he wanted a guitar. He seemed half-interested and half-suspicious, and I broke the guitar out of its case and sang a Bob Marley song. People gathered around and sang along.
When I was finished, I held up the guitar and said, "See? She's still pretty good. It's just that she's too heavy for me to continue carrying on this pilgrimage. If anyone gives me ten Euros, you can have this guitar."
One man gave me twelve Euros for it, and I walked out of Ondarroa feeling ten pounds lighter.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
37: pilgrim or busker, that is the question
I sat down on a bench at the entrance to Ondarroa. I needed to think.
What sort of trip was I making? I'd been cursing the weight on my back since the second day of this walk. I hadn't really used the guitar at all. My knee and my back seemed to be sustaining injuries from the feel of it, and it was only the 6th day. The guitar bag was falling to bits.
It is interesting to see what sort of expectations we bring to something, even when we try not to bring any at all. I had vague images of trotting from one Spanish town to the next, spending summer evenings playing the guitar on their plazas and making a bit of extra money and maybe doing some of what people sometimes call "connecting with people through music".
This was looking less and less like the trip I was actually taking. To be a busker means to be under no time constraints, to be flexible enough to spend some more days in one town if the pickings are good.
Certainly one could make a pilgrimage that was also a busking trip, but it would have to be a different pilgrimage than what this one seemed to be. This pilgrimage had me spending more time on muddy mountain and forest trails than in any towns. It had me hoping to walk at least 20 Kilometers a day. But with the walks, the scrounging for food and the constant weariness, there was not much time for making music.
So what was it going to be? Was I going to spend a summer wandering around Spain in a vaguely westward direction, hopping from town to town and playing my guitar in public places? Or was I going to concentrate on walking the Camino de Santiago?
Being a guy who hates either/or scenarios, I had been reluctant to make a final decision on this. I was still sure that I could do 20 Kilometers in a day even with a guitar on my back. I still speculated that these initial difficulties would get easier, and that eventually I'd find a routine in which there would be plenty of spare time to make music. I even considered that the extra weight on my back might enhance the pilgrim experience by being a form of asceticism -- like the pilgrims that carry a cross on their back. The guitar certainly served as a good symbol for the weight of music in my life.
But now the strap on the guitar bag had snapped off. It was certainly something that could be repaired, but with every new thing that had to be done in order to keep both options open I was getting more motivated to make a decision one way or the other. It was becoming clear that 20 Kilometers of trail every day with a guitar on my back would get to be a miserable experience after a while. I could cut down the distance and keep the guitar, and plan in more time for the pilgrimage. This is what my "free spirit" self wanted to do.
Or I could get rid of the guitar and concentrate on walking. This seemed less romantic. But I had to admit that I wasn't as good at busking in practice as I was in theory. I'd had some great times making music on the streets in the past, but that was almost always with someone else. Being the lone guy with a guitar always made me feel self-conscious, like I was impinging on people, putting mediocre music into their lives that didn't really enhance their day, and in fact served as an annoyance. It was a louder but not much more dignified version of panhandling.
I decided to get rid of the guitar. I pulled it out and sang one last song, then headed into town to see what options I could find for losing it.
What sort of trip was I making? I'd been cursing the weight on my back since the second day of this walk. I hadn't really used the guitar at all. My knee and my back seemed to be sustaining injuries from the feel of it, and it was only the 6th day. The guitar bag was falling to bits.
It is interesting to see what sort of expectations we bring to something, even when we try not to bring any at all. I had vague images of trotting from one Spanish town to the next, spending summer evenings playing the guitar on their plazas and making a bit of extra money and maybe doing some of what people sometimes call "connecting with people through music".
This was looking less and less like the trip I was actually taking. To be a busker means to be under no time constraints, to be flexible enough to spend some more days in one town if the pickings are good.
Certainly one could make a pilgrimage that was also a busking trip, but it would have to be a different pilgrimage than what this one seemed to be. This pilgrimage had me spending more time on muddy mountain and forest trails than in any towns. It had me hoping to walk at least 20 Kilometers a day. But with the walks, the scrounging for food and the constant weariness, there was not much time for making music.
So what was it going to be? Was I going to spend a summer wandering around Spain in a vaguely westward direction, hopping from town to town and playing my guitar in public places? Or was I going to concentrate on walking the Camino de Santiago?
Being a guy who hates either/or scenarios, I had been reluctant to make a final decision on this. I was still sure that I could do 20 Kilometers in a day even with a guitar on my back. I still speculated that these initial difficulties would get easier, and that eventually I'd find a routine in which there would be plenty of spare time to make music. I even considered that the extra weight on my back might enhance the pilgrim experience by being a form of asceticism -- like the pilgrims that carry a cross on their back. The guitar certainly served as a good symbol for the weight of music in my life.
But now the strap on the guitar bag had snapped off. It was certainly something that could be repaired, but with every new thing that had to be done in order to keep both options open I was getting more motivated to make a decision one way or the other. It was becoming clear that 20 Kilometers of trail every day with a guitar on my back would get to be a miserable experience after a while. I could cut down the distance and keep the guitar, and plan in more time for the pilgrimage. This is what my "free spirit" self wanted to do.
Or I could get rid of the guitar and concentrate on walking. This seemed less romantic. But I had to admit that I wasn't as good at busking in practice as I was in theory. I'd had some great times making music on the streets in the past, but that was almost always with someone else. Being the lone guy with a guitar always made me feel self-conscious, like I was impinging on people, putting mediocre music into their lives that didn't really enhance their day, and in fact served as an annoyance. It was a louder but not much more dignified version of panhandling.
I decided to get rid of the guitar. I pulled it out and sang one last song, then headed into town to see what options I could find for losing it.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
36: Pictures of Ondarroa
There's also a cool bridge in Ondarroa, but I didn't take a picture of it.
If you look closely, you can see some separatist Basque graffiti on the pier. You see a lot of that in this region of Spain.
There was a festival going on in town, and these huge puppets were dancing around in the streets.
Monday, August 20, 2007
35: the walk to Ondarroa
I did sleep better than I had since leaving Taize. This was hardly surprising, as it was the first night of the pilgrimage in which I didn't sleep either outdoors or in a cottage belonging to a sect that nurtures a habit of singing outside your window at 5 in the morning. One of the French pilgrims had already gone, and the other was packing up his things.
I took it easy, trying to get my clothes as dry as possible in the little centrifuge dryer. It was a tricky business, that dryer. Slight imbalances would cause it to jump around and hit walls and generally act like a merciless killing machine.
My guitar bag had a strap that kept coming loose, and I had had to mend it repeatedly over the last week. I tried to reinforce it with dental floss. I still mulled over the idea of getting rid of that guitar. It was proving to be a lot of unnecessary weight and hassle.
I ate the rest of last night's groceries for breakfast and eventually headed out. After yesterday's hike I felt that I needed a break from muddy mountain trails, and started walking along the carretera. I was going towards Ondarroa, which I had heard was a beautiful town but which wasn't on the regular pilgrim route.
The walk got annoying pretty soon, as I was on a twisted road that had no shoulder, where trucks would come barelling around corners and I, with my staff and my large pack, would feel like I was taking up too much space on the edge of the road. Maybe muddy mountain trails weren't such a bad idea after all.
Just as I was coming in to Ondarroa the guitar strap finally snapped off. Great, I thought. I was having enough trouble trying to carry the guitar in an ergonomic way even before this. This was something I would need to think through.
I took it easy, trying to get my clothes as dry as possible in the little centrifuge dryer. It was a tricky business, that dryer. Slight imbalances would cause it to jump around and hit walls and generally act like a merciless killing machine.
My guitar bag had a strap that kept coming loose, and I had had to mend it repeatedly over the last week. I tried to reinforce it with dental floss. I still mulled over the idea of getting rid of that guitar. It was proving to be a lot of unnecessary weight and hassle.
I ate the rest of last night's groceries for breakfast and eventually headed out. After yesterday's hike I felt that I needed a break from muddy mountain trails, and started walking along the carretera. I was going towards Ondarroa, which I had heard was a beautiful town but which wasn't on the regular pilgrim route.
The walk got annoying pretty soon, as I was on a twisted road that had no shoulder, where trucks would come barelling around corners and I, with my staff and my large pack, would feel like I was taking up too much space on the edge of the road. Maybe muddy mountain trails weren't such a bad idea after all.
Just as I was coming in to Ondarroa the guitar strap finally snapped off. Great, I thought. I was having enough trouble trying to carry the guitar in an ergonomic way even before this. This was something I would need to think through.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
34: shopping in Deba
I was starting to learn a few things about shopping while being a pilgrim in Spain. For one thing, the shops were all closed for several hours during the afternoon, so as not to disrupt the traditional siesta time. This meant that they were open later in the evening.
But there was another difficulty. As a pilgrim, I was traveling light. I had no cooking utensils, and I did not want to weigh down my backpack with food that would spoil or become an unnecessary burden. This meant that my eating options were limited. I realized, walking through the supermarket in Deba, just how creative and/or frugal I would have to be over the next month.
Yoghurt was only sold in four-packs, leaving me with the option of either overeating on yoghurt or carrying some of it in my backpack, where it made for a somewhat hazardous load. But I figured that buying it in the evening would be the best option, since I could finish two yoghurts tonight and two in the morning before heading out.
I also bought bread, and a tuna can, and a bar of chocolate. Fruit were to eventually become a problem. There were basically three categories: those that had to be washed (like apples), those that were a sticky mess (like oranges) and those that are sold before they are fully ripe (like bananas). Bananas were the most infuriating, since the other categories can be easily enjoyed wherever there's a water source around. But bananas are sold when they are still green, the idea being that you leave them in your fruit plate at home for a day or two before eating them. But of course if you don't have a fruit plate, you have to either eat them while they're green, or you lug them around in your backpack, which is another risky proposition for the rest of your backpack's contents.
The local library offered free internet access for a full hour, so I caught up on my eMailing and blogging. I spent some time looking for a shop where I could buy a hat, since I did not relish the idea of exposing my face to sunlight for the rest of this pilgrimage. I eventually found a Billabong hat that, for all its Australian outback look, also had that distinct floppy look of a traditional pilgrim's hat. The saleswoman seemed to be having trouble getting rid of these, because she let me have it for 12 Euros, even though the price tag said 18.
I returned to the shelter, tried to wash and dry some of my clothes, ate half of my food provisions, and tried to get back to sleep. I was still not happy about how the day had gone -- the very short night's sleep, the long walk through mud and rain and constant promises of rest "around the next corner", the mangling of my sleeping bag in a malfunctioning dryer, and being awakened from deep sleep by a pair of inconsiderate roommates -- but I was not really angry any more. I only hoped that tonight, for once, I'd be able to sleep well.
But there was another difficulty. As a pilgrim, I was traveling light. I had no cooking utensils, and I did not want to weigh down my backpack with food that would spoil or become an unnecessary burden. This meant that my eating options were limited. I realized, walking through the supermarket in Deba, just how creative and/or frugal I would have to be over the next month.
Yoghurt was only sold in four-packs, leaving me with the option of either overeating on yoghurt or carrying some of it in my backpack, where it made for a somewhat hazardous load. But I figured that buying it in the evening would be the best option, since I could finish two yoghurts tonight and two in the morning before heading out.
I also bought bread, and a tuna can, and a bar of chocolate. Fruit were to eventually become a problem. There were basically three categories: those that had to be washed (like apples), those that were a sticky mess (like oranges) and those that are sold before they are fully ripe (like bananas). Bananas were the most infuriating, since the other categories can be easily enjoyed wherever there's a water source around. But bananas are sold when they are still green, the idea being that you leave them in your fruit plate at home for a day or two before eating them. But of course if you don't have a fruit plate, you have to either eat them while they're green, or you lug them around in your backpack, which is another risky proposition for the rest of your backpack's contents.
The local library offered free internet access for a full hour, so I caught up on my eMailing and blogging. I spent some time looking for a shop where I could buy a hat, since I did not relish the idea of exposing my face to sunlight for the rest of this pilgrimage. I eventually found a Billabong hat that, for all its Australian outback look, also had that distinct floppy look of a traditional pilgrim's hat. The saleswoman seemed to be having trouble getting rid of these, because she let me have it for 12 Euros, even though the price tag said 18.
I returned to the shelter, tried to wash and dry some of my clothes, ate half of my food provisions, and tried to get back to sleep. I was still not happy about how the day had gone -- the very short night's sleep, the long walk through mud and rain and constant promises of rest "around the next corner", the mangling of my sleeping bag in a malfunctioning dryer, and being awakened from deep sleep by a pair of inconsiderate roommates -- but I was not really angry any more. I only hoped that tonight, for once, I'd be able to sleep well.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
33: the underachiever, part 2
Some people seem to be at a loss as to why such a high percentage of intelligent people end up working boring jobs and living mostly uneventful, anonymous lives. There are three theories I usually hear when this topic arises:
1. Intelligence comes in various types, and it may be that some of those who have an inordinate amount of one kind of intelligence can never fully put it to use because they lack another kind of intelligence.
2. Someone who is always told that he or she has great potential may start feeling a great degree of pressure, and may end up bottoming out and sabotaging the whole idea of achievement in order to be able to "breathe".
3. The joke is on everyone else. The real surprise is not that you have geniuses who work as bus drivers or school janitors, but that you also have perfectly intelligent people who opt for high-stress, high-responsibility careers and consider this more desireable.
Perhaps the primary thing that a pilgrimage does is to force you to face the questions you can keep brushing aside in everyday living, and the question of underachievement is one I've been brushing aside for years. I'm not a dramatic underachiever -- I'm certainly not a genius -- but there is no denying that I could be doing "better" than cleaning hotel rooms. But the fact is, I'm really not sure that I want to. I'm not convinced that doing something "better" would really be better. I hate having to explain it. And I hate thinking about it, because it gets me lost in the hopeless maze of trying to answer the question "so what do you really want from life, then?"
Nevertheless, this annoying question was on my list of questions to ponder while I walked.
1. Intelligence comes in various types, and it may be that some of those who have an inordinate amount of one kind of intelligence can never fully put it to use because they lack another kind of intelligence.
2. Someone who is always told that he or she has great potential may start feeling a great degree of pressure, and may end up bottoming out and sabotaging the whole idea of achievement in order to be able to "breathe".
3. The joke is on everyone else. The real surprise is not that you have geniuses who work as bus drivers or school janitors, but that you also have perfectly intelligent people who opt for high-stress, high-responsibility careers and consider this more desireable.
Perhaps the primary thing that a pilgrimage does is to force you to face the questions you can keep brushing aside in everyday living, and the question of underachievement is one I've been brushing aside for years. I'm not a dramatic underachiever -- I'm certainly not a genius -- but there is no denying that I could be doing "better" than cleaning hotel rooms. But the fact is, I'm really not sure that I want to. I'm not convinced that doing something "better" would really be better. I hate having to explain it. And I hate thinking about it, because it gets me lost in the hopeless maze of trying to answer the question "so what do you really want from life, then?"
Nevertheless, this annoying question was on my list of questions to ponder while I walked.
32: a rude awakening
I was in a deep, dark place.
Then there was a voice. Oh no, I thought. Shut up. It was distant and I was still very deep, but I knew what it was and what it would do.
It was a man's voice, speaking French. Relentlessly, as he spoke, my consciousness surfaced, in spite of all my attempts to keep it down.
It was too late. I was awake now. The two older Frenchmen were having an uninhibited conversation in spite of the fact that I was sleeping right there in the same room.
In my mind I was showering them with curses and insults, but I think my face and body only communicated a sort of aloof dignity as I climbed down from the bunk, got dressed, and walked out into the streets of Deba.
Then there was a voice. Oh no, I thought. Shut up. It was distant and I was still very deep, but I knew what it was and what it would do.
It was a man's voice, speaking French. Relentlessly, as he spoke, my consciousness surfaced, in spite of all my attempts to keep it down.
It was too late. I was awake now. The two older Frenchmen were having an uninhibited conversation in spite of the fact that I was sleeping right there in the same room.
In my mind I was showering them with curses and insults, but I think my face and body only communicated a sort of aloof dignity as I climbed down from the bunk, got dressed, and walked out into the streets of Deba.
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