Don's Camino

Today’s hike was about the same distance as yesterday’s, but with less elevation gain. It took 5 hours of strenuous hiking, not 10.

Difficult, but not as difficult as yesterday.

There were a few very long and steep climbs, but the real challenge was the terrain—long stretches of weathered stone, with no obvious foothold, complemented by loose gravel.

As I would learn, weather, elevation, distance, and terrain are perhaps the most important variables in any given stage of the Camino.

I was one of the lucky few to get a bed in Zubiri. I am writing this from the top bunk at an albergue (a kind of hostel for adults). The top bunk would not have been my first choice, but I was happy to have a bed.

The Camino is very busy this week. About 350 people started from SJPdP on the same day as me. Those who didn’t pre-book have to find a bench or a patch of grass by the river or hike to another town. Almost nobody hikes with a tent here, because of the weight.

My friend John from the UK was not able to get a bed in town, so is stuck with another 5km hike to the next village. He’s a strong hiker, so I’m sure it will be okay.

John is a very recently retired English as a Second Language teacher, who spent several years working in Spain. We have a running joke about the peccadillos of Spanish culture, such as the variable nature of distance signs. Sometimes a destination will be 5 km away, then 6, then 3, then 3 again. I imagined that this had something to do with elevation or GPS, but John thinks perhaps the Spanish engineers simply tend not to check their work.

The albergue is nicer than I expected. It’s in a very old building with rustic beams and stone walls. The co-ed sleeping arrangements are communal. 30 or so of the people (mostly women) in my area have traveled together from Korea.

I had my first pilgrim’s meal tonight, served at long tables with 11 of your new best friends. There was no common language in our group. I sat in the middle, and spoke French at one end of the table and English at the other. (Nobody could understand the Irishmen).

We played a game of “find St. James the Greater” in the mural on the wall of the dining hall. Not that easy, as there were two Jameses among the 12 disciples. Finally, we picked out the bearded figure with the staff and gourd, deciding he was the obvious choice. (James the Lesser had a smaller staff and no beard).

I hope I don’t have to climb down the spindly ladder in the middle of the night. I already have my earplugs in, as the night’s serenade of snoring has begun.

Tomorrow brings another 23 km hike, to Pamplona.

I thought today would be an easy travel day, but it took *all* day to reach the medieval town of Saint Jean Pied de Port, at the foot of the Pyrenees in Basque Country.

I had originally booked a train from Biarritz to Bayonne, then another one to here. 14 Euros, I believe, but it was a tricky, 10-minute transfer in an unfamiliar station. So I found another option, from a private company that provides transportation from Biarritz airport direct to SJPdP. A relative bargain at 29 Euros.

Oh, and the original train was cancelled due to “maintenance.” Both the French and Spanish train systems have been having a lot of strikes recently.

Not my favorite thing to spend an hour on windy roads in the back of a van with 8 other people. Several of us were a little green, but we made it.

SJPdP was the first place to get my “pilgrim’s passport” stamped. The line was long, but it marks the starting point. My passport will be full of stamps in a few weeks.

One of the passengers in our van was an older Swedish gentleman named Martin, who decided to go on this trip without speaking a word of Spanish. Or French. Or English. He tried to rely on Google Translate, but never knew what language to translate into, since they all sounded the same to him.

By the time I arrived, it was too late for lunch but too early for dinner. Restaurants in France open for dinner at about 7:30. By that time, I was ready for the huge shoulder of lamb the waiter brought me!

I wish I could have brought the leftovers with me. Tomorrow is a long hiking day, about 11 miles with 4,500 feet of elevation gain.

(Continuing the food saga, nothing will be open when I leave at 6:00 AM. There is a restaurant a couple of hours up the mountain, but then nothing until the summit. I tried to buy something à emporter (to go) this afternoon, but the concept seemed to be unknown).

Day 0 minus 1, technically, since I don’t start the actual backpacking until Wednesday.

My flight from SFO to Paris had all of the usual flight stuff, delays, crabby staff. My checked luggage—hiking poles you can’t take on the plane —didn’t arrive in CDG until much later with other supposedly oversized items.

My airport transfer did not show up at the airport, so I had to navigate the Paris RER system again for the first time in a number of years. I missed a transfer, but knew my way around well enough to get to the hotel on foot (poles and all).

Where I was greeted with, hello Mr. Proctor, so nice to see you again, but we were expecting you yesterday!

Undoubtedly my fault (international dateline and all), but as Victoria and I have stayed at the lovely Thoumieux in the 7th arr. at least 5 times together, and Jennifer at the front desk remembered me, she cut me some slack on the room mixup.

There are two restaurants at the Thoumieux, one a very nice brasserie and the other a celebrity-chef “gastronomique.” We’ve done the latter once or twice, but it is a 5-hour tour-de-force of crystallized, nitrogen dipped, frappéd, and who knows what other exotic food you might see on those TV food shows.

I believe I snookered Victoria into a plate of “cuisse de grenouille” (frogs legs) at a nearby restaurant the night we got engaged. But for *my* one night in Paris I wanted my favorite dish, ris de veau, proabaly illegal elsewhere, and the brasserie here no longer serves it.

The staff found a place nearby that featured ris de veau, but they don’t take reservations. Just go early (7:30) walk in, they said.

My main goal today was to arrive in Paris in one piece, and to stay awake long enough to get in GMT+2 time. So, mission accomplished.

Against all odds, I met another peregrino, a European man named Ronald who was perhaps 10 years older than me. He was also starting his Camino this week, but in Le Puy—1,400 km total, not just 1,000.

I had a nice long walk to the 16th C ruin of the Tour de St. Jacques near the Cité de Paris, not far from Notre Dame. French “perelins” often start their pilgrimage there, so I paid a visit.

I had heard a rumor that there was a brass “coquille” shell, marking the path to Santiago, in the vicinity of the ruin. Also, that some of the cafes or tabacs nearby could stamp your pilgrim passport. Sadly, I could confirm neither rumor.

David Downie, an American expat writer living in Paris, once left a signed copy of his latest book for me at a shop near the Jardin de Luxembourg. An earlier book, “Paris to the Pyrenees: A Skeptic Pilgrim Walks the Way of St. James,” was one of the inspirations for me doing this trip.

The Auberge Bresson that the hotel recommended did not in fact have any seating availability for dinner. I pointed out that I was the only one in the restaurant, but he said, it’s impossible, in an hour most of these tables will be full.

I explained that in America we often consume entire meals in less than 15 minutes, with our left hand only, while driving, and have no idea what we have eaten! In the end, I talked myself into a tiny table in the corner and surprised my host by finishing my ris de veau in under an hour, a near record.

The waiter rewarded me with a complementary Calvados. I will be coming back here! (Don’t worry honey they have other stuff too).