I am still a little dizzy at the novelty of being such a “light” traveler – after all, I am headed for a 7 week journey with only a backpack on my back – albeit a heavy one weighing in at about 20+ lbs. The recommended backpack weight is typically 10% of your body weight so that makes my backpack already about 7 lbs heavier than it needs to be. I have cleverly determined that the workaround to this is to increase my body weight so my backpack can stay at the recommended limit. My pack is a Deuter Futura Vario 45 + 10 and the empty pack alone weighs a whopping 5 lbs. Later, much later when I am a seasoned and anointed Camino-veteran, I realize that a 35 + 10 would’ve worked better. And later, much later – I am kicking myself for (even facetiously) thinking about increasing body weight – for wouldn’t you know it – I was the only person on the Camino who stood well away from the jubilant groups in Santiago who cheered and compared notes about how much weight they had lost and how they had to buy new clothes or (at least) belts to be able to keep their pants on! But back to the present…
I head to terminal 2A to catch Le Bus Direct and on the way make my first Camino purchase – the cheapest charger I can find at 20e! 🙁 At the bus terminal I am surrounded by clouds of smoke – I had forgotten how much the Europeans (especially the French) like their cigarettes. I ask a young man who is lighting his second consecutive cigarette where I can buy a ticket and he points me to a machine just inside the terminal. Price for a “Billet Simple” (one way) is 17e and I am happy to be able to use my credit card and conserve my cash stash. I have a one-way ticket from Montparnasse to Bayonne on the TGV and feel a fittingly speedy rush at the prospect of hurtling across countryside views. My research on
the distance and speed we’re covering today proves inconclusive as different sites have different data, but given that we leave Montparnasse at 12:52 PM & reach Bayonne at 4:46 PM, my calculations tell me that the train has crawled at a slow 125 mph when Wikipedia says it can go almost three times as fast. Oh well – at least I get to take some pictures of the windmills as they blurrily rush past my window – these windmills look like large pedestal fans with thin and weak blades spinning lazily (see picture above) and I miss the robust old-fashioned solidness of the quaint Dutch windmills that I was so used to seeing when we lived in Holland.
It is 4:46 PM exactly when the train reaches Bayonne with impressive punctuality. I have about 1.5 hours to kill before catching the next train to St Jean. I have downloaded an app called Trainline.EU that has my ticket information and all I have to do is punch in my reservation number at one of the self-service machines at the station to print my ticket. I didn’t have to do this with my Paris to Bayonne ticket as that e-ticket had a barcode I could just show the conductor. I use this app again towards the end of my Camino to return back to Paris and between this and the Booking.com app that I had downloaded just before leaving home, I have everything I need. But this is hindsight knowledge as I have a few other apps downloaded (maps.me, Eltiempo.es and another Camino map app that I cannot remember) in anticipation, but end up not using any of them.
As soon as I hop out the train I dredge up my rusty dusty cobwebby French and ask a shop-keeper haltingly “ou sont les toilettes monsieur” and
rush in the general direction not because I understand his response so much as follow the path of his pointing finger. I go to a stinky stained toilet that could have been situated in India. Bayonne Station and surroundings are seedy and decrepit.I am a little shocked at how run-down the town looks – for some reason I imagined that all towns and cities in France should either be bustling and chic and ooh la la or quaint and quietly pretty with cats sunning themselves and old men sitting on benches lazily smoking pipes or shuffling around playing Boules. The most exciting sight in Bayonne is THEM – fellow pilgrims – with backpacks and hiking poles – some with bikes – but all unmistakably “peregrinos” about to
embark on the same adventure as I. I sit down on the steps outside the station and take off my backpack.
I am sweating profusely in the hot sweltering sun and crunching on some over-priced Pringles that I have just bought. I make my first friend – Dorothy from Germany. She has a thick German accent – she too is traveling alone and she too, like me, is booked to stay at The Albergue Beilari at St. Jean. We exchange notes as I continue ineffectually mopping at my face and feeling quite dismayed at the prospect of walking in weather so steamily moist and muggy. There is a small church right outside the station and remembering my promise to Nippy (and myself) to visit as many churches as possible, I venture out into the hot, HOT evening leaving Dorothy to watch over my backpack. Inside the church, it is dark and I sit down on one of the pews and think thoughts that will/must pass for prayer – the same thoughts that I repeat at every single church I visit thereafter – thoughts about friends who have asked me to pray for them and their children, one friend who has lost her mother as suddenly as I have lost mine – culminating in the last one that is an appeal to “God” to help me go on without ma and an appeal to ma to give me a sign – any sign – that she is at peace and has forgiven me for all my thoughtless inconsiderations and “you still love me don’t you ma?” I cry inwardly begging to be held and consoled as a child again.
The pain of losing ma is still with me – unabated and undiminished. I thought that distancing myself from home and its many memories would
give my grieving mind a respite, but I find that the only difference it offers me is that of the various distractions in the form of people I meet or the occasional self-doubt at my Camino capabilities. The rest of the time my mind is raging and howling and still harshly grieving my loss. It takes me back to April 25th – to her bedroom. It’s the middle of the afternoon – 3:32 to be precise – and ma has been sleeping since noon. Twice before – once at 1:15 to tell ma that I was taking Sunny out for a walk – and once at 3 to tell her to wake up and have something to eat – I stop by her room. But both times she does not respond and I move on thinking she is in deep sleep. During the last few months, ma had become an insomniac – a nocturnal creature of the night who would owlishly fall into slumber only after the Sun had risen well in the sky and urged the rest of us on to our daily tasks. I was so loathe to disturb her that day – when she finally seemed to be sleeping so soundly. My mind continues to attack me relentlessly – screaming at me for not having woken her up earlier. It torments me and tells me how she would still be alive had I only checked in on her the very first time she didn’t respond. I wordlessly scream back at it to stop – that ma always slept with the comforter over her head and that it was very difficult at the best of times to see if she was asleep or awake. Cruelly it reminds me how my mother-in-law would tell me that she would go check in on my mother and assure herself she was still breathing by going up close and peeping in on her – like checking on a small baby. “WHY DIDN’T *YOU* DO THAT YOU UNTHINKING UNCARING FOOL” – my mind rages. “Isn’t it because you are always in a hurry to move on from one task to another and it was just convenient for you to let her keep sleeping until you had showered, walked the dog, had your own lunch, attended the meeting, and…and…a countless other things. How important do these tasks seem to you NOW huh…huh?!?!?!” My head drops in shame, regret and pain as I fully acknowledge the truth of these accusations – that maybe, just maybe I could’ve reclaimed ma from the big sleep if I had tried to wake her up earlier. I start crying – the flowing tears setting a pattern for every single church on the Camino that I will enter and every pew that I will sit on.
I assemble my face back into as much of a non-grieving, normal face as possible – one that hopefully looks like a pilgrim about to embark on a journey of a lifetime and doesn’t give away any of the tortured demonic mind within – one that I can use to present to the world without. I am a good face-assembler or Dorothy is not very observant, so I do not get any of the searching looks that I fear. It is now time to board the train to St. Jean – the ride is a little over an hour (6:10 – 7:15) – and here we are finally – the starting point of an 800 km walk and a place embedded with millions of stories of countless pilgrims.
St. Jean Pied De Port – that literally means “St. John – foot of the door/pass” is the starting point of the Camino Frances route and was actually
the old capital of the Basque province. I find out that the letters “Donibane Garazi” right below the “Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port” is not some twisted Spanish as I thought, but is actually the original Basque name of the town (village ??) Who knew!!!!
I follow Dorothy’s lead to get to Beilari – Saint Jean is not that hard to navigate – even for a directionally challenged person like me. I am excited because this is where I will be meeting up with Nancy from Canada. She had texted me on the Camino forum a few weeks earlier, after reading my post on how nervous I was at the prospect of walking alone. Coincidentally she was starting her Camino the same day as I and it was on her recommendation that I booked 2 days in Beilari, one day in Orisson and another in Roncesvalles. We had tacitly agreed that we would walk together until Roncesvalles and thereafter see whether we would want to continue or part ways. It all depended on the chemistry and the compatibility and neither of us was ready to commit sight unseen. In any case, most people on the Camino walking alone are likely seeking solitude and isolation.
Beilari is conveniently situated smack opposite the pilgrim office. When Dorothy and I enter, all the pilgrims are seated around a large table and introductions are underway. Nancy has been expecting me and immediately catches my eye and mouths “are you Sue”? I look across at her pretty face and nod smilingly back “hi Nancy”! It is exciting to finally be meeting up with someone that you have just exchanged online texts with. Josilu – the hospitalero is amiable and friendly and switches with admirable ease between Spanish, French, German and English. Oh what a gift and how I long to be able to switch languages and jabber just so some day!
We are asked to pick one of two different kinds of port in shot glasses and I (only half) jokingly ask if I may sample both. Josilu the amiable immediately becomes visibly a little less so and though his smile is still in place, I can see that it has lost much of its curve. Feeling duly chastened, I pick up just one glass and try to sip it instead of downing it like a shot. Josilu is introducing a game – with an imaginary pelota (ball) – that we must each throw to another pilgrim around the table. Everyone audibly groans as we all think that each time we throw the ball to someone, they have to tell us their name and we have to remember it and keep track as we play on. But apparently it is much simpler than that. We have to shout out our own name before throwing the ball to someone else. That’s easy enough and by the time we’ve played three rounds of this imaginary pelota throwing, we all know our own names very well. Josilu then asks each of us to think of a title for our Camino and we go around the table. I am only partly listening to others’ titles for I’m too busy trying to hurriedly drum up something and when it’s my turn – out pops “losing myself to find myself”. I am a little startled at this (seemingly involuntary) brain-power reserves and when everyone nods empathetically, acknowledging the solemn profundity of my title, I am vastly pleased at my own cleverness. It is now (finally) time for dinner – there is much laughter around the table – the ice has been broken – the port-sipping has warmed and mellowed us and the patio is buzzing with sounds of peregrinos catching up – “where are you from”, “do you have a return date”, “are you going all the way to Santiago” etc. Nancy immediately becomes a familiar Nance (and so remains until the end of the Camino).
I am thrilled to discover that the food is vegetarian and I don’t have to be that odd person out who has to make a special request. The chef is very attractive – her name is Elizabeth and she has moved from San-Francisco. Her husband is Basque and wanted to move back so here she is – serving up a delicious meal of Gazpacho, Beet & Brie salad, Chickpea & Tomato salad, vegetable Quiche and yogurt with Raspberries for dessert. And this time – unlike the port which was measured out in shot-glasses, the wine flows – copiously and continuously.
Beilari does not have wi-fi but thanks to my last minute switch from AT&T to T-Mobile, I have a data plan that is included in my subscription. I text D to tell him that I have reached SJPP and Beilari and that I am going to pop half an Unisom so I can get some sleep. D says – “quick – tell me how it is” and I respond “exactly like the movie” (referring to “The Way” of course).
Unisom is my friend – tonight and almost every night on the Camino I take half of the tiny little 25 mg pill and though it takes over 2-3 hours to work its magic on me, when it does take effect, I sleep like a baby. I had requested a lower bunk when I had made my reservations and Nance and I are in the same room – four bunk beds and both of us have lower bunks. Thanks to the magic pill and a long journey and the endless wine, I sleep so soundly that I have to be woken up at 7:30 by Josilu – we have to leave at 8 am so they can get the hostal ready for the next batch of peregrinos. Nance and I will be staying one more night – to recoup from our flight and to brace and fortify for the long walk ahead. Breakfast is bread, butter and jam – coffee and tea – and I tuck in as if I haven’t eaten in days.
