Camino de Santiago

Awhile back while researching walking holidays, I stumbled upon an ancient pilgrimage trail that runs through Spain. Intrigued, I mentally filed it away as a potential trip in the future.

A few months later, enjoying a summer at home and my free Netflix trial, I came upon a film about the very same pilgrimage, and immediately started streaming it.

Within minutes, it had confirmed my desire to walk the Camino de Santiago.

Loathe to put it off as a 'someday' adventure, I also decided that the following summer would be perfect: facing 30, it seemed like an opportune time for a bit of reflection.

Now, two months after the end of my Camino, I struggle with how to convey my experiences.

So I'm going to begin (with a little inspiration from high school English class) by sharing The Things I Carried. It seems silly, I suppose, to list such things, down to the clothespin, but when your material possessions are reduced to things on your back, everything takes on a more weighty significance – literally and figuratively. For everything must be carried, day in and day out, and those decisions made from the comfort of your living room will be resting on your shoulders for weeks.  The things you carry come with history, with stories, and then become part of the new chapters you write as you set forth, one foot at a time.

The things I carried:

• Backpack (35 liter Gregory, tested on the slopes of many a Japanese mountain)
• Keen hiking boots (those solid partners that kept me going for 42 kilometers, but failed to keep me dry, giving in after hours of rain and snow… they have now been forgiven… and given a new coat of waterproofing)
• 2 pairs pants (the gray pair a trusty companion in times of low-maintenance, such as a month overlanding in Africa, zipping off into shorts convenient for wet shower floors.
• 1 pair shorts (untested on the trail, but witness to the squall that sent Insatiable’s mast to touch the water)
• 2 t-shirts – (‘on sale’ on the top floor of L-breath, bought on two separate trips, and 2 colors in order to keep straight which one is clean)
• 1 long-sleeved shirt (one of those clearance rack finds that turns out to be the best thing ever, the sister to a green one, and paradoxically, I don’t want to wear it in order to save it)
• 1 fleece (bulky and heavy, but eventually necessary on cool, breezy evenings – and a great second pillow).
• 3 pairs underwear (2 fancy pairs, made for activity and quick-drying -  and one cotton pair that ends up held together with medical tape)
• 3 pairs socks (bought at three different times, three different kinds. They don’t dry fast, and end up flapping on my backpack more days than not;  the one pair bleeding pink from its embroidered text onto my liner socks and into the wash water).
• 4 pairs cool-max liner socks (worth the cost of shipping them from the states, but 8 becomes 7 before the trip is over. Still a mystery.)
• 2 bras (one for walking, one for evening. it's the little things.)
• 1 pashmina (a remnant from the desert, the favorite, the comfortable one, with a hole that indicates its slow decline)
• 1 pair Croc flip-flops (not the ugly crocs you are thinking of)
• 1 pair pajamas (5-dollar comfy capris from Seiyu+ an old cami.)
• 1 poncho (carried far, but worn only once, after the rainbow appeared across the valley).
• 1 pair gaiters (a new pair, after the old pair were so muddy they were deemed not worth cleaning)
• 1 sleeping bag liner (this bag has travelled far, brought from the US by Houli and slept in from Tanzania to Rwanda, Lake Superior to Leon).
• 1 pillowcase (to create a pillow out of almost anything). 
• 1 quick-dry towel (abandoned in a courtyard in Astorga, to be replaced in Sarria).
• Camelbak hydration system (necessary for the solo traveller to avoid looking like an idiot while trying to extract water bottle from side-pockets of backpack)
• small purse (my constant companion and holder of valuables)
• iphone + charger (so much more than a phone, responsible for capturing memorable moments and providing a soundtrack)
• earplugs (because snoring is never a pleasant sound)
• first aid kit (luckily, not needed for much – but the scissors were used extensively in the improvement of my walking stick).
• Headlamp (Used rarely, as I was not usually the only person up and rustling about)
• clothesline + 4 clothespins (the 2 clothespins I left at home were sorely missed, as my clothes went flying about the courtyard of an alburgue in Astorga, and they were also called into service to close bags of fruitos secos.)
• aluminum cup (perhaps not necessary, but one never knows when wine will be available).
• spork/knife in nifty carrying case (used for a few picnics, but too fun to abandon)
• toiletries: shampoo/body wash, face wash, face lotion, toothbrush, toothpaste, brush, body lotion, deodorant, concealer, razor, sunscreen. (The bare minimum to be clean, and not much else). 
• sunglasses
• deck of cards (used twice – to teach the Irish girls ‘99’ in Portomarin, and to beat Trent at Gin rummy on a sunny Ribadaiso evening).
• John Brierly guide to the camino (say what you will, it was useful)
• Information pack from Garry (each day’s map folded in my hip pocket, for examining in surprise – at how far I’d come or how far was left to travel).
• Journal (which, on day 1, I thought I had forgotten, and dropped to my knees, wrenched open my bag, and wondered if it was worth re-traversing the dreary pavement of Leon’s suburbs. Luckily, not a question I had to answer.)
• 3 writing utensils (the black pen, left along the way, at the edge of a medieval bridge in Molinesca, leaving me with the slightly smeary blue one)
• Stuff sacks to hold the afore-mentioned items (the green one bought on the day of my departure from Tokyo, on what must have been my 5^th trip to l-Breath).
• 1 walking stick (acquired on day two; beautiful but flawed, it was never meant for more than this)