Tag: Finisterre

Reverse Camino Day 8: Vilaserio to Castelo (part 1)

Published on by jenniferhofmann7 Comments

The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience. ~ Emily Dickinson

Total distance on foot: 15.2 mi / 24.6km
Towns traveled through: Cornado, Santa Mariña, Olvieroa, Negreira, Aguapesada
This day in 2013: Day 41 Negreira to Santa Mariña

First thing in the morning, the same condescending barista that checked me in last night is at the counter again. After a good night’s sleep, and no longer exhausted and weary from walking, I feel a desire to connect and discover her better nature, if she has one.

Approaching the bar, I glance at my watch and ask her, “Did you even sleep?” I see you. I see you working here night and day. 

A light sparks in her eyes. “Yesss…” A grin spreads across her face.

“It must be difficult working so many hours.” All that repetition, all those revolving pilgrims everyday.

“No, not too difficult,” she says, her body square with mine. Yesterday she talked with her back to me. “I am from here, in this village, and I am lucky to have a job,” she adds with softness.

There isn’t an ounce of impatience in her voice now. We’ve made a real connection, however momentary. Maybe we all just need someone to see us for who we are, to meet us where we are and just listen.

While she makes my café americano I ask, “Have you walked the Camino?”

“No,” she replies flatly. “I don’t like walking.”

“Me either.”

Surprised, she looks at me. “No? Then why are you walking?”

“I had to. I felt called to. I walked it three years ago, and it changed my life. Now I’m walking in reverse for gratitude.”

“Again?” Her slight frown shows I’ve given her something to think about. There’s something amazing about this pilgrimage. Maybe she’ll discover one day.

*   *   *

I am walking for gratitude, it’s true. But another part of my reason for returning to Spain to “go backwards” is to connect with the Divine. Emily Dickinson once wrote, “The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.” On my first Camino, I had several encounters with something vast and loving and far wiser than I. And, for whatever reason, those experiences don’t happen as often or as intensely in my everyday life.

So I’m back.

I suspect that many pilgrims have similar moments of pure peace, deep understanding, and euphoric joy. However, as I’ve read pilgrims’ numerous narratives about the Camino, I note with frustration how many skirt around describing those very ecstatic moments Emily Dickinson mentions. While we’re walking out there, our soul is open. One moment, you’re walking on the solid ground and, the next, something transcendent happens. What is that—and why don’t we find words to express it?

One reason I want to avoid describing these experiences is because they defy logic. Spiritual encounters don’t stand up to rigorous scrutiny—nor should they, perhaps. I just note with some humor that I’d prefer to reference science and data to support my theories.

The other reason is that I don’t want you to think I’m nuts, dear reader, and want to avoid being subject to your skepticism. However, in spite of these, I know firsthand that the Divine speaks—through messages, coincidences, through people and myriad creative channels. It wants to connect. I can’t say for certain what these encounters mean—except perhaps to confirm we’re not alone—but trusting them has led to wonderful changes in my life. Perhaps my retelling will inspire you to trust in your own experiences of the Divine, no matter how illogical, and inspire the healing and change you seek.

*   *   *

Years ago, when I began my own journey of emotional and spiritual growth, I awoke one sunny morning with a very real sense that I had a wing coming from my right shoulder. It was more like a nub, really, a radiant little bump on my scapula with the potential to be more. At this astonishing realization, I frowned and thought, What the heck? It’s not every day that one hallucinates a new appendage. Yet there was a rightness about it, not scary, but merely perplexing and completely out of my life’s experience. Huh… I have a kind of wing thing back there. And then I went on with my life.

A year later, I saw an angel intuitive (coincidentally also a fellow peregrina) who validated this awareness as a good omen from the Powers That Be. She encouraged me to trust it and be open to messages. In the time since then, especially when I’m feeling really open and joyful, I wake with the sensation that this energetic wing is still there, changing, growing in to a tiny fan of white feathers.

What the heck, right?

Whatever this sensation is, it feels like a sign about who I really am. Maybe we all have a secret truer self than we believe is logically possible. A gift. A superpower. A wordless connection with the Divine. Anyway, in the midst of daily living, they’re easy to overlook or brush off. It doesn’t mean you’re not a living miracle.

*   *   *

When I left Finisterre three years ago, it felt like ripping two vital parts of myself apart. While transporting my body back home to Oregon, my heart protested, saying over and over I’m not ready! A message I ignored. What else could I do but go home? However—and this is important—although I physically left Spain, my soul stayed rooted out on the rocks of Finisterre. In the intervening years of this painful split, I created a life my soul would want to return to.

Now, after three years’ absence, returning again to this place is emotional. A profound relief.

To finally stand on those rocks again is to know wholeness at last. I have retrieved what I lost. With no lost parts, no lingering questions, no division, everything in me feels united—body, mind, heart, soul.

Now I would walk my whole, holy self home.

*   *   *

This morning, walking with this inner wholeness, I feel amazing. Galicia is her stunning self. The early golden sunlight glows through the spring-green leaves of trees. Shadows and light play across the path through tunnels of moss-covered stones. How stunningly beautiful and magical everything is that I  stop walking just to absorb it, to really take it in. I don’t care that pilgrims stare at me in wonder. I am in love with the world, the glittering streams, the distant sunlit hills, and the whispery eucalyptus forests.

In the middle of this fragrant woods, I recognize a little dirt slope to my right with a small hole dug into it. It’s still there. Three years ago, Meg spotted a nest of bumblebees here in this very spot. We stopped and stared at them with delight as they bumbled along their happy comings and goings. Marveling.

I grin at the memory, overflowing with joy. Suddenly, I’m awash in memories of my stunned attraction to her and the bolt of energetic lightning that went through me in her presence in Santiago.

My soul opens to the ecstatic experience. As I walk, I feel taller, almost regal. Then, natural as anything, two gorgeous white wings unfold behind me, like they’ve been tucked up and waiting for the right moment to unfurl. The astonishing sensation of their feathered weight is accompanied by a sense of rightness. No more nubs and half-wings. There they are.

What Meg showed me, I now feel to the center of my being. It’s not just part of me anymore—something to be brushed off or tolerated—it is me. I am it.

I walk on toward Santiago, illuminated from the inside out.

Reverse Camino Day 5: Finisterre to Cee

Published on by jenniferhofmann14 Comments

My first day in reverse, attempting to find my way, and the insufferable Australian

Total distance on foot: 8.7mi / 14km
Towns traveled through: Finisterre, Sardiñeiro, Corcubión, Cee
This day in 2013: Day 43-44

What was it like to walk in reverse? That’s what I wanted to know too the morning I left Finisterre behind.

Before I could do this, I had to return Ruby’s bright pink blanket which she’d accidentally left with me the night before. It was still early, the sun barely up and a cool, damp wind blew off the Atlantic into Finisterre’s sleeping streets.

Looking up at her locked hotel, I noticed two men come out of the entrance. As I approached, they held the door open for me, but not without a quick, funny chat in English and Spanish. On my way out, the two men turned into six Spaniards and a young American from Chicago. We gabbed a moment and, as they smoked and laughed, the older Spanish guy complimented me on my English. His humor hinted at my rudeness, but when I’m tired, I’m unable to speak any Spanish or French. I’d offended, but not horribly. They waved me off with a rousing buen Camino!

*

The first thing I did was wander around the familiar town and look for the yellow painted arrows until I was sure I was on the path, but I then doubted myself over and over. The arrows weren’t as frequent as I’d imagined they’d be. Walking along the high road by the beach, I sensed this was the right direction. Without my compass, I couldn’t verify it. Over and over I wondered as I walked, Is this the Camino? Am I on it?  Any hope that I might remember the route from three years ago dissipated quickly.

Along the way, I passed several old men of varying girths out walking their tiny dogs on skinny little leashes. Whether or not I was on the Camino, they didn’t volunteer and I didn’t ask.

Eventually, the road led to a flagstone-and-concrete path just uneven enough to make walking difficult. Memories surfaced of being here with Meg and growing exhausted before we could reach the town. There wasn’t another soul around. I felt every pound in my pack. On one side, the Camino follows the contours of Playa Langosteira, a long, crescent-shaped white sand beach and on the other pine forest. It was so quiet, I felt a little spooked to be alone.

Here I was again, walking the Camino. When would reality start to sink in?

Then the path went up and up to a road in a spacious neighborhood, but I didn’t know where to go. Do I cross? Do I stay along the road? Go back? I stood still for several moments looking at all my options. My guidebook had real maps, but none large enough to show the minute detail I needed. The arrow painted on the asphalt was faded, but once I saw it, it couldn’t be unseen. Cross the road. This went on for hours. The uncertainty. The stopping. The anxiety. The sudden spotting of an arrow or cairn. More tentative forward (backward?) movement.

If I slowed down, took a deep breath, and waited a few moments, it was easier to find my way. This Camino was going to be a turtle’s race, not the hare’s.

*

At times, I did actually recognized the path. A cute little farm with a tall fence, a sweet orchard, and happy chickens in a coop made me smile, just like the first time. What a range of feelings I had three years ago, walking with Meg—scared, sad, torn, afraid of losing my joy forever. Other times laughing with her and feeling so happy. As I retraced my steps on terra firma, images and memories surfaced, returning with clarity and emotion like I had hoped they would. Rather than resist, I let all of it wash over me.

There was a single yet significant moment walking under the magical oak trees, when I sighed with unconscious contentment. In response, my inner voice asked, “Is this all you needed?” Yes. Yes, it is. After scrimping, planning, and anticipating this for so long—just walking—so simple, yet everything I needed.

*

As the day advanced, I encountered interesting characters along the way.

Chloe from Montana said, “Of course there’s an Oregonian walking the Camino backwards!”

Irma from Holland—when I offered her one of my handmade inspiration cards—told me just how perfect the message was for the question she’d been pondering. She teared up. Then she asked a little breathlessly, “Are you an angel?”

A cute young man from NY and a raven-haired dancer from the UK were walking together. We chatted for a bit, and despite the ring on his left hand, he had that wistful look I recognized so well. The end is coming. Are you living the life you want?

At lunch, I sat with a twenty-something guy from Cork and a woman from Germany—both of them employed in law enforcement—who questioned me with increasing intensity about Benghazi. It wasn’t until they left I realized I’d been holding my breath the whole time. Plot twist: the guy paid for my lunch and hugged me goodbye. What was that? 

One German guy went on and on about the daily distances he’d walked the whole journey. Rattling off each day’s mileage as though from a spreadsheet in his mind. Now that he was nearing the end, was he examining how well he’d done? Did he have something to prove? Was he starting to question that this walk might be about more than just distance?

*

In Cee, I was walking along the road as the sun got higher. Even though I’d lost the official Camino, passing the houses with their whitewashed steps and pots full of red geraniums was scenic and pleasant. I was planning to stop here for the night, so I wasn’t stressed about the exact route. You just go all the way around the tiny harbor, then up the hill on the other side. At the top and almost completely out of Cee, I stopped at an albergue for the night. Even though it was only about 2pm.

I’d survived my first day of walking backwards. It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared.

*

If you ever want to connect with locals, show up at a privately-owned albergue just as they open to pilgrims in the early afternoon. As the sole peregrina for almost an hour, Pedro gave me the royal treatment. He let me choose whatever bed I wanted. He offered me beer. He helped me operate the laundry spinner and then re-hung my clothes when the rack blew over.

Later, when I was clean, we chatted for a long while about pilgrimage (he’s done many sections of the Camino himself) and about how it changes your life. How simple it is. How deeply satisfying. His albergue offered complimentary sheets and towels because he’d learned how precious those were as a pilgrim. By late afternoon, we were buddies. I was even translating for Pedro when non-Spanish-speaking pilgrims showed up.

*

Which, I’m sorry to say, made it all the more awful when the Annoying Australian Woman arrived. I should have kept my mouth shut, but she and a friend peeked in trying to decide whether to stay, and I piped up with, “It’s a great albergue! They even have towels!”

Entitled. Demanding. Snappish. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand how someone could have walked the Camino so long and not gotten the message that “the traveler demands, but the pilgrim is grateful.” Over the course of the next few hours, she would interrupt me while I was talking to others, resting, and journaling to say things like, “Tell him I want some food.” and “Why should I have to know how to speak Spanish?” and “You know what kind of hill you have tomorrow?!” (And to think I’d only been worried about that for months.)

I could not shake this grumpy, demanding character. Her friend seemed to have the patience of Job. AAW napped for a while and when she woke, she was a ravenous dragon. She complained to me that there was no restaurant at the albergue, nowhere nearby to eat (except two places she didn’t like the looks of), that the heat-and-eat options available for purchase weren’t her normal preference, and that she couldn’t understand the Spanish directions on the noodle package (this, despite me pointing out the handy picture diagrams, “Oh, I can’t be bothered with that!”).

“Does she want me to make it for her?” Pedro asked me in Spanish. I bristled and didn’t want to translate his question. It’s not his job to be kind to this rare bird! But when I did, she said yes. In astonishment, I watched as he prepared the soup, set the table, and served it to her—and she didn’t thank him. She ignored him like low-life servant!

Later, she complained to me that there was no heat in the albergue, though it wasn’t cold and ample blankets were available. “I don’t know what to tell you,” I said, mustering the last ounce of patience I had.

“Well, you sold me on this place.”

Are you kidding me?? Of all the blaming, victimy, passive aggressive, fill-in-the-freaking-blankety-blanks…

“You know?” I paused to regain my composure. “I’ve had a hard day too. I need you to cut me some slack.”

“Oh. Well, there was another girl who spoke Spanish who told me she wouldn’t translate for me anymore.” And do you wonder what the connection might be??

*

Escaping to the patio in front, I passed Pedro and said in Spanish, “What a pilgrim! I’m so sorry about this woman. You have amazing patience.” He grinned at me, the tiredness visible in his eyes.

I missed home. I missed Mary. I thought of Nancy whose quote was pasted on this day’s journal page, “May flowers spring up where your feet touch the earth. May the feet that walked before you bless your every step.” (Macrina Wierdekehr) Seeing these words made me a little misty. This is the experience I want to be having, not dealing with this demanding snip. Could there be some message here for me?

But then a kind man from Ireland joined me, and we had a great chat about what he’d learned now that his journey was ending… and why I had returned after three years to walk the Camino again. This was more like it. My clothes dried in the breezy sunshine. I wrote in my journal uninterrupted and sipped a glass of wine, feeling grateful for life.

*

In the morning, I stiffened when the Australian woman sat down across from me on the couches as we tied our respective shoelaces. She looked at me in the eye and said, “I hope you have a wonderful Camino. Truly.”

Then she thanked our host.

This proved to me, once again, that you cannot know another person’s heart. No doubt, I was definitely back on the Camino.

A Finisterre finale

Published on by jenniferhofmann8 Comments

Arriving at the end and making a new friend

For all my elation at arriving in Finisterre, I woke up exhausted and grouchy. The echoing marble hallway outside my room amplified the conversations and activities of every guest entering into the wee hours of morning. At six, chipper early birds woke me, and I jumped out of bed, irritated and scowling.

Here’s what I know, though. If sleep deprivation makes me more reactive, it also makes me more open, more sensitive, and more attuned to the world around me. Not getting enough sleep breaks me down in an ultimately good way.

I still have no idea how walking backwards is going to work. I’m nervous about it. But I’m not going anywhere today. I’m staying in Finisterre to visit the old haunts.

Here’s my list:

  1. Get wine and snacks for sunset
  2. Visit the pilgrim office to get my stamp
  3. Send an email home to say I arrived safely
  4. Find a new compass
  5. Walk around the isthmus and visit the beach
  6. Watch the sun set and have a cup of wine

*   *   *

Yes, I’ve come all this way and somehow forgotten my compass. It was just a tiny plastic one with a dial floating in alcohol, but it reassured me that I could get back on track if I got lost. Well, it wasn’t in my pack this morning. I can’t believe I forgot it.

As I walk through the village, I notice a Chinese market. Other pilgrims have told me these eclectic stores are worth a visit.

The tightly-packed shop is full of randomly-organized imports like children’s pajamas, women’s swimsuits, oversize pool towels, pots and pans, assorted packaged food, cheap earrings, gardening supplies, mops, and toys. Squeezing my way to the back, I spy a display with hanging air fresheners, oven thermometers, and—lo and behold—a compass! I pick it up for closer inspection, and discover that instead of north-south-east-west, its directional points are Chinese characters. Dozens of them. What the..? There’s no way I can use this. Even if the arrow technically points north, this would not help me in a freaked-out moment of disorientation.

Carrying it to the lady at the counter, I ask hopefully, “Tienes otros?”

She shakes her head.

Returning the gadget to its hook, I exit the tienda compass-less—with no direction—which is coincidentally how I felt at the end of my last Camino. Despite my disappointment and anxiety, I feel a gentle resignation—or is it trust?—that this is how it’s supposed to be. I’ll find my way. Just a different way. Whatever I need will be provided.

*   *   *

The right people just show up. They always do.

After eating my first filling slice of Spanish tortilla and savoring a café Americano, and after receiving a stamp in my credencial at the pilgrim office, the right people just show up.

I get a warm embrace and kiss on both cheeks from the woman running my pensión (for giving her a bar of chocolate from Oregon), and she lets me use her computer to email a message to Mary.

I see the two American girls I met on the bus ride yesterday, and they give me a friendly hello.

I run into the restaurant owner where I ate this morning. When I mention I want to buy wine, he tells me to avoid the supermarket.

“Quieres un vino barato or caro?” he asks, rubbing his fingers together in midair, making the universal symbol for money.

“El medio,” I reply with a grin.

“Vale. Ven conmigo,” he instructs and waves me uphill. I follow him back to his now-closed-for-siesta restaurant and buy a nice bottle from his stock. Thoughtfully, he hands me a few plastic cups and even pops the cork, since I have no opener. Yes, he’s probably charged me twice what locals pay, and I really don’t care. The Camino provides.

Despite feeling a little ridiculous walking around with a open bottle of wine sticking out of my pack, I am now prepared to toast the sunset and share wine with whoever shows up.

Finally, I meet Ruby.

*   *   *

The sand couldn’t be whiter. I squint myself teary descending toward the watercolor surf of aqua, turquoise, and cobalt. The sun overhead is warm, but counterbalanced by a cool breeze from the ocean. The last time I was here, Meg was with me. When we walked the beach that time, I struggled to breathe as pneumonia set in and struggled to prevent my emotions from overflowing. Here I sang the song I had been planning for two years, reduced to tears by confusion and fear.

Let me dive into the water, leave behind all that I’ve worked for—except what I remember and believe.

And when I stand at the farthest shore, I will have all I need.

And now I’m singing it again as tears roll down my face. I knew this moment would come, but I’m still surprised by the intensity. Long-withheld sobs escape my will to contain them. Meg. Thank you for showing me how to live. I had all I needed inside of me all along. 

I know have to let her go. She was so important to me then, but I have to let her go. It’s not healthy to make someone into an idol. I’m not ready yet, but realizing the time is nearing fills me with sadness and a kind of relief.

Minutes pass as I allow the waves to soak my legs, washing over me, cleansing, healing. Everything I need is already inside of me.

Sitting in the soft, hot sand, I lose track of time. I still can’t believe I’m back. Sifting through the glittering grains, I see myriad tiny shells that have washed up with each wave. I hear heavy breathing and look up to see two huge dogs racing toward me, barking and snarling. I leap from the ground and yell at them NO! Their owners, a distance off, call to them. One runs back, but the other holds his ground, hackles up and growling. NO!! I yell again. NO!! The owners whistle, and the dog leaves, glaring back at me as he goes.

My legs feel like rubber. I sit down on the sand again, shaking. Jesus! I usually like dogs and get along with them. Why did I seem so threatening to that one? Minutes pass before I feel settled again.

My only plan now is to watch the sunset, but I’m really hoping for emotional closure before I start walking tomorrow. There are hours before I head over to the lighthouse.

As I look absently at the beach, I notice a tiny orange scallop no bigger than my thumbnail. Then a second one. Symbols of baptism and rebirth. I gather up some sand and put them in a plastic baggie for safekeeping. I’m going to carry these home with me as evidence, just like ancient pilgrims once did, that I walked to the end of the earth and survived the return journey.

As I scoop up sand, a woman wanders along the shoreline and then comes up the beach in my direction. I’m not feeling chatty, but she looks at me with a beautiful smile and says hello in English.

“I saw you sitting there looking for shells, and decided to come talk to you. Shell collectors are my favorite people.”

I smile. “Hi. I’m Jen from Oregon.”

“I’m Ruby from all over. Mind if I sit?”

Instead of the superficial conversation I feared, we dive into topics that really matter to the heart and soul. She is just finishing seven weeks of walking and has had a truly profound experience. Ruby is actually from three different countries—a true citizen of the world—and is healing old wounds in this walk. She shares that she met someone special on the Camino, but it is over now and is wondering what it all means.

“I can relate,” I tell her.

“Oh?”

“I met someone special too.” And take my time telling her the story of my three-years-ago Camino, about meeting Meg and the profound awakening that followed. “My life fell apart afterwards. It was a slow and painful journey, but eventually I learned how to open my heart and live that joy.” As I recount this tale, she remarks how my story parallels her own journey’s insights. She really understands.

“The Camino changed your life,” she says.

I sigh with relief. “It really did. I’m not sure why you showed up, Ruby. But I really needed to share this story, and feel so grateful for your listening.”

Smiling, she says, “I’m so glad I walked up to you. I just had a feeling.”

Instead of parting ways, Ruby proposes we go back into town, get some dinner, and then go to the lighthouse for the sunset. “I also really want to pick up some prosecco to celebrate,” she adds.

I’m torn. On one hand, I really wanted to do this alone—or at least I thought I did. And I tell her so.

“Spend a minute reflecting,” she says encouragingly. “You’ll know what you need.”

In a flash, the realization hits me: I don’t want to be alone. All my life, I’m keeping myself just out of reach of everyone who loves me. Isn’t this what I learned from Meg? If I want connection, I need to live it.

“Let’s do it,” I say. She grins.

On our way up the beach, the dogs leave us alone.

*   *   *

We eat, and laugh, and walk up to the highest peak to look down on the lighthouse. We descend to watch the sunset as we talk about all we’ve learned. We share my wine and her prosecco with the people around us. Hearts from all over the world are here tonight in the fading light to celebrate the end.

And in the silence of the fading day, I realize that’s all it was. That day three years ago was just a day with Meg at the end of a very, very long walk. It was not unique because sunset-watching happens here daily. It wasn’t Meg, or the place, or something ephemeral and out of my control—what was different was me. I chose to let my self-protective shield fall away for the first time in my life. I allowed my receptive, joyful, radiant heart to blossom open in the presence of another person. It was never outside of me. It was always within me. 

Yet we all make choices to dim our light. The threat of alienating my loved ones with my newfound joy and aliveness seemed too risky at the time. With titanic effort, I masked my authentic self for months—with predictable consequences on my marriage, my livelihood, and my sanity. It seemed like a safe trade-off then, but time has made me wiser.

Ruby and I laugh together, enjoy the ocean sounds and stars, and say goodnight to the pilgrims around us. Under a waning moon, we walk back arm in arm to our respective abodes for sleep. I repeat to her how grateful I am, and we agree that we’ve been Camino angels for each other today.

The right people always show up.

I feel whole. I feel grateful for everything. To the very core of my being, I know this joy is mine to carry with me on the path ahead, just like the scallop shells in my pocket.

Reverse Camino Day 3: Finisterre, finally and forever

Published on by jenniferhofmann2 Comments

A hard-earned, much-anticipated homecoming

Total distance on foot: 0mi / 0km
Towns traveled through: Dublin (airport), Santiago, Cee
This day in 2013: Day 46: The beginning of the end: Finisterre to Santiago

Now that Dublin’s given me an advanced degree in getting lost then found again, today’s journey will take me by plane, bus, and on foot to Finisterre—a tiny fishing village at the west end of the Iberian Peninsula. It will be hours of travel, lots of waiting, awkward connections, and at the end, a tight timeline to check in at my pensión. After a few days’ rest, Finisterre will be the starting place for my reverse Camino.

Although I’ve been to Finisterre before, it was a deliberate choice to stay somewhere unfamiliar, different from where Meg and I stayed three years ago. For distance. For understanding. To honor a precious memory. If all the connections go well today, I’ll arrive just after sunset and find my pensión in under thirty minutes before they lock up.

From Dublin to Santiago de Compostela

While waiting for my flight at Dublin airport, I strike up a conversation with a friendly-looking woman sitting beside me. Margaret is from Dublin and going to volunteer for two weeks in Santiago’s pilgrim office. She seems confident and no-nonsense. She’ll do a great job awarding compostellas to recognize each completed pilgrimage.

Before boarding, we swap contact information. She tells me, “When you get to Santiago, come look for me in the office—we’ll get coffee!”

From SCQ airport to the Santiago bus station

I’m always grateful when flights are uneventful. We land with no issues, and I can hardly believe I’m here. In Spain. After three years away.

Margaret and I walk out to the ground transportation area. The air is oppressively warm—even in the shade of the airport’s vast architectural cover. A huge crowd forms around the stop where the shuttle takes people to the city center. We wait. Everyone is talking loudly, smoking, standing closely, and managing to look both testy and bewildered.

A coach bus pulls up where we stand, and I reasonably expect to board. The driver takes one look at the crowd and tells us to move to a another spot about forty feet away. A rumor forms in the crowd that another bus, our real bus, is coming shortly. Ten minutes later, the same driver waves the group to his bus to board. For the second time, I lose my place in line as the disorderly horde moves back. Nothing makes sense.

The bus fills completely. As we roll toward Santiago, I’m hot and jetlagged and in a mild state of shock. Is this real? From the bus, even the sunlight is disorienting—brighter due to our proximity to the equator. It blanches everything from car hoods to recycling bins, casting inky shadows where it longs to reach.

On the way, we pass purpose-built buildings of cinder block and stucco with red-tile roofs. Hillsides are lush and verdant, but not even weeds dare to grow in the pavement of the small villages we pass. These two-second villages reflect the sun’s intensity from concrete sidewalks and two-story buildings, until the green countryside appears again.

The realness of it begins to land when we arrive at Santiago’s bus terminal. I remember it from the last time, this uninteresting, three-story concrete terminal smelling of diesel. Oddly, there is no clear place to buy tickets. As passengers disappear, I look around the vacant, echoing station, and my eyes follow a set of stairs to the second story. A janitor is working overhead.

“Perdon, señor,” I muster my best Spanish as I ascend. “Donde se puede comprar los billetes?”

He looks up from sweeping, his navy blue overalls immaculate despite the surroundings. Pointing his index finger heavenward, he says, “Go up the elevator one more floor. There you can buy your tickets.”

Sure enough, there’s another long, cavernous room plastered with posters and time tables, every wall lined by counters with closed windows. No one is there. It’s siesta time. At the very end, a single window is open. As I approach, a lanky, dark-haired young man looks up at me unamused.

“Sí?”

“I want to buy a ticket to Finisterre,” I say.

“Para hoy?” Today?

“Sí.” He tells me when the bus is leaving. I nod my assent.

“Ira, o ira y vuelta?”

Bwelta. Bwelta… I should know this vocabulary, but I can’t think. Looking at him, I stammer, “I… uh, I want to win Finisterre.” This is obviously not what I meant to say. I just want a bus to Finisterre.

“Okay. Twenty seven euros.” I pay in cash. Only later do I realize he sold me a round-trip ticket. Ira y vuelta.

With almost three hours to kill before my bus boards for Finisterre, I consider going out to explore Santiago, get something to eat, but decide to wait here. With plenty of snacks on hand, I reason, there’s no need to spend extra money. And besides, I really want my arrival in Santiago to be on foot a few days from now. Right now, I’m just passing through to the ocean.

Foregoing exploration, I buy an orange Fanta from a nearby vending machine and sit on a bench with my snacks. There are no buses and no people around. It’s pleasantly quiet. In my journal, I sketch the side view of a parked bus; its rounded glass front and antennae-like mirrors give it the air of a giant white bug.

The janitor walks by, and I raise my hand in a small wave. “I have my ticket. Gracias por la ayuda,” I thank him.

He nods with understated pleasure. “Your bus will be here at 7pm. At number 11,” he points to the bay numbers and raises his eyebrows to ask, Do you understand?

“Muchas gracias!” I say, smiling.

From Santiago’s bus station to Finisterre

I just can’t believe I’m here.

As the bus rolls out of town, I catch a glimpse of the cathedral, see a few pilgrims walking along the road, and even spy a sign marking the Camino path as it intersects the road. Then familiar landmarks fall away, and it’s stop after stop until it seems like we’re never going to leave the city.

But we do. It’s evening, and the light is still bright as we make the insane zig-zagging journey across the west-most part of Spain toward the ocean. Spanish buses are consistently efficient, clean, and almost brand-new, putting American long-distance bus companies to shame.

Unfortunately, the passenger experience on this trip is not for the faint-hearted or those inclined toward motion sickness. The roads are narrow and winding. When cars approach in the opposite lane, our driver slams on the brakes. When the coast is clear, he guns it—even around the tightest of corners. I hold the seat in front of me and make the best of the three-hour ride.

Two college-aged girls are a few seats in front of me, talking animatedly in bright, open-voweled accents. I’m sure they’re American. An overweight, heavy-breathing Spanish man moves to sit in the seat behind me. I turn around to see who it is, and he leers. I scowl and turn my back. He’s giving off that vibe men have when they see women as objects rather than people, certain that foreign women are “easy.”

After my cold-shoulder treatment, the guy moves again and sits behind the American girls. As the miles pass, he starts peering between their seats as they’re looking at photos on their phones. I wonder if this creep thinks he’s going to get lucky, leaning forward, trying to catch their eye.

This won’t do.

I talk over his head, “Hi ladies! I keep trying to guess where your accent is from!”

They laugh, and we start a conversation. I move up beside them, and we talk about how they’re from Michigan, doing a semester abroad to Spanish in Salamanca, and decided to take a mini-vacation to Finisterre for a few days. They ask for suggestions of places to see. After apologizing for the intrusion on their conversation, I tell them I was looking out for them because of the creepy dude.

“He was like breathing over our shoulder,” one said.

“Just wanted you to know I’ve got your back,” I say. They seem grateful. Our conversation fades, but the guy moves to the front of the bus and gets off a half-hour later.

Back in my seat, I stare—stunned—out the window at a sight I remember: The Atlantic. The relentless wind whips the jet-blue waves into a froth all the way to the distant, misty horizon. Even viewed from the climate-controlled bus, this ocean and the moon slowly rising whips up a frenzied longing inside of me that I’m trying hard to allow. This scene is in the very marrow of my bones, part of my spiritual DNA. We’re so close to Finisterre now. This is where I left my best self behind, and where I will reclaim her once again.

From the Finisterre bus stop to my pensión

I’m here. I’m here. At the very edge of town, I stand in the fading twilight. I’m looking across the cove to the pensión where Meg and I stayed, feeling a mix of bittersweet emotion and gratitude. The wild wind whips through the palm trees above, through my hair and clothes, chilling me and making me feel so very alive. I’m really here.

Over the last three years, I can’t admit how often I have thought of this place. Visited so often in my memory, it started to seem like a place out of time, just a vivid imagining of my soul, but now the screaming gulls, the extraordinary air, and the rocks pushing against my soles tell me: I’m home. I’m home.

I’m also lost, and it’s almost dark. Making one last tour of the village, I finally locate the pension where I made my reservation. My host walks me down the street, hands me the key, and I spend the next eight hours swamped by vivid dreams and a heart full from homecoming. I’m really here. I’m really here at last.

Exciting almost-news about my 2016 pilgrimage

Published on by jenniferhofmann4 Comments

Oh, wow. I have news! Well, it’s almost news. Technically, it’s not-quite-for-sure-yet news, but a conversation today took a next step into discussing actual dates and locations. A thing! It’s moving from the realm of “wouldn’t that be nice?” into “OMG, this might actually happen.”

What on earth are you talking about, Jen?

Well, I had a lovely catch-up Skype session with one of my camigas today who lives in Europe. I shall not name her since it may all fall through, but she is a wise soul who was part of my little Camino family early on in the journey in 2013. I adore her. And I learned she might be able to join me for the tail end of my walk.

OMG! I’m so excited!

And you know what? We had this great discussion about how one of the key lessons of the Camino is to Trust How It Turns Out, whatever it may be. Stay Open. Refrain From Being Attached. Her reminding me of this pivotal insight was so great, because I am now free to just enjoy the possibility of shared walking plans without worrying about what ifs. It may happen or not, but I’m at peace with any outcome. That’s living the Camino, right there.

If it does work out, I will still get to walk alone in Galicia, which I very much want to do. I will get to have the experience I’m supposed to have as I make my way towards France and the Pyrenees (it’s still so strange to think of the big mountain pass coming at the *end* of my journey, rather than the beginning). And if she and I can rendezvous in Pamplona, I will have a companion of the most delightful kind at the very end of my journey back to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port.

The very idea!

I’m so excited about this development, I just had to tell you.

Gratitude:

I want to thank Mary Ellen for the perfect thermometer/compass key fob (which I mentioned needing in a previous post) and also to Nancy for my newest pair of Injinji liner socks! I am so blessed and grateful for your thoughtfulness and generosity!

Finally, I will likely be buying airfare in the next week. With the risk of such a big purchase and so much room for error, any good energy or prayers for “the best possible outcome” are welcome. Here I go!

Finally, finally, I wanted you to know about a new page on this site which is back after a three-year hiatus. Also exciting!

Stay posted for a new post soon!

Want to know why I’m doing the Camino in reverse — and how you can help? Read on!

Blessings await walking the Camino backwards

Published on by jenniferhofmann2 Comments

Having already walked the Camino westerly to Santiago and Finisterre two years ago, now the return awaits, as it once did for every pilgrim until modern travel came to whisk us away mid-journey. I feel excited about walking “backwards” next spring, retracing my own steps to the beginning where I started, when I was an eager, green peregrina in France.

Having already accounted for what makes me quake in my boots about this journey, now I’m sharing what gifts I imagine await on returning to this pilgrimage.

Blessing #1: Meeting LOTS of people

Despite my plans to walk alone, my path will intersect with thousands of west-bound pilgrims from all over the world. What will this be like? I’m genuinely curious about how this will impact me. I’ve thought about giving those who stop me a small token, like an angel card, or wearing a pin that says “free hugs/abrazos gratis” just to connect with them.

In the evenings, I’ll have a new opportunity to meet people who are at least sticking around for the night. Despite being an introvert, I still long for companionship, and I wonder how that will unfold. Will I ask to join a group for dinner at times? Will I invite someone to share a bottle of wine and snacks? This is a huge opportunity for me to stretch out of my comfort zone.

Blessing #2: Solitude

 

I’ll be going early in spring when there are fewer pilgrims and starting in Finisterre, where significantly fewer pilgrims go. In my experience, being alone makes space for reflection and conversations with the Divine. In solitude, I’ve found resolutions to some of my most difficult questions — like how to forgive what was previously unforgivable and how to make peace with suffering. Reflecting on these topics is so much harder amid the daily hustle and noise. Combined with being in nature, solitude brings me insight and nourishes me to the core. Bring it on.

Blessing #3: Practice asking for help

They say the Camino gives you what you need, and this particular lesson couldn’t be better timed. Since arrows, maps, and signage all point westward (not east, where I’m going), my fellow pilgrims and local residents will be my source for guidance. Since I know nothing terrible will happen if I get lost — it’s survivable — asking for help is just the practice I need to open myself up to receiving help, unspool my tightly-wrapped self-reliance, and experience daily gratitude for helpers on my path.

Blessing #4: Revisiting my first Camino

My pilgrimage in 2013 included many meaningful insights, awakenings, and synchronistic, life-changing events. My journey brought people who made me laugh, challenged my thinking, and helped me grow as a result. Although it’s not possible to walk the Camino again for the first time, I am looking forward to the opportunity to revisit those places and memories. I’m especially eager to walk from Finisterre to Santiago. Something significant was revealed to me there, and walking that ground again may help me solidify my understanding.

Blessing #5: It’s Spain, for goodness sake!

I mean, seriously! Friendly people, delicious food, amazing wine! And Fanta Naranja! (Man, that’s going to taste soo good!) The scenery is stunning. Fields will be green and blooming. Color me jazzed to be back in Spain and discovering new places, people, and provisions.

Blessing #6: Simplicity

In 2013, I stayed in hotels and private rooms in albergues about half the time. My parents didn’t call me Princess and the Pea for nothing — no one likes a good, luxe hotel more than I do. The sheets! The towels! The shower all to myself with hot water guaranteed! The bliss of complete quiet. Oh, yes! How I love a nice hotel!

However. The more I consider practicalities and listen to my heart, the more I sense this Camino will be different. I’m planning to devote a whole post about the call I feel to walk with the barest simplicity. What kind of insights would I have if I lived the way more than half the world lives?

Want to know why I’m doing the Camino in reverse — and how you can help?Read on!