Learning How To Walk: St.-Jean Pied de Port to Santo Domingo de la Calzada

¡Hola! Today I have reached my half-way point, kilometer wise, from Toulouse to Santiago (554 km, which means a lot of things, but most importantly that I have to buy drinks for the other pilgrims tonight...)! Since I last wrote to you the Camino has changed drastically as I have entered Spain and joined the much more populous Camino Frances. I spent a rest day in St.-Jean Pied de Port, chatting with Alaxandre the Basque philosopher as we meandered around the citadel, sat in little coffee shops, and ate lunch in his 500 year-old home (next to the 600 year-old cathedral) which had been in his family for nearly as long. It was an interesting experience sitting and watching all of the pilgrims leave the town in the cloudy morning, leaving me behind. St.-Jean was a bit of a shocking experience: hundreds of pilgrims milled through the little town which was filled with a commercialism of pilgrim pariphinalia and romanticism that was quite at odds with the experience that I had been having on the Chemin d´Arles and the Voie Piemont. Giles, the French man that I had walked the Voie Piemont with, bid me farewell and got on a train to continue on the Camino del Norte on the northern coast of Spain to flee the pilgrim crowds. I was skeptical for the first time that so many people were propelled by deep motivation, and didn´t know how to react to so many people of so many ages and nationalities when for the past two weeks I had gotten used to walking virtually alone or with French people in their 60's. The next morning I set off early in the morning, passing masses of fellow pilgrims, and the route almost immediately began slopping upward towards the Pass of Roncanvaux over the Pyrenees. The day was clear and the views were breathtaking. Although the way was steadily steep and arduous, it was much easier than I had expected following four days on the hilly Voie Piemont. The majority of the other pilgrims, however, were walking this long and difficult step as their first day from St.-Jean, and many were having difficulty. The skepticism that I had felt earlier in the day which - I hate to admit it now - had even led me to hope that the climb would filter out the less passionate ones, quickly transformed into compassion as I saw the pain and dispair on the faces of my fellow pilgrims, and I began the next stage of my journey which has been a communal one. Walking alone or with more experienced pilgrims in France I had prayed a lot for myself - something which I generally don't like to do - but now I was compelled to pray for and think of my fellow pilgrims and pay much less mind to my own hopes and needs. I paused at a rock outcrop topped by a Marian shrine over a cliff of magnificent views, continued past a herd of cattle being directed by a fast-running little boy with a long stick, drank from the fountain of Roland where Charlemagne's finest cavalier was killed by the Basques, crossed the boarder into Navarre - Spain - marked by a stone stele, and reached the summit of the pass at over 1700 m above sea level. Near there I met a group of French pilgrims who had walked the Chemin de Puy with a 23 year-old named Florien who had not seen any other youths since he had walked from his home in Lyon and readily befriended me. We descended through the cathedral-like beech trees into Spain singing pilgrim songs and soon reached the ancient pilgrim complex of Rancesvalles. We checked into the huge hostel with 200 spaces, corraled into line to pay and have our credencials stamped before going up to the huge modern dormitories - completely different from the soothing hospitality of France - before going to have a drink and getting harrassed by Florien's companions for not having gone to the cathedral first. The cathedral was stunning in its darkness slashed by stained glass, and as I knelt alone before the statue of Santiago his soft eyes stared firmly but gently into my own, completely understanding of all that I had been through to visit him, and calmly expectant that I would continue. I played cards with other pilgrims outside before being called back to the cathedral by a clarion of bells to recieve the pilgrim's blessing. Upon entering the church the organ blasted out its glorious song and the priests marched down the aisle, singing. My senses were stunned by the music, the architecture, the incense, the rythmic Spanish of the mass, and the comraderie of shaking hands with the people which I had previously been skeptical of, even if I was one of the several who did not go up to recieve communion. Afterward I went for dinner with Florian, Jurgen (from Germany), and Justin (from Nova Scotia, Canada). The next morning I continued on to Larrasoña, having been woken at 5:40 am by bustling bodieas, passing the road sign reading "Santiago de Compostella: 790 km," and several pilgrim crosses through the forest. In the little village Florian and I cooked a vegetarian dinner while the others ate at the restaurant. The next day Florien and I walked with Geena, a young woman from Australia, to the city of Pamplona. We parted with her on a medieval bridge and continued to the 16th Century fortifications and into the beautiful city, its narrow allys walled by colourful 4 to 6 story buildings. As Florien, Justin, Dave (a British pilgrim) and I sat in the grand plaza, resting from our walk, a police helecopter began hovering overhead, a sound like an explosion was heard, and protestors streamed into the plaza. It was a protest against what I understand to be significant cuts to public education, although I have not seen any media since I've been here, and I was shocked by the heavy police presence at a protest filled with little children. After checking into the modern refugio in the huge Classical building next to the cathedral I prommenaded the fortifications, the Bull Ring with its bust of Earnest Hemingway, and the amazing streets and plazas vibrant with people. Mario, the generous Mexican Jesuit priest, treated Florien and I to lunch with him and his companion, Joe from Boston and friends Paco and Paco from Valencia, Spain; Sergi from Barcelona, Samuel from Bilbao, and Justin. We had a great meal, laughing at the large owner of the restaurant whose body language and manner was hilarious until I heard the translation of his racist and sexist jokes... That evening I visited the cathderal and citadel, enjoyed amazing tapas, and marvelled at the vibrancy of the beautiful public space. Streets were filled with people, standing and sitting everywhere and laughing, playing and eating from the variety of surrounding businesses. I hypothesized on the spot that this was due to a number of factors, including the fact that streets here in the inner city are for people, not cars; there is high residential density and mixed use, causing streets to become the equivalent of people's public, rather than private, backyards; the climate which promotes outdoor activities in the late afternoon and encourages shops to have siestas and stay open late; the fact that space is multigenerational and accessible by car, bike, foot or public transport; and the sheer quality of the public space. I also noticed that schools are often in the cultural centre of town or have schoolyards designed like public plazas, enculturating children and youth with the concept of public space as the primary forum to socialize. The next morning I headed out of town walking quickly up the ridge to the Alto de Pardon, having the pleasant surprise of passing three women from my home town of Victoria, a man from Toronto, and Mies, the woman from Holland and the first pilgrim that I ever met in Toulouse. I paused at the Alto de Pardon with its row of windmills and metal silouettes of passing pilgrims, and met Florian, Justin and Jurgen (whose ankles were causing him a great deal of grief) there. We watched the massive condors soar along the ridge, then continued down the other side to Puenta la Reina. There I visited the Romanesque church with quantz windows and a Y-shaped crucifix, and the Cathedral of Santiago before having a lunch of tapas with Los Pacos, Mario, Joe, Justin, Jurgen, Florien, and Sergi who informed me in great detail about the various tapas and nodded approvingly at my enjoyment. The next table over was occupied by jubilent Basques, singing and dancing to an accordion and speaking in their native language except to socialize with Sergi who they welcomed warmly as a Catalan who shared their political situation as an indigenous minority. As we strolled back toward the albergue I stopped in my tracks before rushing to greet the three men walking in the other direction: it was Jean, Rene and George, who I had walked with on the Chemin d'Arles!!! They had reached Puenta la Reina, the joining point of the Chemin d'Arles with the Camino Frances, that day! They were not continuing, however, this being the end of their annual step toward Santiago. After a lengthly conversation with them, and introducing them to my new friends, Florian - who spoke enough English for me not to use my French much with him - told me accusingly that he didn't know that I spoke so much of his language! I cooked a stir fry for our group that evening, which was rather nerve-racking because none of the people around me had ever heard of a stir fry and because I had no oil to fry with, but thanks to critical but helpful advice from three Italians it was proclaimed a success... The next day our fellowship of Spanish, Catalan, Mexican, Amarican, French and Canadian pilgrims continued to Estella, a town of magnificent cathedrals perched on rockey outcrops, and early the following morning we continued for the long step to Torres del Rio. By the end of the long day, which was over 40 degrees Celsius, we all laughed as Mario the Jesuit stumbled a few painful steps and muttered "Oh fuck." In Torres del Rio Mario celebrated mass for all of the pilgrims who sat arround the walls of the little octagonal 900 year-old Templar church. It was almost commical as we crowded around the altar to see the limping priest raise up the cookies that were all he had to improvise the eucharist with, but the power was palpabal as he transformed them into the body of Christ. We had a great dinner afterwards and laughed as the young landlords identified "Justin from Canada" as Justin Beiber, and the tall lanckey Florian with a large brown beard as Jesus! We also learned, with shock, that two pilgrims had died in the heat of that day, one cyclist who had gone over his handlebars and one athletic Korean walker with a large sack. We've passed several pilgrim memorials along the Way and they are incredibly humbling, serving as momentos of our mortality. The next day our fellowship spreadout over the road as some of us hobbled behind and I walked up ahead with Los Pacos, the oldest and fastest of our group, and chatted in broken Spanish and English with the moustached men and whistled arias from Carmen all the way to Logroño. The city was full of bachlor partiers, and all of the several cathedrals were alive with loud weddings. This was the final stop on Francisco Paco's annual pilgrimage, and we all went out for lunch with him to bid him farewell. From Logroño we continued to the little village of Ventosa where we stayed in a private albergue with calligraphy on the walls and Corelli violin concerti on the radio, and I cooked omlettes for our fellowship for dinner. Being Sunday, Mario held a service of discussion and prayer in the dinning room of the albergue. The next day, today, we have walked the 31 km here to Santo Domingo de la Calzada, where the tomb of Santo Domingo who built infrastructure for the Camino in the 11th Century is located in the cathedral. Tomorrow I intend to continue to Belorado and onward. I am certainly learning community on this part of the Camino, to give and accept from others gracefully and to care for eachother, but I will have to remember flexibility at the same time. I am having a very different, but still marvellous experience, and thinking of you all lots. Internet is expensive here so, again, don't worry if you don't hear from me for awhile. All the best!!! Ultreia! Bradley Santo Domingo de la Calzada, La Rioja, Spain